More words follow.
God. Boko Haram. Death. Bible. Jihadi. Business. Overwhelming. Victory.
Utopicity. Jack Jaques. Presidential.
Ulterior.
Nimbus.
America.
Homosexual.
Fair and unfair options. It is war. Secret war that exists since before civilisation and amplified by the Twin Tower bombings. The rules of polite society do not apply.
My questions are racist, homophobic, and offensive in every way. This is my job. My real job. I read minds for the government. The bank thing is an aside. A way for me to make extra money while keeping tabs on untrained wild sensitives.
Later, I write the report up at a secure, non-networked terminal. The information is divided into degrees of confidence. This is not an exact art. People often do not even think what they mean. They deceive even their own selves. I have to sift through all of that. My report is at least sixty per cent true. Twenty per cent is highly likely to be true. The rest is so random as to be useless.
His name is Tolu Eleja. His surname means fish-seller or fisherman in Yoruba. He is either twenty-three or thirty-three, the first of seven children. He is educated to primary school level. He, like his father, did some shitty manual work. Something happened, I don’t know what - buried too deep - then he joined a group. There were firearms involved.
That’s all I know for now.
I am not curious. I want to leave. This thing I do is not beautiful. It is filth.
Monday.
Bola captures me in the breakroom.
‘I hear you really took to Aminat. Tell me. Tell me.’
I say nothing, drink my tea.
‘You’re smiling! You never smile.’
‘What did she say about me?’ I ask.
The overhead light glints in her eyes. ‘Girls don’t tell.’
‘Just tell me if she likes me.’
‘Do you like her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
‘Well?’
‘What?’
‘Does she like me?’
‘She said you are very intense.’
‘Is that good?’
‘It could be.’
‘I can read your mind, you know. I can read her mind, too.’
‘You’re joking, too. Jokes. Humour. You must really like her.’
‘She told me you were married before.’
‘I was.’
‘You don’t have to discuss it.’
‘I’m fine. It was a long time ago. I was young and beautiful.’
‘You’re beautiful now.’
She nudges me. ‘You’re quite the flirt when you come out of your shell.’
‘In my youth,’ I say.
‘Playa!’ She flickers her fingers and I do the same, touching her tips with mine.
‘For sure.’ I’m grinning now, lost in indistinct memories. ‘So, your husband?’
‘He was murdered. At least I think he was. We were on our way north to see my sister and her husband. It took too long. Dominic was really bad at maps and directions. We stopped over in some tiny, nameless village and spent the night in the local hotel. I remember we fought that night over nothing, then went to bed sulking. That was the last time I saw him alive.
‘Let me give you some advice, Kaaro, never go to bed angry at someone you love. You’ll never forgive yourself if something happens to them. I woke in the middle of the night, turned over, noticed that he wasn’t in the bed. I called his name, but when he didn’t answer I thought he was still angry and I went back to sleep. I remember the next morning was a particularly beautiful day, drenched in sunlight and birdsong. I searched in vain with a steadily rising panic. The villagers seemed sympathetic, but they all spoke Hausa and I didn’t get much help. His body was never found. Some blood-smeared grass about five hundred yards away from the hotel is all we found. It matched his blood group and DNA.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say.
‘Long time ago. No longer painful.’
‘Aminat said she still dreams of him.’
She smiles, but it is the shade of a grimace. Then she inclines her head as if she is testing the truth of her thoughts, or what she is about to say. ‘I’m told it’s normal to dream of those you lose. For the first six months or so, anyway. I see Dominic in dreams every week. Not on the same day, but …’
The Yoruba say ‘o d’oju ala’ when someone dies. I will see you in dreams.
‘He doesn’t age.’ She rubs her belly as she speaks. The baby must be kicking. ‘The age he was when he died. He begs me to stay each time. Every time. He says he’s trapped and can’t find the way back out.’
‘Does he know he is dead?’ I ask. ‘Is he a ghost?’
‘It’s just a recurrent dream, Kaaro. It happens. Guilt, unresolved sexual whatyoumafuckit.’
It’s not an unreasonable question. Ghosts exist. I’m not saying that the spirits of the dead return to haunt the living. That’s absurd. I am saying that the xenosphere contains some persistent patterns. Some people leave their imprints and they remain to be discovered. They are mostly fragments of habits or personal tics or phrases. I know of at least one dead person who not only has a complete personality in there, but has on one occasion “possessed” a living body. But this is not her story.
Our break is over.
We return to the firewall where we read Ayn Rand. I fucking hate Ayn Rand.
‘Have you ever paid for sex?’ Aminat asks.
This is a difficult question to answer. While I haven’t paid for sex the real enquiry is, have I ever had sex with a prostitute and the answer to that is more complicated.
Is it sex with a prostitute when you do not know the person to be a commercial sex worker? When does intent come into it?
‘No,’ I say. I think this is consistent with the spirit of her question. ‘Have you?’
She laughs. Aminat has two laughs. A tinkle, which she uses when she’s slightly nervous, and a heavy guffaw, which amuses me to no end.
‘I paid for a lap dance once,’ she says. ‘Does that count?’
