Arrows of Rain

by Okey Ndibe

  The covers on her bed were smooth, as though unslept in.

  She made two cups of coffee and we sat on the sofa drinking and talking. I told her about my mother who had died when I was only four.

  “Do you remember much about her?”

  “Not alive, no. I remember her body draped in an immaculate white shroud, and my father telling me she was dressed like that because she was going on a special journey.”

  “You must miss her a lot.”

  “I was too young to realize I had lost her. But I have moments of extreme guilt.”

  “Because you didn’t mourn her?”

  “No, because I caused her death. My parents wanted a child desperately, but my mother did not conceive for several years. Eventually, she became pregnant with me. By my father’s account, I was so heavy my mother was certain she had twins in her womb. I was born five weeks early. By then her legs had become very swollen, her hips so painful she could not walk. She collapsed as soon as I was born, and stayed in bed with a fever for months. The drugs she was given didn’t help much. She never quite recovered.”

  “Who told you all this?” Emilia asked.

  “My father.”

  “He shouldn’t have,” she said in disgust.

  “He only wanted me to know how much my mother loved me. I had come at a high cost.”

  We both fell silent. Relaxed now, and exhausted by my emotional time with Ashiki, I rested my head against the back of the sofa and yawned.

  “You’re welcome to spend the night here,” Emilia said, “if you promise to be on good behavior.”

  “Where will I sleep?”

  “In the bed.”

  “And you?”

  “In the bed, too. It can comfortably take two.”

  “We’ll both sleep in the same bed and you expect me to be on good behavior?”

  “Haven’t you ever shared a bed with a woman without making trouble?”

  “Actually, no.”

  “There’s always a first time.” Her expression was serious, but I retained a faint little hope.

  “Excuse me while I change into my night things.”

  She turned her back to me and pulled her blouse over her head. I glimpsed her breast, firm, its nipple black. My crotch bulged and I swallowed hard. She threw a see-through gown over her head, pulled off her skirt, then her white underwear. She casually turned towards me. I saw the dark triangle between her thighs, and a raw lusty craving rose inside me.

  “Do you mind if I play some music?”

  She pressed the play button on her cassette player. The rueful lyrics of a song in street pidgin filled the room. They spoke of the troubles of a woman caught in the trap of prostitution:

  Yellow sissy dey for corner-o

  Put ’im hand for jaw

  wetin de cause am-o?

  Na money palaver . . .

  “Have you ever been in love?” I asked her.

  She sighed, “I will tell you my story someday.”

  “Will you let me publish it?”

  She said perhaps, on condition that her name was changed and no picture of her appeared.

  We lay down on the bed and spent the rest of the night in talk and dozing.

  When her dock showed 6:30 I announced it was time for me to leave. She went with me to the door. Smiling, she placed her hands on my cheeks, cupping my face. I shut my eyes a moment before her lips touched mine, opening my lips. The heat of her tongue made my knees buckle, but softly she drew away.

  Just then I recalled where it was, several months before, that I had first seen her.

  “Have you ever been to a party at Honorable Reuben Ata’s home?”

  “Quite often,” she said. “I go there with Peter Stramulous. Why?”

  “I think that’s where I first saw you.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Weren’t you the man Chief Amanka had a go at?”

  I nodded. “He would have been sorry if he had touched me,” I said. “I was ready to thrash him.”

  “It would have been quite a sight. Not to mention the scandal. ‘Reporter in do-or-die fight with minister.’’’

  “Do for me, die for him,” I said with a laugh. Then, after a pause: “You move in powerful circles, don’t you? Tell me, where is this Stramulous from? Greece, Switzerland, Lebanon?”

  “All or none of the above. I either don’t know or I’m not saying. Take your pick.” She stroked my face. “When next we meet, call me Iyese. That’s my real name.”

  “And Emilia?”

  “That’s for my customers. You’re a friend.”

  She kissed me again. Oh, my body boiled all over.

  Chapter Twelve

  Reuben Ata, at the time the country’s minister for Social Issues, was the most flamboyant member of Prime Minister Askia Amin’s cabinet. He was like those rare men in the world of cigarette advertising: ruggedly handsome, with a well-groomed mustache and sharp eyes. While the other ministers tended to be married, out of shape and dull, Ata was athletic, charismatic and—in his own words—an incurable bachelor. He was always quietly smoking a Cuban cigar, which lent him an added aura of sensuousness and power.

  In terms of education, Ata stood somewhere in the middle of the cabinet: neither as educated as Dr. Titus Bato, the brash minister for National Planning, or Professor Sogon Yaw, the former fire-breathing Marxist, nor as unlettered as Chief Julius Jupiter Jelowo, who held the portfolio of Traditional Matters. Ata had a number of dubious certificates from several London­ based institutes: fellow of the Institute of Public Relations, chartered member of the Institute of Marketing, member of the Chartered Institute of Secretaries.

  Four days after I returned from my father’s funeral, I came to work and found a stylish envelope on my desk. I slit it open and read the strange message it contained:

  please beer with me

  any night of your choice

  from 8 p.m.

