by Ben Okri
My soul was so wounded with the agony of witnessing such strangeness that I turned to the blind old man, all feathered and half-transformed, his phallus erect, and I said:
‘I want to go home.’
He laughed, but no sound issued from him. Then I realised that in his dream he could see but paid the price by being deaf and intermittently dumb. There were glowing pinpoints all over him. And when the lights became lurid in his dreams I noticed that he had eyes all over his body: he had eyes in his feathers like a peacock, he had an eye in the middle of his forehead, and he had a necklace of them round his neck. My fear had become intolerable, and I panicked. Then a voice said to me:
‘Be still.’
I was still. The voice said again:
‘Eat the wild flowers.’
I ate the wild flowers. Nothing happened. The blind old man tried to seize them from me, but he couldn’t. He hit me on the head, and I grew strong. He hit me again, and I grew stronger. I held him by the throat and throttled him with all the herculean might the flowers gave me. And when he eventually let me go everything first went white and then black, and I felt myself falling. I fell for a long time through many undiscovered universes. I fell, but I did not land, I did not hit the earth. Instead I found myself leaning against a tree. My body blazed all over with livid agony. It seemed as if I were entirely covered with bruises and welts, as if I had been flayed. My head throbbed as if I had been hammered with a mighty stick, my eyes were full of fire, and my wrist seemed raw with exposed nerves. All this was the price I paid for sensing and suffering the future on my living flesh.
The lights were still on in Madame Koto’s bar when I hurried past. I heard the strains of the blind old man’s accordion as I fled across his darkened domain. An owl flew overhead, watching me. When I got to our room the door was open, the air was suffused with mosquito coil smoke, and dad was asleep on the mat, his legs spread wide apart. Mum was on the bed, asleep, as if nothing had happened. Lit up with pain, I lay on the mat beside dad. After a while of breathing in the familiar smells it seemed as if time had not moved at all. But I also felt that the world had turned. The new angle of things was strange to me.
7
THE SERENITY OF THE FORESEEN
MY BRUISES BECAME visible. Dad enquired about them and I told him that I had hurt myself playing in the forest. Mum pressed the stinging juices of poisonous herbs on my welts and lacerations. Poison fought poison and two days later the bruises lessened noticeably. I marvelled at mum’s herbal lore.
That evening a message came from Madame Koto. She asked why I hadn’t been visiting her bar as we had promised, and demanded that I begin the next day. Dad was worried. Fighting had broken out everywhere, and it had become dangerous to wander the streets. Party thugs continued to terrorise people. The world was at a new angle to the sky, but the old violence had returned. People were beaten at street corners for giving the wrong political passwords. The nights became populated by strange men with hard faces and bad smells. Madame Koto’s bar was now the acknowledged centre of mobilising our area for the elections. Her new driver had been fitted out with a superb uniform. As Madame Koto’s personal driver he was a powerful figure in his own right and, like his ill-fated predecessor, had taken to speeding up and down the road, blasting his horn, frightening old women and babies learning to walk.
Dad was worried, but mum said nothing. It was as if she accepted that what would happen had already been foretold. Her serenity in the face of the new violence infuriated dad. There was nothing he could do: mum had entered a new domain of her spirit and dad was scared of her. And so he took out his annoyance on me. He made me wash his clothes. He made me polish his boots twenty times in one day. He made me split firewood with an unwieldy axe and he towered over me, breathing heavily in his comic rage. Then later, in the evening, he relented. He carried me around on his shoulders and told me stories about the village which I entirely forgot because I was still angry with him.
8
NEW ANGLES OF THE WORLD (1)
ON THE DAY I went back to Madame Koto’s bar a rainbow appeared over the forest. It had rained that morning. All through the day the sun shone and the rain poured down steadily. People said that somewhere an elephant was giving birth. The rainbow was very clear and distinct. It made me think there was a great big jewel in the sky that light poured through. The people of our area stared at the rainbow in wonder. They spoke of signs. The rainbow of the forest was solid, but it had a twin. The second rainbow, which seemed to originate from Madame Koto’s backyard, was not distinct, nor clear. It was a half-rainbow, and its colours were all a little vague and washed together like an incomplete manifestation.
