“How can you say dese things about your own family?” Sunday asked.
“I saw Uncle Joseph raping Efua. I saw him.”
“So does dat make us murderers?”
“That is why I am asking you if you had anything to do with it.”
“And I said no.”
Elvis rubbed a hand across his face and looked out into the street. They lived in one of the few places where Maroko made contact with the ground. Halfway along, the street sloped up into a plank walkway. But outside their house, the street was muddy and full of potholes. In the abandoned uncompleted building across the street, the makeshift buka was turning a good trade in fried yam and dodo. He watched the crowd coming and going and absently made a note to get some before it closed.
In the middle of the street a taxi idled, the driver’s door open. The interior light was on and Elvis could see the driver talking to a young woman in the passenger seat. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but everything about the man’s manner indicated that she was his lover. Soft highlife music from the car radio leaked into the night.
“I don’t believe you,” Elvis said, turning back to his father.
“Who are you to believe or disbelieve me? Look at dis mad child, dis world has spoiled!”
“Innocent came to my room a few nights after the murder,” Elvis said, pausing at the word “murder.” That was something, to call it that, but what else was it? he thought.
“I gave him food and he seemed very afraid. He mentioned Godfrey, then fled in terror,” he continued.
“So you harbored a known criminal in my house?”
“What do you mean, ‘a known criminal’?”
“Well, you said Efua told you dat Innocent killed Godfrey. So you knew he was a criminal and yet you harbored him in my house.”
Elvis stared at his father, mouth open. This could not be happening, he thought.
“Shut your mouth before a fly enters it,” Sunday said. “All your life, you have been like dis, eh? Never having a grip on de real world. You are just like your dead mother. Touched.”
“Leave my mother out of this!”
Sunday stood up threateningly.
“Are you shouting at me? Are you crazy? I will—”
“Sit down, old man, before you fall down,” Elvis said, rising to his feet.
They stood staring each other down for a few minutes; then, unexpectedly, Sunday folded, his rage gone, replaced by a look Elvis took to be shame.
“Dis world has spoiled,” Sunday muttered under his breath as he sat down.
“Dad.”
Sunday looked up. It sounded strange to hear his son call him Dad, but he liked it.
“Dad,” Elvis repeated.
“What?”
“Did you pay Innocent to kill Godfrey?”
“You don’t understand de difficulty of trying to be a man in dis society. So many expectations, so much pressure. You will see.”
“So he is dead.”
“I never said dat.”
“You didn’t have to. Dad, did you have anything to do with it?”
“Do you know what people ask you when dey meet you as a young man? Who is your father? First, dey want to know your father’s name, de stock you come from, before dey decide whether to bother talking to you.”
Elvis was silent. He reached for the kaikai. With trembling hands he put the bottle to his mouth and took a deep drink. The liquor burned through him in a series of hacking coughs.
“Easy,” Sunday said.
“So what does that mean?” Elvis asked. His was voice tight and his eyes were tearing from the harsh liquor.
“In dis place, it used to be dat all you had was your name — before dis new madness with money started. De measure of a man was his name. It will be again. It took me years of pain, suffering and hard work to build a name people could respect. My father was a houseboy to de white priests. We were nobody. To de whites we were their servant’s children, mini-servants. To de traditional world, we were white people’s slaves, a curse, so we were disinherited of land, clan, everything. I built our name up with honor until it became a force to be reckoned with. I have never had much money, but I had a name dat opened doors. A name people spoke with respect.”
“He was killed for a name?”
“No! He was killed because he was a threat to all we had. De only inheritance I had to give you was a name of honor. His actions were muddying de only thing of value we had to give you.”
“So he was killed for a name.”
“No! He was killed for honor.”
“What kind of honor does that? Kills its own?”
“Can’t you understand? I did dis out of love for you.”
“So now you did this for me?” Elvis asked.
Sunday took a deep breath and a gulp of the gin almost simultaneously. He didn’t respond.
“That is why your backers pulled out of your campaign. That’s why you drink, to drown your conscience. I used to think that it was my mother’s death that pushed you over the edge. But this was part of it too. I’m sorry for you,” Elvis said.
Sunday put down the gin bottle.
“Don’t be sorry for me, be sorry for yourself. Do you know why we have a lot of deformed children begging? Because their parents know dey have no future. So at birth, before de child knows pain, dey deform it because it increases its earning power as a beggar. Do you see de love? All dey have to give de child is its deformity. All I have to give you is my name, your name, Elvis Oke. And when I die, it will continue to help you build something for your children. Dat’s why I don’t want you to be a dancer. It will spoil your name.”
“What are you talking about? Your name is associated with failure. Where is the honor in that? How can I carry this name knowing that it belongs to murderers and rapists?”
“Dis was not murder! Dis was a mercy killing. It was only a matter of time before de police caught Godfrey in some crime and executed him publicly. Dat would have killed all of us.”
“I could forgive you if I tried, you know. But Uncle Joseph? This was his son. First he rapes his daughter, then he has his son murdered?”
“Why do you insist on dis rape story?”
“You think I made that up? That Efua made it up?”
“She is a harlot, you know. Here in Lagos. I have seen her.”
“Liar!”
“And you can’t know for sure dat what you think you saw dat time was Joseph raping his daughter. Maybe you were confused.”
Elvis finally had to accept that his father would never believe that Joseph was capable of rape. Or maybe he didn’t want to. He had somehow deluded himself into believing that murdering Godfrey was an act of honor. He had not even considered the effect it would have on Innocent, who had to carry out the crime. This was all shit, all shit. Isn’t that what Redemption always said?
“He raped her.”
“You can’t know for sure, unless it happened to you,” Sunday said. His tone was conciliatory, as though he was subconsciously begging Elvis for it not to be true.
“He raped me too,” Elvis said, surprised at how calm he sounded as the memory of that day in the chapel came rushing back with a pain so fresh, he instinctively clenched his buttocks against it. But whatever had held him up all this time collapsed in the face of his admission, and his tears were followed by body-shaking sobs. He cried, loud and hard, mouth open, snot running down his nose. Sunday stared at Elvis, mouth open, searching for the possibility of a lie. But there was none. The sound, when it came from him, was nothing Elvis recognized. It was a howl. All animal, all death. It propelled Elvis off the veranda. This was not the comfort he wanted, needed. He could deal with all his father’s anger, but not this. He stumbled down the street to the bus stop, ignoring the curious stares of passersby, wiping furiously at his face with his sleeve. As he walked, he realized, the only way out of this life was Redemption.