‘It depends on if you came or not.’
Silence.
‘Well, did you?’
In the dark I cannot tell, but I feel she is laughing.
I shut her up with a kiss.
Afterwards, it is images of Molara that run through my mind. The strangeness of the situation makes me look up the butterfly she uses as avatar. It’s an African Bluewing Butterfly, charaxes smaragdalis, navy blue variety. Strong wings, can travel up to forty miles per hour, which is impressive for a butterfly. Tropical old world butterfly. Spotty wing markings, iridescent blue. Two horns on the hindwing.
Why did Molara choose this as an avatar?
As soon as I contemplate this I … know something. This is something I have picked up from the xenosphere, from Molara. It’s an image, not of a Bluewing, but something similar in design. It is mechanical, made of alloys and plastics, with a telescoping proboscis. There are too many limbs, sixteen, filamentous and constantly-moving. The wings do not flap, and this butterfly does not flutter. It hovers, not using the wings for propulsion. The body is full of memory space and a data checking processor. It plugs into a server and runs a data-integrity check, and then rises, only to alight on another server adjacent. There are servers as far as the eye can see, extending over the dark horizon. Other butterflies rise and fall from the servers.
What the fuck? Science fiction film? Art installation?
‘Hello, Gryphon,’ she says. Her wings are folded in front of her, the way a butterfly would never be able to.
‘Who are you? In reality, in real life, who are you?’
‘You know who I am, Gryphon.’ She spreads her wings, and I am again distracted. ‘I am a friendly friend.’
CHAPTER TEN
Lagos: 2045
I love dancing.
Not the professional kind where you have specific forms or have to wear funny costumes. Ju
st regular, hip-hop, R’n’B dancing in clubs.
I am dancing at the Cube. It is trendy now and will remain so for the next five years, after which it will burn down in a freak fire that the police will attribute to insurance fraud but never prove. All the local Nollywood stars and low-level military officers and drug barons come there, but they take their special tables and trophy women and chill with them. I’m here for the music. I am surrounded by friends of the fair-weather variety. I spend money freely, therefore I have people around me.
I see a cluster of fine boys around a woman. This, in of itself, isn’t unusual. Maybe she’s new, or exceptionally beautiful. I don’t go for such women myself. Still, I look. I appreciate beauty, though I am generally more interested in the body shape. That’s just me, my preference. I inch away from my dance partner, smiling, nodding, signalling termination of the dance. She turns to another, no harm done. I approach the group of about six and see the woman. She is old and wrinkled. Her hair is grey and patchy and she is dressed casually. Her spine is curved forwards giving her a gaunt look. And yet she holds forth and the young men hold on to her every word. She looks at me while laughing and holds the gaze. By now I’m so puzzled that I’ve stopped dancing and the laughter fades from her eyes.
You can see me.
Yes.
Shit.
It’s fine. I won’t tell anyone.
It’s not fine. I’m self-conscious now. Go and wait for me outside. I’ll meet you in a minute.
I’ve not finished my drink.
Go outside right now, child.
I do as she says. I have a car that I hide from Alhaji and I lean against it. I wonder what glamour she is using, what the horny young men see when they look at her.
‘Why do you have bruises?’ she asks.
‘Mob. Narrow escape from being necklaced.’
‘Hm.’ She lights a cigar, which smells foul, but I don’t say this because truth be told I am a little afraid of her.
‘They call your kind a shift. A finder who steals.’
‘Sometimes. Sometimes I steal.’
‘A lot of the time,’ she says.
‘What about you?’
‘I am neither a shift, nor a thief. I was once a kind of prostitute, until I got bored.’
‘“Kind of prostitute”?’
‘They thought they were having sex with me, even though they weren’t. They paid.’ She shrugs.
‘And tonight?’
‘I am blowing off steam.’
‘Aren’t they a bit young?’
She snorts. ‘If I were a rich man you would not bat an eyelid. So I manipulate their perceptions. So what? I am entitled to a little warmth in my senescence. You, though, you can see me.’
I can make you see what I want, grandchild.
‘No need,’ I say. ‘I respect you, ma. Go in peace.’
‘Don’t call me ma. My name is Nike Onyemaihe.’ I’m dying.
She suddenly seems vulnerable.
‘Do you want a lift home?’ I ask.
When Nike gets into the car the young men seem envious and hoot. Jealous, because they think I have what they want. I can’t say I know what I’m doing. Nike radiates some anger, some darkness, but I feel sorry for her. I sense she is at the end of something that I am just starting. We drive in silence with her occasionally thinking something at me or feeling dread and fury. I know where she lives from my own ability to find. It’s better than having an onboard navigator.
‘Grandchild, you are not using the full extent of what you are capable of,’ she says. ‘You are as lost as America.’
‘I’m happy with what I have,’ I say.
‘Then you are a fool.’ Nike says this without derision, just another fact like gravity and rain. ‘When it comes to talent and ability you must always seek more. Get better today than what you were yesterday.’
‘My talent works fine, ma. It does what I want when I want it to. It gets me money.’