From a distance it seemed as if Madame Koto had now entered the god-like business of creating rainbows. Our respect for her grew. But when I drew nearer to her bar the rainbow, like a spirit seen by those who are not part-spirits, seemed to vanish altogether. I heard people whispering that her power now depended on space, on distance, on silence, which was why no one saw her any more.
The way people talked about her made me scared of going to her bar alone. It was as if she had multiplied in some way, as if she had conquered our dreams. I kept delaying having to go there. I wandered around a bit, approaching her forecourt and retreating. Then I decided to go and see my friend Ade. The herbalists had apparently finished the first course of his treatment. What did they know of his condition? My friend was lean and pale, his lips quivered, and he broke into subterranean voices when I wasn’t looking. He had been told not to wander far from their house. Boredom was dehydrating his spirit. An intense light had entered his eyes. He was like a child who knew something very evil, but in his case it was as if he knew that something hot and beautiful was approaching his soul. I knew that every day he was willing himself to die. He had that look in his eyes. The world had no power over him. His sense of freedom was awesome and terrifying. And when he broke into the hoarse cavernous voices of his spirit-companions a black wind blew through my mind.
‘Let’s go to Madame Koto’s place,’ I said.
‘I am not afraid,’ he replied, irrelevantly.
‘Of what?’
‘Of rainbows.’
‘Why should you be afraid of rainbows?’
‘When there are four rainbows in the sky, the flood will come.’
‘What flood?’
‘I won’t be here then.’
‘You’re talking nonsense again,’ I said.
He gave me a strange smile. The smile grew bigger and a happy expression filled his face. Then he began to tremble. His limbs shook and he was bathed in radiance, as if his fit were a sweet juice that he was drinking, or as if it were sunlight to the feverish. I became scared. He burst into laughter, the jubilant laughter of death. I slapped him. He stopped for a moment. Then I grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to his father’s workshop and left him there, afraid that he might do something dreadful to himself in his unearthly ecstasy. I called his parents and when they came out and saw their son, I fled home.
In the evening the drizzle ceased. The half-rainbow disappeared from Madame Koto’s backyard. I set out for her establishment. As I drew closer I was surprised to see a weird towering structure in front of her bar. At first I thought that this structure was responsible for the half-rainbow. People had gathered and they kept pointing at the new phenomenon. It was a gigantic red Masquerade, bristling with raffia and rags and nails. It had long stilts for legs and two twisted horns at the sides of a wild jackal’s head. The red Masquerade held aloft a shining machete in one hand and a white flag, emblem of their party, in the other.
This terrifying colossus was so tall that even adults strained their necks looking up at it. No one knew who had built it, who had brought it there, or when. No one could explain the dark enigma of how the Masquerade stood upright on its long wooden legs without being blown away by the wind. And as if all these things weren’t astonishing enough, no one amongst the gathered people could expl
ain the most puzzling fact of all. The Masquerade had the head of a jackal, with fiercely protruding jaws, and it had the twisted horns of a ram – but it had human eyes. The eyes kept looking at us, turning in their sockets, regarding us with intense hostility. It was when people noticed the eyes that they began to be really mesmerised with horror. A man suggested, in a whisper, that there was a human being high up in the Masquerade. But another man said it was impossible and wondered how someone could be up there so still, in a space as small as the head, trapped in raffia and nails. It occurred to me that the eyes were familiar. At first I thought they belonged to the blind old man. Then I thought they were Madame Koto’s. But none of these seemed likely. And as our speculation increased so did the palpable malice in the eyes of the red colossus.
We were so fascinated by the gigantic apparition that we didn’t notice another enigma that stood right in front of us. The enigma was a white horse standing near the door of the bar. It looked docile, its head bent low. It was a big handsome horse, with a wonderful mane, and it shone in the evening light. We stared at the white horse and the red Masquerade for a long time, speechless, overcome with an indefinable sense of dread.
The evening darkened. The wind made frightful noises as it blew over the head of the Masquerade. People hurried to their homes and heard the first mutterings of an exodus. I went towards Madame Koto’s bar.
