“About her father and how hard he is making it for her to be her own woman.”
Redemption took a sip from the lukewarm tea in front of him. He began to speak but thought better of it when the waiter brought over a plate of eggs, fried meat, fried plantains and bread. Yanking off a piece of bread and digging a pocket in it, Redemption filled it with eggs and fried meat. He took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. When he looked at Elvis, the concern was clear on his face.
“Listen, tell me what you think dis thing you are doing is?”
“What thing?”
“Dis gig I got for you at Sonny’s? Listen, dese women are way out of your reach. You are dere to keep dem entertained, no more, no less. You have to move from woman to woman. You are disposable and dey will never care about you. Dey will go on to marry rich foreigners like demselves. And if for any reason she liked you, and you hurt her, well, I think you saw Prakash? De best you can hope for is to make a decent living while things last and maybe get in a good fuck or two — for which you must charge extra.”
Elvis put down his cup of tea.
“Where is all this coming from? I just took her for a walk along the beach. I know how to play this game, okay?”
“If you say so.”
“I do. But listen, Redemption, I need more work, though. This escort work does not seem like regular work to me.”
“Hah, Elvis, you are a true Igbo man.”
“I need this, Redemption.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll look into things.”
“Elvis!”
Standing in front of the buka was the King of the Beggars, Caesar.
“Who is dat bastard?” Redemption asked, clearly irritated.
“My friend Caesar,” Elvis replied, motioning for Caesar to join them.
“You have strange friends,” Redemption said, finishing off his tea and standing up. Stuffing a piece of meat in his mouth, he made to leave. “Me, I like only regular guys like me. See you later.”
Caesar and Redemption inspected each other as they passed at the door. Caesar nodded; Redemption spat and looked away.
“Your friend is not very nice,” Caesar said, sitting down.
“We all have our faults. I’ll talk to him later,” Elvis replied. “Breakfast?”
“What is bothering you?” Caesar asked Elvis.
“What makes you think anything is bothering me?”
“Because.”
“Because?”
“Mmhmm.”
“I have a bit of an ethical dilemma.”
“Easy now, Elvis. Not so much big words, eh?”
Elvis laughed, and as the King of the Beggars finished the breakfast Redemption had left over, Elvis filled him in on his new gig and the reasons why he needed to earn money fast, ending with his conflict over the right thing to do.
“Listen to dis story,” Caesar began.
“Oh, please, not another story. Why can’t anyone in this place just give it to you straight?”
“Because de straight road is a liar. Now listen. My broder built a birdcage when I was small. One week, he is building de cage, every day, eh? Den he take two whole days of careful stalking with bait and weaver trap to catch de bird for de cage. I remember dat bird, yellow like dis, eh? Every day I watch dat cage, dat bird, eh? Every day.
“Den one day, rain just fall finish and de air dey heavy with de smell of fresh wet earth and spilled kerosene. I sit dey watch. My spirit move me. My head just begin wild. What would happen if …? Why should de bird be trapped? Could it speak?
“It’s like my broder know something is up, because he come dere and watch me as I watch de bird. Den my mother’s call my broder away. ‘Don’t touch de cage,’ he warn. I nodded.
“But as soon as he go, my hand was on de cage and suddenly de weaver was in de air. It beat its wings against my face and was gone. I was surprise to hear myself laughing. I was free and I stood in de small rain dat began to fall again. I was powerful, aaah.”
“Then what?” Elvis asked impatiently.
“De slap caught me square across de lips, drawing blood, and I start to cry in de rain. ‘I told you not to touch de cage!’ my broder shout.”
“So what is the moral?”
“Why must you mock, eh? It is simple. Choose whether you are me, de bird or my broder. Only you can choose.”
OIL BEAN SEED SALAD
(Igbo: Ugba)
INGREDIENTS
Ugba (sliced oil bean seeds)
Akanwu
Palm oil
Salt
Fresh chilies, chopped
Smoked fish
Stockfish
Eggplant
PREPARATION
Boil the oil bean seed slices until tender (or buy already boiled in a bag). Using a big wooden bowl (wood helps seal in the flavor), mix the ahanwu and palm oil until you have a smooth paste. Add a couple of dessert spoons of water. Next, put in the oil bean seeds, a pinch of salt and the chopped fresh chilies. It is best to use one’s fingers to achieve the best mix. Fresh chopped onions are an option for some people. Add strips of smoked fish and stochfish and chopped eggplant. Serve the dish cold (or lukewarm) with cold beer, wine, palm wine or soda.
TEN
There is danger here. These people can go mad easily. The muse that inspires can, when turned counter, become madness. These people are griots, truth talkers.
Numbers, for the Igbo, had several applications, not entirely limited to mathematical inquiry, one such use being to differentiate people by energy configurations composed of numerical, quantifiable vibratory frequencies. These provide the key to decoding individual personalities, abilities and the vocation best suited for the petitioner. The Igbo believe that if one does not follow the life pattern determined by their energy grouping, they are living outside the dictates of their chi, or personal god.
Afikpo, 1977
“Are you sure we won’t get into trouble?” Efua asked.
They were standing in line to get tickets for the matinee showing of the latest Bollywood release. Though at thirteen she was three years older than Elvis, in this situation he felt as if he were the older one.
“Don’t worry. Everything is fine.”
“But Oye will find out dat you are using your dancing money to come to de cinema with me.”
“She won’t.”
It was a real dilemma; balancing the cost of the dancing lessons with their increasingly frequent visits to the cinema. There was the cost of the ticket, sweets and the obligatory bottle of cold, sweating orange Fanta — doubled; since he nearly always had to pay for Efua, it came to a significant amount. He was convinced that his dancing was improving more from studying the moves in the movies than from anything Mr. Aggrey taught him. The films also had soundtracks that ranged from the full orchestral grandstanding of the 1939 Technicolor hit Gone With the Wind through to the Bangra pop of Bollywood flicks. This music contrasted with the soul, jazz and highlife that filled his days, blaring from loudspeakers outside record stores or from neighbors playing their sound systems too loud.
He was getting really good as a dancer, and even the cynical Oye whooped with delight the night he staged an impromptu concert for her and Aunt Felicia on the front veranda. He could not afford to stop now, yet he could not afford to continue. The plan to get more money, when he hit on it, was so simple he didn’t know why he had never thought of it. Of course its execution required subtlety and time if it had any chance of succeeding, but he felt good about it.