  Reuben Ata, Honorable Minister for Social Issues

  It gave the minister’s home address. Why he had invited me, a journalist with a record of making trouble for his government, I could not tell; but I was curious and, in any case, in need of distraction from my bereavement. I decided to go that very evening.

  I arrived at the minister’s home at 9:15 p.m. The gate was under siege by a crowd of women jostling to be let in. Three heavy-set men stood barring the way. These men, I quickly found out, were screeners. Now and then they pointed to one of the women and said, “You, go in.” The lucky woman then squeezed through a crush of bodies to gain entrance. Once past the gate, she stopped to spruce up, then strode up the driveway with a gait calculated to mock the unchosen ones.

  I waded through the press of bodies, fished out my invitation card and handed it to one of the screeners. He examined it closely, turning it over twice.

  “I’m from the Daily Monitor,” I said, hoping that information would be helpful to my case.

  “Ah! You’re welcome, sir. Please go in.”

  As soon as he uttered those words, I was seized by many hands as the women clamored to be taken with me. It was only with the assistance of the screeners that I was able to extricate myself and pass through the gate. When I reached the house my heart was pounding. I paused outside the door to collect myself before going in.

  The room I entered was large, high-ceilinged and brightly lit. A smell of food and cigar smoke filled the air. A band was playing blues, but nobody was dancing. People sat in small clusters, one or two men ringed by several women. Most of the men were stout and middle-aged, all the women young and lithe.

  A tall man came up to me—I recognized him at once as Reuben Ata—and extended his right hand. I shook it, and introduced myself.

  “Welcome, my friend, welcome. I’m glad you could join us.”

  “Thank you for inviting me.”
/>   “The pleasure is all mine.”

  He led me to a corner of the room where several cabinet ministers were seated, attended by a retinue of women. The women sat on the ministers’ laps or massaged their necks. The ministers drank and conversed calmly, as if the women hanging about them were natural extensions of themselves. Professor Yaw and Chief Amanka sat together, the latter sprawled on a large round pouf. Ata introduced me.

  “You’re the rat who wrote nonsense about me!” Amanka shouted, bolting up like a man stung by a bee. Ata put out a restraining hand.

  “Rats don’t write,” I riposted. “Not even nonsense.” But Amanka did not hear me for all his raving and ranting. The other ministers murmured and grumbled that they did not want press boys at their parties.

  “He’s here as a friendly force,” Ata said, to appease Amanka and reassure the others. I wanted to shout a disclaimer, but my anger was too hot for words.

  Yaw drew Amanka away. “He’s a young man,” Yaw said. “He was obviously misled. We must forgive him.”

  The ministers took up Yaw’s words like a refrain. “He was misled,” they echoed, grinning contentedly.

  I shook with rage, but my tongue stayed cold. Ata held me by my shoulder and, gently prodding, said, “Let me introduce you to other guests.”

  Three European ambassadors cavorted with several young women who seemed engaged in a silent struggle to be the ambassadors’ native sex for the night. The two African diplomats fared rather worse than their European counterparts in the attentions of women. Then there were a number of officers from the Army, Air Force and Navy; some European and American businessmen; several senators, and a sundry assortment of lawyers, doctors, architects and contractors.

  Each guest acknowledged me with a smile, a nod or a handshake. Finally Ata took me to a corner of the room where a sturdy man with carefully crimped hair sat almost isolated from the rest of the party. His female companion leant against him, both of them enveloped in the halo of smoke the man blew from his cigar.

  “Mr. Stramulous,” Ata said in introduction. He then mentioned my name and affiliation. Without lifting his eyes, Stramulous nodded ever so slightly. His companion glanced up, fleetingly met my gaze, then laid her head back on Stramulous’s chest.

  My heart fluttered with excitement. Peter Stramulous was a shadowy figure in Madian public affairs, a man about whom people knew little. Nobody disputed that he was the trusted confidant of Prime Minister Amin; some claimed that he was the launderer of the prime minister’s loot. He was known to be stupendously rich, a man who spent a fortune on rare sports cars, overseas villas, jewelry and horses, though the sources of his money were unknown.

  “An impressive crowd,” I said to Ata at the end of my round of introductions.

  “Movers and shakers, yes.”

  “Every night, you have this kind of crowd?”

  “Tonight is nothing. You should come when His Excellency is in attendance.”

  “The prime minister?”

  “Yes, he’s here all the time. In fact he would have been here tonight but for some urgent national matter that came up. To lead a nation is no joke.”

  “Very true.”

  “And His Excellency doesn’t joke with his work.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “But when he plays he plays hard, too.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “What do you wish to drink?”

  “Orange juice, please.”

  “What? Come on, be a man!”

  “I need to calm down. I was mobbed at your gate.”

  “Oh, those girls! Every girl in town wants to gatecrash my party.”

  “It was frightening.”

  “Believe me, it was nothing. Wait until midnight.”

  “You mean it gets crazier?”

  “That’s the buzz hour. A girl even died.”

  “No!”

  “Yes! This is what—August, isn’t it? Five months ago one lady died outside my gate.” The minister’s face came alive with pride. “Competition to get into Ata’s party. This is the biggest party in town.”