When I passed the white horse it lifted up its head and gazed at me with green eyes. Then, unaccountably, it started kicking the air with one of its front feet. Convinced that it was threatening me in some way, I fled into the bar and into a completely new reality. The place had undergone another of its cyclical transformations. There were no long benches and tables. The counter had gone. The bird cages, the chained monkey, the mysterious peacock and the screened corner of the glass-eyed image had all vanished. The spaces inside were more expansive. The place had acquired a weird sort of domestic elegance. Red cushioned chairs had footstools beside them. Little tables had replaced the long ones. Spears and daggers decorated the walls. There were almanacs everywhere. Tinsel trailed down from the ceiling. Batik materials served as curtains. And, as always, the place was crowded. Women with almond eyes, long fingernails and lace dresses floated past holding cigarettes in their hands. There were short men with powerful heads and small eyes, tall men with servants who fanned them, stocky men with bleary eyes. The red lights made everything seem unreal and I kept going up to people and touching their stomachs till one of the women caught my hand and said:
‘Sit down and don’t move!’
I didn’t see mum in all the commotion of lights and loud music. There seemed to be more voices than there were people. Some of the voices were very guttural. I couldn’t understand anything that was being said. The longer I sat in the bar, the weirder I felt. It was as if I were asleep and awake at the same time, as if my body were at home and my spirit were under a red sea. Strange violent energies wandered around in my head. My eyes began to pulse. My throat tightened. I suddenly realised that I couldn’t breathe. I screamed, and heard the sound at the other end of the room.
While I was trying to rally myself, a stocky man with big eyes and an elastic grin came over. He gave me a piece of fried chicken and tapped me on the head. I was about to eat the chicken when I heard mum’s voice saying:
‘Throw it away.’
I threw the chicken on the floor and the man came back and knocked me on the shoulder. I felt better. I got up from the bench, pushed past the crowd and went to the backyard for some air. The man came after me. There was a full moon over the forest. The man pointed to the moon, and when I looked at it, he laughed. I turned to him and became aware that he had holes in his eyes. He pointed to the moon again. I looked. The wind blew his voluminous garment. I smelt rotting flesh. When I turned to him again, his eyes were normal. His grin was still elastic. There was something distinctly odd about him and I didn’t know what it was.
‘Give me back my chicken,’ he said.
‘It’s inside,’ I told him.
‘Go and get it.’
I went in and picked up the chicken from the floor and when I went back outside he was gone. I looked for him and couldn’t find him. I threw the piece of chicken into the bushes and heard a subdued growl from the darkness. I went back into the bar and searched for mum. She wasn’t there. Neither was Madame Koto. The wind blew decomposition into the bar and when I sought the refuge of the backyard the man emerged from the bushes, with holes in his eyes, holes all over his face, and holes in his neck. He smiled at me. Then he laughed. And through his mouth, right through the back of it, I could see the moon. Then it dawned on me that the man had died a long time ago. Before I could do anything he went into the bar and I did not see him again. I asked one of the women about him. She looked at me as if I were mad, and said:
‘I told you to sit down and be quiet.’
I couldn’t. The voices, all alien, and the lights, all garish, made me feel ill. I crept out to the backyard again. The moon was riding a white horse of a cloud. I was standing there, listening to the flourishes of drumming and tinkling bells approaching, when for the first time I became aware that a red haze of light surrounded me. I moved, and it followed me. I couldn’t step out of it and couldn’t shake it off. The red haze sent fiery visions through my head. Heat swept up my spine in vicious waves, filling my brain with the fury of hot nails. I tried to escape from the red haze framing me, but it stayed. It began to obsess me. I felt trapped in its violent peppery heat. But when I slipped back into the bar the heat ceased and the red haze vanished.
But I couldn’t stand it inside. The smells grew worse. The men smiled knowingly at me. The women’s hands were cold. And an agonised cry started from the barfront. Dogs began barking. When I went to the barfront everything was silent except for the dogs. Then I realised that the elysian voices were not singing in the forest.
I was about to return to the bar when I saw red spirits clambering up the fretful white horse. The wind made the Masquerade’s jackal head cry out. People rushed from the bar to see what was happening. The shining machete reflected moonlight on us and the horse neighed, rearing. Tossing its head, the white horse kicked out and raged in an inexplicable access of terror. The red spirits clambered on it and the horse galloped insanely round the Masquerade and one of the women shouted:
‘Someone control that horse!’
