All the while he was shaking Elvis, who was getting dizzy as his head bounced around. Pictures of the scar running down the King of the Beggars’ face flashed before him. What if this colonel decided to open him up like a choice cut of beef? Shit, he thought. Double filcking shit.
“Good evening, Colonel, sir,” Redemption said, walking slowly over to the Colonel.
“Redemption, what is it?” the Colonel said.
“I know dis man, sir. He just came to Lagos; he is suffering from bush mentality, sir. He does not know any better, sir. Please forgive him.”
“You know dis man?” the Colonel asked.
“Yes, sir. He is confuse, sir. Forgive, sir, I beg.”
“Maybe I should get my boys to beat de confusion out of him,” the Colonel said, laughing.
Redemption laughed along politely.
“He is not worth de trouble of a big man like yourself, sir. Don’t waste your time on his type,” Redemption said.
The Colonel laughed and let go of Elvis, who collapsed at his feet.
“Only because you know him.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You,” he said, turning to his men. “Go and find dat band and bring dem back. I feel like dancing.”
Snapping to attention as one, the group ran out to get the band. The Colonel turned to Redemption.
“Get him out of here. Him and dat woman.”
“Yes, sir,” Redemption replied, already helping Elvis to his feet.
As they made their way to the exit, the Lebanese woman kept pulling at Elvis.
“Where are you going, lover?” she kept asking.
“Leave us!” Redemption said tersely.
“She still owes me for at least two hours,” Elvis said.
“Forget it, man. We have to get out of here before dese army guys kill you.”
“What did I do wrong, anyway?” Elvis asked.
“Shut up and don’t even look at dem. Don’t even think it. Let’s just go,” Redemption said.
The back door banged shut behind them as the band was being forced at gunpoint back onto the stage to set up their instruments.
“Dat was close,” Redemption said, leaning against the alley wall.
They were in the narrow dirty alley at the back of the club. Elvis looked around. Like tendrils of a spider’s web, other alleys ran off the one they were in, connecting each other in a network that probably traversed the entire city. Whatever reply he was about to give died in his throat when he saw three of the soldiers from inside walk down the alley.
“Redemption!” the sergeant called.
“Ah, Jimoh, dat was close O!” Redemption replied, laughing.
The soldiers joined them.
“You get ciga?” Jimoh asked.
Redemption tossed a packet of cigarettes to him. Jimoh passed it around to the other two soldiers. They each took three cigarettes, tucking one behind each ear and lighting the third. Jimoh tossed the packet back to Redemption, who lit two and passed one to Elvis.
“Dis your friend is a lucky man. The Colonel has killed people for dis kind of disrespect,” Jimoh said.
“But I did nothing,” Elvis protested.
Redemption and the soldiers laughed.
“Dis your friend is a hothead. He did not learn his lesson, I see,” Jimoh said.
“What lesson?” Elvis asked.
“Dat dere is no right or wrong with soldier. Just what we want,” Jimoh replied.
“Who is the Colonel, anyway? Do you really think he would have shot me in a crowded nightclub?”
“Where did you find dis man?” the soldiers asked, laughing. “You better get him out of here.”
Redemption nodded and pulled Elvis along. “Come,” he said.
Elvis followed silently as they kept to the side streets and alleys.
“It is better we are not stopped by army patrol, eh? One problem with army people is enough for one night,” Redemption explained.
Their route showed the city to be as untidy as the remnants on a half-eaten plate of food. Elvis mused at how personal it seemed, specifically adapting itself to meet each circumstance. On his way to the club, the streets he had traveled singed straight and proud, like a rope burn or a cane’s welt. Now every alley with its crumbling walls, wrought-iron gates, puddles of putrefying water and piss and garlands of dead rats was just as unique. Yet, though each square inch was distinctive, the city remained as general as an insult shouted on a crowded street.
Finally they arrived at Redemption’s place.
“I think you should spend de night here.”
“Sure,” Elvis said.
He lay on Redemption’s couch smoking until late, the thick smoke from his cheap cigarettes mixing with the fog from the mosquito repellent burning in the corner. Nothing about his evening made any sense. And though he had felt the sharp edge of danger, the full enormity of how close he had come to being shot eluded him. It seemed too surreal. The only thing he could hold on to was the fact that Redemption had risked a lot to save him. Why? He couldn’t figure it out. Absently he wondered how Redemption knew the Colonel, but was afraid to ask in case he found out. Since the night they wrapped the cocaine, Elvis had come face-to-face with just how dangerous Redemption might be. For the second time that night, he thought of the King of the Beggars and his warning.
“Elvis.”
“Yes.”
“Sleep — your ciga is keeping me awake.”
“Sorry.”
“Sure.”
“Redemption?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“Sleep.”
FROM MABEL THE SWEET HONEY THAT POURED AWAY
My Sweet Honey,
No tongue can speak what I have suffered this afternoon. Despite the fact that we were disturbed, the way you delayed and teased me, while I suffered and burned like a flame inside me, it was so painful Oh! I don’t think I can forgive you.
Look I promise you everyting you can choose to ask of me. Even I will give you my life willingly, provided you first let me before I die. What are you afraid of? I have sworn that you won’t have any trouble.
Please my honey, I am coming down there by seven this evening and as your mother is away we can go out and see a picture or to another hotel or even walk about and back.
Please reply this letter through the bearer.
I am longing terribly for you.
Gilbert
My Sugar,
You think you are suffering more than I do. But you are wrong. The thing is this: my heart is strong for you, but my body is weak.
I love you three times more than you love me. But there is one thing wrong. I do not know how we shall do that thing. You know it will be my first time and that is why I don’t know how to start.
That afternoon I wanted it more than you but I was very much afraid. Don’t blame me for what you say you suffered for I was not free from agony.
I wait for you.
Your Sweet Honey,
Mabel
TWELVE
These people are true Kings and Queens: makers, breakers, saviors, devils.
Sorcerers, dibias, are born with dreadlocks, or dada. Several rites have evolved to allow parents to shave off the natty locks and hide the truth of their child from itself and the world. The power they hold is feared, as it is believed they can unmake the universe and remold it to their own designs.