The Extinction of Menai

by Chuma Nwokolo

  I put away the computer and crawled into bed again. My mind seethed with all but the details I sought. I tried to put a face to a suddenly insistent name, Estelle, but a darkness was beginning to seize the borders of my mind again, and I was fighting a craving for another capsule. I tried to fall asleep, in vain. In despair I broke open the bottle of Proxtigen, poured it into the washbasin, and opened the faucet. I climbed back into bed, panting. An age passed. I tiptoed back to the basin and turned off the tap. Most of the capsules had run down the drain, but a few had been caught at the vent. Their casings had melted, leaving a whitish sludge on the bronze ring of the drain. I carefully scooped some into my mouth. It was definitely more than two capsules, but I couldn’t let the last of my Proxtigen go to waste. I slumped there, next to the sink.

  Then I remembered my drug addict mother, Laura, and I was sick with disgust at myself. Perhaps she had overdosed in a corner much like this, with Felix, her chemist husband, handing her the pills. Perhaps I was nothing more than a junkie looking for his substance. Then my mind began to bloom as I sailed beyond regret.

  I waited.

  FELIX FRASER

  Southend | 4th August, 1985

  On the first floor of the nursing home, Louis Raven, QC, paused outside his old friend’s room for several minutes, steeling himself for what was on the other side of the door. Eventually he had to go through. It was a large, overly warm private room. The one bed was empty and unmade, with bedclothes on the floor. His eyes followed the trailing blanket to the window, where Professor Felix Fraser sat hunched in his wheelchair.

  Raven feared and detested infirmity in equal measure. Now seventy-three and retired, he played golf four times a week, drove his 300SL gull-wing at Silverstone Marque Shows, and immersed himself in the company of people decades his junior. The visit was a trial for him precisely because of the identity of the man in the chair.

  ‘Go away,’ said Fraser.

  At least it was the same, cynical voice. Raven had feared a slurred conversation full of misapprehensions and ‘beg y’ pardons.’ He picked up the blanket and walked over, turning the chair around firmly.

  They looked at each other, the one not hiding his anger and rage, the other smiling gently, keeping his shock and revulsion from his face. ‘How’s tricks, Felix?’

  ‘Bad.’

  ‘Won’t say I told you so, though I did, didn’t I?’ Raven draped the blanket over the chair, covering the unsightly legs of the invalid and tucking the cloth around his neck. ‘Stubborn old crank.’

  ‘Get your hands off me! What are you playing at?’

  ‘It’s time for my walk,’ said Raven as he pushed the chair toward the door, ‘and you’re coming along.’

  There was a poisonous silence, then, ‘My pouch is almost full.’

  ‘Full of what? What pouch are we talking about?’

  ‘Urine. I have a urostomy pouch.’

  Behind the chair, Raven winced and scratched his head. ‘I’ll get your nurse,’ he said.

  * * *

  SOON, THEY were at the edge of a grotty car park in which Raven’s blue, low-slung Porsche 911 stood out like a beacon for vandals. Around them, pigeons scavenged for food. It had been hard going, pushing the basic, NHS-issue wheelchair, and he had early given up and paused for an extended breather, seating himself on a bench. He pulled a newspaper from his coat pocket and opened it expansively.

  Fraser cleared his throat uncomfortably.

  ‘Don’t mention,’ muttered Raven into the Financial Times.

  * * *

  PRESENTLY, A few spots of rain appeared on the newspaper. Raven folded it up and left it on the bench. He looked at his watch. He sighed. ‘What are you going to do with yourself now?’

  Felix rolled his eyes at the boughs of an ash tree overhead. ‘Lunch.’

  ‘You know what I mean. Your silly fight broke your spine, not your brain.’

  ‘You’re a lousy life coach, Louis; don’t go there.’

  ‘You heard about Laura? She’s ODed, and the lad’s in care.’

  He laughed bitterly. ‘Who’s Laura?’

  ‘She messed up five years ago, Felix. Your pity train ran out of rail miles ago.’

  ‘Get me out of the rain, and go home to your swank life, QC.’

  The retired queen’s counsel took off his spectacles and carefully wiped away the rain spots. He held them up and squinted carefully at them. They remained clear. ‘What rain?’ he asked, replacing them on his nose. He took an envelope from his pocket and half pulled a cheque out of it. He let the other man see the payee and amount, then he put it back into his pocket. ‘Oh, well, I’ll get you back into your cell now.’