Then one of the men – tall, impressive, with a bullet-shaped head and elongated eyes – stepped out towards the horse, his hands outstretched. The red spirits jumped off the horse and on to the man and they vanished in him, as if his body had absorbed them. And then the horse trotted over to the man, its head lowered, as if ashamed. The people clapped, and the dogs stopped barking.
When everyone had gone back in I noticed white spirits clambering all over the red Masquerade. The moon burned in its enraged eyes. I had retreated to the backyard when the wind, blowing hard, caused a weird jackal cry to issue from the Masquerade. The cry was so powerful and strange that for a long time afterwards all the nocturnal animals, the dogs, the cats, the weeping children, were utterly silent till the wind had passed and the coded cry had been carried away to the distant regions of the forest.
9
NEW ANGLES OF THE WORLD (2)
AT THE BACKYARD, bathed in the sheen of moonlight, the red haze appeared round me again. But before I had time to be scared, the flourish of drums, the tinkling bells and the rhythmic feet materialised. I saw many women, dressed in black, with white kerchiefs, dancing in a circle in the backyard. The blind old man was in the centre of the circle, orchestrating their movements. In his hand was a fan of the brightest eagle feathers I have ever seen. He had his harmonica, he was barefoot, and he danced with the fury and vigour of a wild young man. He whipped the air with his fan. He sprang one way, bounded in another, spun in the air, stamped irregularly on the earth, and lashed their spirits with ageless ritual passion, as he guided them through the cultic dances of the new s
eason.
He led them through the Peacock dance, the dance of the Jackal, the movements of the Bull, and the cornucopia dances they must perform so flawlessly behind their leader on the night of the great political rally. With the exemplary vigour of a bull-leaper, he displayed the requisite motions, foaming at the mouth, yellow liquids gathering at the corners of his eyes. His chest was bare and covered with hieroglyphic markings, his neck was stringy, his stomach twinkled with antimony. He had kaolin on one side of his face and a red cloth with three cowries tied to his upper arm. He made the women stamp to the war songs and the party chants with mad and unbounded energy. He was a mystery of signs, riddles, power and time.
Mum stood apart from the circle of women, the veins bulging on her forehead. She didn’t seem to notice my presence, and I couldn’t get to her because she was on the other side of the circle. The blind old man went on leaping and capering with the energy of a young lustful bull, his voice thick and harsh. And after he had exhausted the women, he sent for some palm-wine. The women dispersed, holding their hips, hobbling. With a severe expression on his face, he came and sat on a stool near me. Kneeling down, a woman handed him a half-calabash of palm-wine. He took it, and dismissed her. Before he drank he turned his old yellow-watering eyes to me, and said:
‘You ugly spirit-child! The next time I catch you in my dreams, I will eat you.’
Then he gulped down the half-calabash of palm-wine, and burped. The dogs started barking. I tried to move as far away from him as possible. I moved surreptitiously, hoping he wouldn’t notice. But after a while he turned to me again and, in his harsh voice of a half-transformed bull, said:
‘Come here, and let me see with your eyes!’
I fled to the barfront and sat near the door. The white horse breathed over me. The moon burned the eyes of the Jackal-headed Masquerade. The red haze round me began to grow hot again; soon I felt my flesh on fire. I couldn’t move. I heard the blind old man laughing in my head. Then I became aware of him staring at me maliciously through the eyes of the Jackal-headed Masquerade. A curious sand-hot wind blasted my mind. A cat ran out of the bushes and leapt across my face. The white horse uttered a piercing scream. The wind became still. Several voices began speaking in my head at once, whispers of hoarse women, the growls of old animals, the screeching of children. I smelt the old man’s presence all around. Then I felt eyes on me in the dark, rooting me to the floor. The angry waves of an invisible river roared behind me. My brain began to itch with insurgent passions. The red haze around me grew more intense. Then I had a distinct sensation that the Masquerade was moving. Its raffia trailing rustled in the alien wind. And then, all over the area, I saw them – the great spirits, in blazing lineaments, pouring in one direction, with the golden spirits of butterflies vibrating in orioles round their heads, their drums thundering on the silent air.
