by Uwem Akpan
That night, the bike followed me into the land of my dreams. I rejected Suzuki, Honda, and Kawasaki and chose a Nanfang and became rich forever. I used it to climb the coconut trees, learned to park on the palms, and used coconut milk for gas. I rode it across the ocean, creating a huge wake behind me. I flew it like a helicopter to distant places and landed it many times in my father’s compound in Braffe. At school, all my classmates had Nanfangs, and we played soccer riding them, like in polo. I rode my Nanfang until I grew old, but the Nanfang neither aged nor needed repairs. At the end of my life, my people buried me atop it, and I rode that Nanfang straight to heaven’s gate, where Saint Peter gave me an automatic pass.
FOR FOUR DAYS, WE watched Big Guy teach Fofo Kpee how to ride along the strips of grass in the coconut plantation. From our house, we could see Fofo perched on the bike, his face split in two by his trademark laugh. He looked like a pantomime because we couldn’t hear him or the bike over the sound of the ocean. Big Guy’s shaven head was so oiled that it reflected the sun. Both of them seemed to be having fun, and on the horizon, a ship heading to or leaving Porto Novo dragged a black funnel of smoke across the sky.
The next Sunday, we got ready for church. Fofo had informed the pastor that we were going to have our first Family Thanks-giving, which was what some well-to-do families did every Sunday.
At dawn, Fofo Kpee woke up and took the Nanfang behind the house and propped it on our bathing stone. He undressed it of its plastic covers as gingerly as one would remove stitches from a wound. He poured Omo detergent into a bucket of water and swirled and rattled the water until it foamed. Gently, he sponged the frame and scrubbed the tires, as if they would never touch the ground again. After rinsing the Nanfang, he wiped it with the towel the three of us shared. During our own bath, he squatted and soaked our feet and scrubbed them with a new kankan, a native sponge, for the big occasion. He held the kankan like a shoe brush and worked on our soles until their natural color returned, until the fissures disappeared.
Later, Fofo Kpee rode us to church, wearing a new agbada and huge sunglasses, which gave him a bug-eyed look. The wind pumped up the flanks of his agbada like malformed wings. It was our first ride: Yewa was on the gas tank, clutching our family Bible, sporting her flowery dress and new baseball cap. In a pair a of corduroys and a green T-shirt, I was crushed in between Fofo and two acquaintances of his. The woman behind me was dangling a big squawking red rooster by its tied legs on one side of the machine. She was a large woman and her big headgear hovered over me like a multicolored umbrella. The man at the end of the bike carried on his head a basket with three yams, pineapples, oranges, a bag of amala flour, and five rolls of toilet paper.
A triumphant midmorning sun filled the day, and a clear blue sky beckoned us. The road was crowded with churchgoers. Fofo Kpee sped off, tooting his horn nonstop, flashing the lights to clear the road ahead of us. The crowd parted before us like the Red Sea before Moses’s rod. Some people waved and cheered us on. My chest swelled with pride, and my eyes welled up with tears, which the wind swept onto my earlobes.
When we got to Our Redeemer Pentecostal Church, Big Guy was waiting by the entrance, smiling at us like an usher. He had shaved his beard, and in his gray suit and loafers, he looked even taller and more intimidating. He stood as straight as one of the thin pillars that adorned the church’s entrance. The church was a big, uncompleted rectangular structure. The new roof shone in the bright sun, but the church had no doors or windows yet, and the walls hadn’t been plastered. You could hear hundreds of shoes shuffling on what we called the “German floor” as worshippers walked in and found their places among the pews, which, for now, were planks set on blocks.
Fofo parked the bike under a guava tree, although not before he had felt the ground around the stand with his right foot to see whether it was safe to do so. He unfolded a big tarp and covered the Nanfang, in case it rained, however unlikely that was.
“Ah, mon ami, good morning o!” Fofo greeted Big Guy, grabbing his hand when we got to the door.
“I tell you say I no go miss dis one,” Big Guy said, and pulled us aside, away from the doorway. “Somehow, I been tink say you go bring de oder children to church.”
Fofo Kpee froze. “Wetin? Which children, Big Guy?” he said.
Big Guy looked away. “You know wetin I dey talk, Smiley Kpee, you know.”