  ‘It’s a room, and fine, you’ve got my attention. What’s that cheque about?’

  ‘Depends. Are you through with self-pity? It’s down payment for an entrepreneur, not graft for a charity case.’

  ‘Whose money is that? You’re not that generous.’

  ‘I’m not a thief, either. It’s your money, Felix.’

  There was moment of shock. The man in the wheelchair swallowed. ‘What?’

  ‘Remember the second casino? The night after you came in from the Sudan?’

  ‘St. Cloud, West End. Six hundred thousand pounds plus. Three-way poker.’

  ‘You have a good memory.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I knew you would come to this, and I rigged that game. It was actually seven hundred and twelve thousand pounds you lost there, but the owner of St. Cloud was also a client, and I had a contract signed before I took you there. He’s kept this half million ever since.’

  ‘And you never told me.’

  ‘So you didn’t have to lie at the divorce proceedings.’

  ‘That’s why you refused to represent me? You said you were too close to Laura.’

  ‘I am that, too. Remember the private club on the first floor of the Hotel Philippe?’

  Felix ran a hand through his thin hair. ‘Four hundred thousand pounds . . .’

  ‘Half that money went to Laura.’

  ‘Traitor! I’ll sue . . .’

  He laughed. ‘Shut up, Felix, you’re too broke to knock on a lawyer’s door.’

  ‘You played me for a fool.’

  ‘You played yourself, old friend. You still don’t see it? Look at you, Felix. From chief executive of Trevi Biotics to room fifteen in a pathetic nursing home . . .’

  ‘None of your bloody business!’

  ‘Fine.’ He got to his feet. ‘I did preserve an option for you to buy back some of your Megatum shares at original offer price, but it expires tomorrow. Well, I’ll leave you to your life. I’ll tell your nurse to come get you. I have to watch my seventy-year-old waist.’ He turned to go.

  ‘Where’s my money?’

  ‘What money, Felix?’ Raven’s voice was cold. ‘I have no money even remotely connected to you. I retired three years ago. My client accounts have passed scrutiny, my personal accounts are above board . . .’

  ‘Okay, okay, okay.’

  They glared at each other.

  Felix sighed. ‘Okay. Get me out of here, all right?’

  ‘I’m waiting.’

  ‘Damn you! Please and thank you!’

  Raven sighed and sank back onto the oak bench. He suddenly looked older than his seventy-three years. ‘I’m not interested in your Ps and Qs, Felix. I’m tired of playing God. Your wife died ten days after I gave her the money . . . Maybe I should leave you to enjoy a long life here . . .’

  ‘I’m not Laura.’

  ‘Glad you know who she is now.’

  Felix studied his palms bitterly. ‘I brought this on myself. You want total abasement, don’t you? Okay, I, Felix Fraser, promise I won’t end up like Laura. I will turn my life around, so help me God.’

  ‘And the kid? Turns out the adoption—’

  ‘Keep the goddamned money!’ swore Felix, jerking his chair away. ‘That kid’s got nothing to do with me!’

  Raven seized a whe
el firmly. ‘Keep your shirt on, old friend.’ He sighed. ‘I was just making conversation. Remember, I’m not playing God anymore.’