‘For now. Do you not think that I have told myself that when I was in full bloom? You should listen to your elders when they speak, Kaaro. They know more than you.’
‘I am sorry if I have offended you, ma.’ I am not sorry and she is experienced enough to read it in me. I am young and I don’t care for platitudes or unsolicited advice. I want to get back to the club, truth be told.
When we arrive at her house she appears weaker than before. I have to help her out of the car and am obliged to walk her in.
‘There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you,’ says a man’s voice from within. Foreigner, judging by the accent.
He is tall, well over six feet, a white man. He is shirtless and shoeless, wearing worn jeans. I would have taken him for one of those refugee Americans if not for his accent and the expensive watch. His skin is loose, but that could be age because there are muscles underneath that. He is one of those anthropologist-type white people with their fearlessness and leather toughness. He does not look at me, focuses entirely on Nike. I wonder if they are lovers, but it’s not that kind of look.
‘Help me with her,’ he says to me.
Between us we get her into the house past a gateman who does not even hide his sleepiness. There are at least three luxury cars that I casually note as I walk by. At this age the trappings of wealth and taste are important to me. The man leads me into a room that smells of sickness and death, but not in my nostrils.
‘You can go now,’ says the white man.
‘No, let him stay,’ says Nike. She grasps my forearm with a weak grip.
Is this your husband?
No, it’s Klaus. He’s my employer.
A look passes between them and I know she is communicating something to him, but keeping me out of it. He snorts, glances at me, and leaves the room.
‘Child, listen to me.’
‘Is this advice? I don’t want any. I —’
‘Shut up. You will never grow old this way.’
I mutter something.
‘What?’
‘I said, I have no plans to grow old.’
‘Neither did I.’
‘I do not want your advice!’ I yell. ‘Why does everyone want to improve me? I do not give a fuck. Grandma, I’m sorry you are dying, but I’m leaving. Goodbye.’
‘You are such a fool,’ she says.
I am flooded with sensation. Nike seems to push into me, into my mind, and there is light, heat, sound, and experience. There is her marriage which ended in the natural death of her husband. There is her as a prostitute. I feel every penetration, every degradation, every jibe. Ashewo. She has been to America in her youth. Disneyland. Florida. Way back before. She has known violence and tenderness. A thousand and one spliffs and one thousand more. Semen leaking out of her after a broken condom. Abortions. Many, but all the same. Faces, make up. Sisters of the night. Death, destruction, decay. Thoughts, not as words, but as circles, discs, intersecting spheres, concentric, radiating outwards. Inconstant shapes. All gathered from within the womb and wasted at the point of death. All her pain and ecstasy, all mine, and all for nothing. Her life and mine, meaningless. Church. Praying to a silent God, hoping for an answer but knowing in her core that none is forthcoming. A litany, confessions, a liturgy in her mind, access to forgiveness. Hope? Love, laugher, haemorrhoids, and lost teeth. Cocks and money stretching into forever. The minds of the many open to her. To me. This is how it is done. She has fucked this knowledge into me, into my mind, and I am crying. I can feel the wetness of my tears mingled with that of her blood.
When it is over I am alone sitting on the floor of the room. Nike’s body is still and somewhat diminished. She is gone. I am exhausted and sweaty. Klaus is standing at the door.
‘Is she dead?’
‘Yes,’ I say, because I cannot hear her thoughts anymore.
He walks to the bed and covers her body.
‘You better come eat something,’ he says.
‘I’m fine.’
‘You’re not. You have been in h
ere for three days.’
‘What?’
‘I guess it takes a long time to impart knowledge. Come on.’
He watches me eat. I am famished and I eat three eggs, four slices of bread, and two oranges. All that is left are the pips and the peel. I phone Alhaji and say I am safe. I cut him off when he starts complaining.
‘You okay, son?’ asks Klaus.
‘Not really. I feel fucked up. She stole my youth.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean I can see the futility of it all. Repetitive alcohol intoxication, repetitive going to clubs, dancing, picking up girls. Fuck. Spend money. Repeat cycle. It’s all meaningless.’
‘Meaninglessness goes better with cash is what I say.’
‘What?’
‘My motto is, everything goes better with cash. If you must live a life without meaning, live a rich life without meaning.’
I reach for the glass bottle filled with cashew nuts and tip it into my palm. The bent nuts are salted, but I hate this so I brush and blow on them before popping some into my mouth. ‘What are you asking me, Klaus?’
‘I’m saying you should work for me. Or with me. Same thing.’
‘Did you hear what I just said about it all being meaningless?’
‘I think you’ll find that of the many things Nike regretted, working for me was not one of them.’ He sticks a finger in his left ear, working out some wax. ‘I love this country of yours. There is so much money to be made here. There is oil and gas. You have a population that is massively superstitious, including the intelligentsia. Churches and mosques exert a powerful amount of influence on people, families, and the government. You have terrorist cells, you have a paranoid executive who has a personal babalawo installed in the state house. You have laws against homosexuality. China and Russia are squabbling over who will be the new United States and everybody is scared, man. They need what you have. I have the clients and the contacts in government. I have financial savvy. What do you say?’
Rosewater Page 10
