He banged out of the toilet, not seeing the man who emptied the bucket standing waiting for him. Elvis leapt back, startled. Dung men were understandably aggressive and bad tempered, and the dung man was not smiling.
“Do you have my money?” he asked Elvis through the handkerchief that muffled half of his face. Elvis nodded. They all knew where the dung man’s money was kept, because if he wasn’t paid on time, he left a stinky gift on the front step.
As he dashed for the house to get the money, Elvis noticed Uncle Joseph’s car in the drive. He got the money from its place in the top drawer of the sideboard and on his way out heard whimpering and what sounded like a strangled sob. It was coming from the room he shared with Aunt Felicia. Efua shared it with them when she stayed over. He gently eased the door open. Efua was lying on the bed, legs spread wide, while Uncle Joseph grunted away between them. Efua stared straight at him, her teeth biting her lower lip. Apart from the tears streaming down her face and the soft birdlike mews coming from somewhere in her throat, her face was impassive.
Hatred and revulsion filled his nostrils and head, leaving a harsh taste on his tongue. But he felt something else too, underneath the reflex to retch. Little snakes of sensation crawled all over his body. And though he wanted to rush in and scream at Uncle Joseph, push him off and beat him to pulp, he watched instead, his breath coming in short, rapid bursts. And the saddest thing was that he knew Efua could see the lust in his eyes. He shut the door gently and left.
Later, when Uncle Joseph had gone, Elvis stole back into the room. Efua was curled up in a fetal position on the bed. In one hand she clutched a hug cloth while she sucked the thumb of the other. Tears still streamed down her face, and her left leg was trembling badly. She looked up when he came in, and he felt his gut twist.
“Elvis,” she whispered.
He sat down beside her on the bed, face averted, afraid to look at her. He felt her hand on his face, tracing his features.
“I’m sorry,” he said, tears running down his face as he turned to look at her.
She seemed surprised by his tears and reached out her hand to wipe them away. Putting the hug cloth down, she reached up and pulled him to her tiny body, all the while humming a lullaby softly under her breath.
“Sssh, it’s not your fault,” she whispered.
Elvis burst out of a crowded alley in the market straight into the arena occupied by the magicians. He was still disoriented and disturbed about what had happened to Efua the day before; otherwise he’d have known better than to come this way. The arena was packed tight with a crowd that was rippling and alive. A parked van with roof-rack-mounted loudspeakers blared out loud, garish music.
Two boys in high wigs, dark sunglasses and white long-sleeve shirts, gloves, trousers and white canvas shoes danced to the music, bodies fluid. Sweat streamed down their faces and their shirts stuck to their bodies in a wet embrace. Rings of red dust formed around their trouser cuffs, kicked up by their feet. These Ajasco dancers moved to Elvis Presley’s “Hound Dog.” Watching, mesmerized, Elvis realized then what he wanted to do more than anything else.
Mouth open in wonder at the dancers’ dexterity, Elvis moved his feet along in silent learning. Clumsy, he kicked up too much red dust and got clobbered on the head by angry bystanders. Just then a dwarf broke into the circle of dancers, ringing a bell almost as tall as he was. The music came to an abrupt end with an annoying vinyl-scratching screech. Ignoring the voices raised in protest, the dwarf began announcing the next act, a magic show by the world-famous Professor Pele, whom Elvis had never heard of.
Professor Pele was dressed in red robes like a Tuareg. He was silent, and his eyes were wide and unblinking. The dwarf shouted to be heard above the crowd’s murmuring and the clang of the bell that he was still ringing.
“Today, ladies and gentle,” he began. “Today, de wonderful Professor Pele is here to show you magic-Arabian, Indian and American magic.”
For emphasis, Professor Pele threw a fireball conjured out of thin air. The crowd gasped in fear and stepped back, letting out a collective “aaah.”
“American wonder. Come and see American wonder.” The dwarf broke into the one-refrain song. “Come and see American wonder, come and see American wonder.” There was a hypnotic quality to it that soon had the crowd joining in, echoing the heady chant.
“American wonder! American wonder!”
“Okay, I’ll need someone to assist in some magic,” the dwarf said.
As one, the crowd shrank back, except for the starstruck Elvis. He found himself being herded forward against his will. Falling away like palm fronds from a sprung, once-concealed trap, the crowd left him alone in the middle of its circle with the magician and the dwarf. Riveted, eyes fixed on the arena, the crowd and even the dancers watched. Meanwhile, pickpockets, part of the magician’s crew, worked them.
Professor Pele took out a long and deadly-looking sword and with a wicked smile cut the air a few times. With a grunt and a low two-handed throw, the dwarf sent a papaw into orbit. Pele spun round, catching it in midair with his sword, slicing it in two. The crowd gasped; Elvis gulped.
The magician then ran the blade through his stomach and out the other side. There was no blood, no apparent pain. Smiling, he twirled around. Elvis began to sweat and backpedal as Professor Pele pulled the sword from his belly and advanced on him.
“Now Professor Pele go cut off dis young man head,” the dwarf announced, pointing at Elvis. “Den join it back again.”
Elvis passed out.
When he woke to slaps from Oye, he was home. He had no idea how he had got there.
“Stupid, stupid boy. Elvis, you want to kill me, eh? What were you doing with those wizards?”
“Nothing, Grandma. How did I get here?”
She slapped him again.
“How did you get here? A distant relative of your father saw you faint and brought you home. Do you know how lucky you are? I sent you to buy me kerosene, not entertain tha town. I heard tha’ after you fainted, tha magician cut off your head and put it back on again. And you say nothing. Don’t you know they can steal your soul and turn you into anything they want?”
Elvis suddenly felt cold. He wondered if this meant that he was now dead and had become a ghost or, worse, a zombie.
“If people find out, they will run away from me, Grandma. I will become like Mr. Jonah,” he said tearfully.
Jonah had been a rich rice trader, with several wives. He had been revered and admired. Then he was in a car accident and lapsed into a coma for a few days. Thinking he was dead, his family took his body from the hospital bed late at night. It was important, they said, to ensure his soul could pass over with dignity, though of course the savings on the hospital bill wouldn’t go amiss. His family was starting the funeral rites when Jonah came to and banged on the coffin, demanding to be let out.
They let him out, but everyone avoided him after that, saying he was now a demon who could only live by killing others. People walked straight past him on the road, eyes averted. He lost his business. His wives left him. Every day he got a little more invisible, until one day he just faded away completely. He could still be seen when the light was just right, sitting outside his hut sucking on an unlit pipe, muttering to himself.
“You should have thought of tha’ before you made a spectacle of yourself in front of tha whole town,” she said. “What do you want me to do? Cast a spell to make everyone forget?”