  HUMPHREY CHOW

  London | 13th April, 2005

  etiem baba kaini ga moye i said no i dont want a big tea just put the small tea in a big cup and fill it up with water rumbie chaka sumienogota i have walked so far away i cannot return before dark i cannot harvest all i planted before night cannot finish all i started just have to up and go home and go CHANGE HERE FOR WATERLOO i have lived so long that the people i know are gone so who made these rules anyway? that i cannot go back to the past? well here i go and one finger to OPEN ALL DOORS i may not speak mandarin like a mandarin but i am miss chows boy i speak it like a boy raised on pea soup and love by the best MIND THE GAP BETWEEN THE TRAIN AND THE PLATFORM she healed my stammer until mister cho cho cho you must not stammer you must ta ta take a deep breath and not stammer until mister cho cho chow came DO NOT PASS GO DO NOT connections are better on the tube hiramba kuti che I AM IVORY TAKE ME TO MY COAST i like your wings can i fly too? my name ist omfry show short story writa this is what i do for better or for worse kurie gai faifa fo soke stop begging my pardon and CHANGE HERE FOR YOUR WATERLOO you dont need a ticket to hell you just turn up and travel MEN DONT CRY go away from me go far far away from me this is i that bin the ones that love him most in the trash can of forgetting do you take this woman for your lawful wedded wife? who is this woman? PLEASE ATTEND TO ALL BAGS AT ALL TIMES they loved me in sudbury they called me nath she liked pumpkins he liked his papers with his morning milk then their wombborn baby came and they returned me and their extra pumpkins to tesco ajoeke na tofe EVERY UNATTENDED CHILD WILL BE REMOVED AND DESTROYED IN A CONTROLLED EXPLOSION this is i of two dads bearded daddy sue and breasted daddy phil i called sid in the house of the chanting cult called dwayne in brixton i am nath not dwayne yer noim is dwayne so shut yer trap an lissen up i’m the daddy ain’t no one telling me wot ter call ma boy go far away from me because i am coming home your name is izak baptiste as in john the baptist and THE WAR IS coming after you with a cho cho CHECK THE SEATS IN FRONT OF YOU FOR YOUR PASSPORTS rugudu simabi nubi around jericho was not one word spoken by israelites when circling mountains best to zip it until it is time to find the voice for a shout then let it rip so the walls come tumbling down unless you are humpty dumpty or buffalo bamou then your brains come tumbling out MIND THE GAP BETWEEN THE STRAIN AND THE OUTCOME my name was humpney chow snort story writer and i sure am peased i sure am prised i shure am pleased to meat you

  * * *

  Abidjan | 8:56 p.m.

  ‘Izak, tu vas bien?’ She was studying me anxiously.

  ‘Je vais bien.’

  ‘You sure?’ This was another youth with what seemed like size thirteen boots fifteen inches from my head. ‘You look bad, mister. Do you live around here? I could call a taxi for you or something.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ said the woman, ‘he’s with me.’

  Indeed, I thought. I sat up. I was surrounded by a sea of young faces lit up by strobes. We were in what looked like a nightclub. There was a hubbub around me but no music.

  ‘I said I’m fine.’

  ‘What he needs is an ambulance, not a cab, that’s what he needs,’ said another woman, in between the snaps and clicks of her chewing gum.

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Club Fuju.’

  My heart started thumping. Soon it was pounding like I had just finished a race. I was sitting on the edge of a dance floor, the centre of attention. Over the public address system, a DJ yelled, ‘Ce qui se passe là-bas?’

  ‘He’s stoned out of his mind, but he’s fine!’

  ‘Then get him off my dance floor!’

  ‘I’m not stoned, I’m fine,’ I protested as two men took my arms and helped me to my feet. I stood readily enough as a storming soukous belted from the speakers at full blast. The dance floor filled up quickly as they led me out into a cool courtyard. She stuck with me after they left. Her smile was friendly, bemused. Her name was at the tip of my tongue. My heart began to slow. ‘Where is this?’

  She laughed uncertainly. ‘Have you become epileptic or something? You’ve never freaked out under disco lights before . . .’

  I took her hand and squeezed it lightly. ‘Where is this?’

  She threw up her hands. The gesture registered distinctly. ‘This is Club Fuju’s back entrance, through which they usually throw out troublemakers. Come, we’ll find a quieter place to celebrate.’

  She led the way out, and I followed. I had on leather trousers and a three-inch buckle that mystified me. I had wound dressings on my chest and an ache in my back that I couldn’t explain either. I pulled my jersey lower as she pushed the side gate open onto the street. Treichville, not Brixton. For some reason, I was proud of that knowledge. The sky was lower, the clothes louder, the smells earthier . . . This was Treichville, not Brixton.

  She was suddenly very close to me. ‘Alors, ta mémoire te reviens?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m also forgetting more,’ I replied. The memories were coming back. With big holes in them. This was Treichville, but where was Treichville? ‘Where are we and why are we speaking French?’

  Her smile faded. ‘We are speaking French because we are in Abidjan,’ she said sharply. ‘That’s what people do here.’

  ‘But I don’t speak French,’ I whispered, in French.

  She threw her hands up in frustration. A window opened in my mind, and I opened my mouth with her name, but the sound did not come. She grabbed a handful of my jersey. It was a friendly gesture, but I recognised the edge in her words. ‘You’ve forgotten me again, haven’t you? I can see it in your eyes.’