Big Guy wasn’t as agitated or angry as he had been when he brought the Nanfang and said he expected to see five children. Now, there was an uneasy silence between the two men. The four of us looked like an island in the river of people entering the church.
“OK, God bless you,” Fofo Kpee said, and nudged him on the side. “Make we talk about dis matter oso˙.”
“Tomorrow never come,” Big Guy said, his voice rising in seriousness.
“You loser! Who send you come spoil my Family Tanksgiving?”
Because of the way Fofo sounded, some people turned and stared at Big Guy. Two ushers started wading through the crowd toward us, as if they anticipated a quarrel.
“Just joking,” Big Guy said, and let out a nervous laugh.
“I hope you dey joke,” Fofo said, chuckling, and people went back to minding their business.
Big Guy turned to us immediately and squatted before Yewa, touching her cap and holding our hands. In spite of his bad nails, his palms were soft and gentle. “Oh, our children are so beautiful!” he said.
“Thank you, monsieur,” we said.
“Wow, Fofo dey treat you well o.”
“Yes, he does, monsieur.”
“Abeg o. Appellez-moi Big Guy. Just Big Guy, deal?”
“Yes, Big Guy,” my sister said, nodding.
“And you?” Big Guy said, turning to me.
“Yes, Big Guy . . . monsieur,” I said.
“Oh, no, no,” he said, clucking his tongue disapprovingly. “N’est pas difficult. Big Guy, just Big Guy. Your kid sister done master de ting.” He turned again to Yewa: “You must be smart for school, abi?”
“Yes, Big Guy,” Yewa said, licking her lips excitedly.
“No worry, Kotchikpa go master de name too,” Fofo said, coming to my defense as Big Guy rose to his feet. “Give de boy time, man . . . right Kotchikpa?”
“Yes, Fofo,” I said.
“Dere you are,” Fofo Kpee said to Big Guy, and shook his hand again, while folding the wings of his agbada onto his shoulders. His smile was so wide that the tension between his lip and left eyelid eased, and his eyes looked the same size. “Ete˙ n’gan do˙? Na our family turn for Tanksgiving. Abeg, join us in peace.”
“Pourquoi pas?” Big Guy said, shrugging. “You know say our God no be poor God. . . . He bring me and you togeder for better ting.”
“Yeah, you know, as our people say, man be God to man,” Fofo said. “Hunger o, disease o, bad luck o, empty pockets o—our heavenly baba go banish all of dem from us today. God done already shame Satan.”
“If you dey poor, know dat because you be sinner. Someting dey wrong wid you. And God dey punish you,” Big Guy said.
IN CHURCH, THE FOUR of us sat in the front pew. When it was time for Thanksgiving proper, we went to the back. Fofo went outside and rolled the Nanfang up to the church. Two ushers helped him lift it over the three stairs at the front.
Like two acolytes, Yewa and I stood at the head of the procession, our dance steps at once shy and excited, not completely in sync with the heavy drums and singing. Then came Fofo and Nanfang. He held the bike majestically, like a bride. Still, from time to time Fofo Kpee managed to stoop low and gyrate and flap and gather his agbada. The trumpets were so loud that even if the rooster we brought, which was held by someone deep in the procession, was still squawking, nobody heard.
When there was a lull in the trumpeting, someone behind us filled the church with a loud yodeling. When I turned around, I saw it was Big Guy. He loomed behind us like a pillar of cloud. His dance was elegant and unique: he didn’t bend down like Fofo but was very
erect, as if his suit refused him permission to stoop or spread out his long legs. Instead, he simply shook and threw his legs and arms gingerly, like a daddy longlegs.
Behind him, the crowd of well-wishers swelled the aisle with dancing, bringing up the gifts of yam, fruit, amala flour, and toilet paper we had brought from home. In this flux, the ushers stood like statues, holding out baskets into which we tossed naira and cefa bills. When we had gathered in front of the sanctuary, Pastor Concord Adeyemi, short, thin, and bearded, came before us. His suit was charcoal black, and a sizable cross dangled from a chain around his neck over his tie. He wore jheri curls.
“Now, bring out your offering and raise it to the Lord to be blessed . . . Amen!” he thundered into the microphone.
“Amen!” the church responded.