  “But to die for a party, that’s going a bit too far.”

  “The cabinet came to the same conclusion. We extensively debated the incident and decided that such a tragedy must not recur. That’s why we took the prudent step of forming the Power Platoon.”

  “A military unit?”

  “Oh no!” he said, laughing. “They are a number of girls—thirty in all—who are permanent guests at my party. We named them the Power Platoon.”

  “Makes sense: you’re in power and they’re your foot soldiers. Sort of,” I suggested.

  Ata laughed, then said, “Now how about a swig of cognac? It’s a highly recommended nerve-calmer.”

  “I’m game.”

  He pressed a bell. A man wearing black trousers, a white shirt, a bow tie and a black jacket appeared.

  “Get a Hennessy for our honored guest. VSOP.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  A few seconds later the servant handed Ata an unopened bottle of Hennessy. The minister passed it to me.

  “Disvirgin it,” he said. “It’s all yours.”

  “A full bottle of cognac for me? I’m not really much of a drinker, sir.”

  “Hah! You’re the first journalist I’ve met who frets before alcohol. As for me, I really like my cognac,” boasted the minister.

  “I can see.”

  “And I like cigars.”

  “I guess they go well with cognac,” I said.

  “Absolutely. And I love women.” He paused. “Beautiful women, of course.”

  “Uh huh. The three vices.”

  “Or virtues, depending on who’s speaking. His Excellency once said, in this very house, that with so many beautiful women in the world he can’t understand why any man would ever want to commit suicide.”

  “I had never thought about that.”

  “Neither had I. His Excellency always comes up with original thoughts.”

  “Yes, yes.” I paused. “Umh, forgive me for changing the subject, but I thought to ask, what does your ministry do?”

  “Oh, good question. The Ministry of Social Issues has a wide range of responsibilities. Part of my charge is to ensure the existence of social harmony in this country. You’d be surprised to learn how many disputes have been settled in this very house. I bring various segments of this country together. I also see to the welfare of my cabinet colleagues. It’s not easy being a minister. You carry a lot on your shoulder. Members of the cabinet must have a way to cool off. That’s why the cabinet gave me the mandate to throw parties. My colleagues come here to forget all the problems in their ministry. And to recharge their batteries. There’s also a diplomatic dimension to the parties.” He moved closer to my ear and whispered, “The ambassadors you see here will never send home a negative report about Madia. I make sure of that by giving them the most beautiful girls.”

  “Sounds like a lot on your own shoulder, sir.”

  “Yeah, but I enjoy my work.”

  I nodded.

  He said, “As the air of this party I must circulate more. I’ll find one or two girls to keep you company and help cut down your cognac. Don’t hesitate to draw my attention if you need anything. Anything. Enjoy yourself.”

  He went and whispered to two unattached girls. Smiling, they came over to me. Both wore mini-skirts and high-heeled shoes that accentuated their shapely, strong legs.

  “I’m Susie,” said one, with a leer.

  “Lucie,” said the other. They sat down on either side of me and began to chatter away. They rolled their eyes and laughed too easily. Then the one named Susie put her head on my shoulder and nudged her breasts against my back. A dengue-like heat overcame me.

  Madia was in the stranglehold of the most vicious klept
ocracy anywhere on our continent—a regime in which ministers and other public officials looted whatever was within their reach, and much that wasn’t. In comparison with the thefts committed by many of these crooks, Ata’s passion for cigars, cognac and women seemed relatively benign peccadilloes. Everybody who knew him agreed that he was not a thief. He liked a good time, and he indulged himself at the expense of the nation, that was all.

  Ata telephoned me the day after the party to apologize for Amanka’s conduct. I went to his parties again from time to time. Gradually, he and I became close friends. He asked me to call him Reuben, saying that the title Honorable Minister sounded too staid and silly. “It’s one of those anachronisms we ex-colonials love to borrow from the English,” he laughed. “And yet, I could not name two honorable things most of us ministers do in the course of a day.”

  I was at my desk one afternoon writing an editorial when my phone rang. I picked up the receiver and muttered a weary hello.

  “Hallo! It’s Reuben.”

  “Hi Reuben,” I said, mustering more warmth.

  “You sound awful. Are you sick?”

  “Only of writing.”

  “What are you writing?”

  “An editorial. On corruption.”

  “Can it wait till tomorrow?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “My father is in town. I called to invite you to dinner tonight. You two would get along quite well. After dinner, I will clear out of the way and let you and the old man exchange views on corruption. How does that sound?”

  “You always make these irresistible proposals.”

  “Let’s say 6 p.m., if that’s okay with you. We’ll have one or two drinks before dinner.”

  Like his son, Pa Matthew Ileka Ata was tall and imposing. Despite his eighty-three years there were no physical signs of ageing, none of the sags and droops that point a life in the direction of a grave.

  A slight stammerer, Pa Ata spoke with deliberate slowness, in a tone that was perhaps a carry-over from his days as a school headmaster. He had been dismissed from the post and had spent two years in jail for assaulting a white superintendent of schools, a man who loved nothing more than to put natives in their place.