  ‘Of course not, Estelle. How can I ever forget you?’

  ‘But you did before, didn’t you? So what’s your wife’s name, Humphrey Con Man Chow?’

  There was a warning in her eyes. At my side, my fingers did the check. I had on the only two rings I ever wore: my mother’s and Grace’s. It was too much to think I could ever forget I was married to Grace Meadows. It was, probably, not in my nature to go telling people I was single. I shrugged. ‘Obviously, we’re going through problems right now . . .’

  ‘Who is your wife?’ Her voice was undeflectable steel.

  I shrugged. ‘Grace Me—’

  Her hand struck my cheek with a shock more electric than physical, snapping me back into a church where I was taking the vows . . . which was wrong, because Grace and I had gotten married in a county hall with nine witnesses, yet there I was in an all-black all-singing all-dancing church that used to be a nightclub in Cocody, Abidjan, and I looked around and that was Estelle beside me.

  The relief came with the pain.

  She punched a fist into my shirt pocket. I staggered backwards, nearly pushing a cyclist into the sewer. ‘Attention!’ he swore, deftly swinging his pannier of baguettes past. I looked around. She was gone as well. I sat in an open bistro and sank my head in my hands. I was a bigamist! The memories began to come thick and fast, no longer standing in isolated clumps. Mishael, Padre, Tomas . . . my Ivorien foster parents who had been lost in an early skirmish of the war . . . the job at the SCALA Prison.

  Always the job at the prison.

  I worked hard in the theatre of my mind, piecing together, piecing together.

  He was sitting on the idling scooter, watching me with a thin smile. ‘Hallo, Mishael,’ I said.

  ‘At least you remember me. She says you’ve gone crazy again, you speak English again. I’m to bring you home.’

  ‘I’ll find my way. I’ve got to make a call.’

  ‘To who?’ he sneered. ‘Your wife?’

  I was silent. He got off his scooter and joined me at the table. He waved away the waiter. He took off his glasses and wiped them slowly. ‘I knew where you were all along.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Six months after you disappeared, my friend at the British Embassy saw Estelle’s wedding pictures and recognised you. She tol
d me. It made perfect sense: the war was coming, you were British—’

  ‘That’s not how it was,’ I said quietly.

  ‘This Grace, has she thrown you out? Is that it?’

  I looked away. ‘We broke up, but that’s not it.’

  Mishael was silent for a long time. ‘I like to believe the best of you, Izak, but I’m going to protect my sister. Okay? I didn’t tell her you were alive. Or that you escaped to Britain without her. I let her think the best of you. Okay, so it didn’t work out for you, and you swallowed your shame and came back with this stupid story . . . mon dieu, Izak, if you’ve found your memory, now, damn well keep it!’

  I took a deep breath. ‘I’ll do my best.’

  He rose. ‘You can find your way home?’

  I nodded. ‘By the way, why do you keep calling me Izak?’

  He stared hard at me. He turned away without another word.

  I watched him ride away. I reached into the chest pocket of my jersey for her ring. It was a smaller clone of my coal-black ring. It was not my mother’s, then. I was a . . . bigamist? I pulled the rings off my fingers. I went through the rest of my pockets carefully. I was carrying 34,400 CFA. I also had a bus ticket, a map of Abidjan . . . and my Humphrey Chow passport.

  My name is Humphrey Chow. My name is Humphrey Chow . . . I gathered up my things, dropped Grace’s wedding ring in a beggar’s bowl, and left for home.

  * * *

  11:00 p.m.

  The ground floor of Le Moyeu was a chaotic fifteen-station Internet café with a raft of add-on services offered by Estelle and her younger brother. Mishael lived on the first floor, adjacent to the open-plan office from which they ran their business, and Estelle . . . and I . . . had lived in the loft apartment, which had a deep verandah that opened left of the premises. Le Moyeu opened early and shut late, and there were usually a few inveterate surfers and gamers who kept at it until midnight.

  But it was a slow Wednesday night for Abidjan. The last of the patrons—a party of students—were outside, exchanging interminable adieus. I sat in a pew on the first floor, overlooking the front of the house, watching them leave. At midnight the lights began to wink out downstairs, one after the other. A neighbour’s music player was belting out a Lingana song as she mounted the wooden steps. Her footfalls paused on the landing. ‘Mon dieu.’