People began digging in their pockets for money. Yewa and I brought out our twenty-naira bills, which Fofo Kpee had given to us solely for this purpose. Fofo had said it was important today we held up N20 bills instead of the N1 coins we had held during other people’s Thanksgivings. Today wasn’t the day for us to be ashamed, he had said. Now, when I looked behind, Fofo was holding up a N100 bill. The roof of the church looked littered with naira and cefa bills, suspended in the air by hundreds of hands.
“Raise it higher to the Lord,” the pastor said. “And be blessed in Jesus’ name!”
“Amen.”
“Higher, I say. . . . You get from the Lord what you give. We need to finish building this church, Amen?”
“Amen.”
“Don’t curse yourself today. . . . Add more to the Lord. This is your salvation Sunday, your breakthrough Sunday. You, that man, don’t spoil it for the Lord by offering so little.” He pointed somewhere in the back and everybody turned to look in that direction. “If you change your ways, tomorrow the Lord could bless you too, with a Nanfang. Poverty is a curse from Satan. . . . The Lord is ready to break that curse. Do you believe?”
“Yes, we believe.”
Some people substituted their bills for a higher denomination.
“And do not spoil it for Smiley Kpee either. He has been a faithful Christian over the years, OK. Don’t bring bad luck to his Nanfang.”
“God forbid, God forbid!” the church hollered.
“Don’t spoil it for these two children of his!” He reached out and touched Yewa and then me. “May the Lord bless you with infinite goodness. May you always be lucky, Amen?”
“Amen.”
“And you can bless your neighbor too,” he said to the church. “What is your neighbor holding up?” There was a low murmur as people spoke to their neighbors, some teasing others to bring out more money. Big Guy whispered something into Fofo Kpee’s ear, gave him a CFA10,000 bill and took away the N100 bill, and both men smiled. Fofo was so happy, there were tears in his eyes. “Our God is a rich God, not a pauper,” the pastor said.
“Amen.”
“And make sure your neighbor is not tempted to put back in his pocket what has been shown to the Lord. Amen?”
“Amen.”
He signaled to the choir, which intoned “The Lord Will Bless Someone Today.”
The Lord will bless someone today
The Lord will bless someone today
The Lord will bless someone today
The Lord will bless someone today
It could be me
It could be you
It could be someone by your side
The Lord will bless someone today
The Lord will bless someone today
As we sang along, our gift baskets were passed over the sanctuary rails to the assisting pastors, two wives of Pastor Adeyemi. After the wives had finished putting the gifts behind the sanctuary, they came out and joined in the blessing—two tall, elegant figures making their way through the praying crowd, placing their hands on the abdomens of the pregnant, whispering, “Omo ni iyin oluwa, . . . Children are the greatness of God.”
Then, as the pastor came down to bless the Nanfang, he asked us again to lift our money higher. He prayed that God should bless our household forever and that He should protect Fofo from Satan. Then his composure disintegrated as he bent down and grabbed the handlebars of the machine and launched into the “Holy Spirit, Fire!” benediction. His jheri curls flew everywhere, his cross jangled against the gas tank. He shook the Nanfang hard, to banish ill luck, until the faces of Fofo Kpee and Big Guy became clouded with fear. Eager to protect the bike, they reached out and held on to it with all their might while the pastor rained blessings on it. Soon the pastor placed his hands on our heads, and then people dropped their money into a collection basket, watching one another to keep cheats from substituting lower denominations or stuffing it back into their pockets.
THAT AFTERNOON, BACK AT our house, Fofo had rented white plastic chairs and a multicolored tarpaulin canopy for a party. Women, whom Fofo had hired to cook, brought the food in coolas and ladled it out to our guests. Though it wasn’t a big crowd, Fofo had gotten the dirt road in front of our house blocked, to give the impression of a large, overflowing party. In our part of the world, if a party didn’t disrupt traffic, it wasn’t a party.
Fofo Kpee stood up when he got a chance and said in his comedian voice, “My people, my neighbors, honton se lé, family se, dis de day de Lord has made . . .”
“Make we rejoice and be glad!” we all replied, laughing.
He cleared his throat and shouted, “Alleluuu . . .”
“Alleluuuia!” screamed the crowd.
“You see my broda and his wife who live abroad send me dis zoke˙ke˙!” He pointed to the Nanfang, which was standing under the mango tree, alone, as if on exhibition. “You see, I no go die poor man,” he continued. “I can’t be agberoing all my life. I must do someting to get rich. Like carrying una good people on my zoke˙ke˙ and making money. You must patronize me o. You no go just come here to eat my rice for notting o.”
“You go carry us till you tire!” someone said. “Smiley Kpee, na true talk!”
“I mean, look my face.”
He touched his scar and pulled at his lip and people began to laugh.
“Scarecrow!” one woman shouted, her mouth full of rice.
“No worry, when I get money well well, I go do surgery . . . my face no go smile like dis all de time again. N’do˙ na dio˙ face se, military face. Den una no go know again wheder I dey vex o, wheder I dey sad o, wheder I dey lie o. . . . I mean, even now, who tell una say I dey happy wid una?”
More laughter. “Agbero! Nanfangagbero!”
He paused and pointed directly at Big Guy, then wagged his finger. “Make sure you no be like dis, my new friend, who want disgrace me before my Tanksgiving!”
People laughed and Big Guy shook his head in jest, stood up, and said to the people, “Mon peuple, I no dance well for church dis morning?”
“You dance well well,” the crowd said, supporting him.
“Mais, il est un bon homme. Very good man,” Fofo Kpee said. “Na my new friend. . . . Dem just post am to dis area. You go know am better later. . . . For now make you just dey enjoy me, dugbe se to ayawhenume se. Once I become rich, my dogs no go even let una come near my gate o, comme Lazarus.”
“Den make you remain agbero till dy kingdom come!” someone said.
He waited out the laughs, then said, “Kai, you better start looking for anoder monkey man to harvest your coconuts. . . . Anyway, on a serious note: joy full my belly today because my broder and wife done rewarded me, say I do deir children well well.”
“Make God dey bless dem o!” someone said.
Fofo Kpee pointed to us, and all the attention shifted our way.
Yewa and I stopped stuffing ourselves with rice and looked at each other. I felt lost because I knew my parents were in the village, not abroad. It was as if I didn’t hear Fofo well. Did Big Guy bring the bike from my parents in Braffe? No, that couldn’t be true. My parents weren’t that rich even when they enjoyed full health. Again I thought maybe he said they
had recovered, and this party was also in their honor. So I stuffed myself with more food. With my bare hands, I ate my whole mound of jollof rice; the hired cooks used Uncle Ben’s rice, which we could consume fast, without fear of pebbles. I saved a piece of fried zebra fish, sliced as thin as a plantain chip, for last. I didn’t give what Fofo had said another thought.
“When my broder and his wife and oder children come to see us,” Fofo Kpee continued, “you go even eat better better tings. . . . Alleluuu . . . !”
“Alleluuuia!” the people said, and he sat down.
That evening, the visitors danced to music coming from our recently bought, used Sony boom box. Big Guy stood up and took off his jacket to reveal an immaculate white shirt. He pulled his trousers up to his waist to give his long legs room and showed us how to dance makossa. He moved his arms and legs, as if his suit now gave him permission to do so. He rolled his hips and gyrated to the electric guitar and heavy drums. With his smooth moves, he was a spectacle to behold. We began to like him. He reminded Yewa that she was an intelligent girl. He picked her up and tossed her repeatedly into the air and caught her. Many kids gathered around him, asking him to toss them too. He got sweaty, his shirt got dirty, his loafers became covered with dust, but he didn’t care. We had so much fun that the next day we had diarrhea and a temperature. We didn’t go to school.
ONE WEEK LATER, FOFO Kpee came back early from work and sat on his bed, wringing his hands. He was so preoccupied with what he wanted to say that he didn’t change his work clothes or bathe for the night. Then he leaned forward and said, “You dey enjoy school dese days, wid your new book?”
“I like my books!” Yewa said.
“The teachers like us now,” I said. “We share our books with our friends.”
“Good,” he said, wriggling into the bed until his back touched the wall. Above his head was a big old 1994 World Cup calendar that featured pictures of the thirty-two national soccer teams that had made the finals. The lantern’s rays mapped out patches of light and shadow on it, because the wall was uneven.
