“Redemption! Redemption!” Elvis called, banging wildly on Redemption’s door. The room was dark and there was no answer.
“He done move,” one of the neighbors said, opening a door. “Now stop de knocking, eh? I cannot hear myself thinking.”
Shit, Elvis thought. Of course Redemption had moved, to Maroko, where he had just come from. In the confusion of the confrontation with his father, he had fled by instinct to this place where he had always felt safe.
“Elvis?”
He spun around. Redemption was standing in the doorway to Kansas’s room. “Why you dey find me here? You know I moved.”
“I forgot.”
“What is it?”
“Can we talk?”
“Is dat Elvis? Elvis, come and join us, we are eating,” Kansas called from inside the room.
Elvis crossed the courtyard in seconds. Redemption stood aside to let him in.
“Dere is beer in de fridge. Help yourself, den wash your hands and join us,” Kansas said.
Elvis opened the miniature fridge and helped himself to a Gulder.
“Isn’t this the stuff that blows up in your face if you smoke while drinking it?” he asked, popping the top.
“Dat is plain rumor,” Kansas said.
Elvis sat down on one corner of the love seat. Redemption occupied the other. Kansas sat on the bed facing them. On the coffee table between them was a meal of fufu and egusi sauce. Redemption and Kansas were working up a sweat eating. To their left, too big for the compact room, was a television set. They were watching a video on it.
“Ah, Elvis. Wash your hand, de food is going fast,” Redemption said.
“Thanks, but I am not hungry.”
“Dis food sweet, man. My girlfriend cook it,” Kansas said.
“Thank you, but I am fine,” Elvis insisted. “What are you guys watching?”
“Dirty Harry. Dat man is too bad. Real Actor.”
Elvis nodded and sipped at his beer. He really wanted to talk to Redemption alone.
“Hey, that’s John Wayne!” he said, excitedly pointing to Clint Eastwood. He knew fully well it wasn’t, but he wanted to be part of the conversation, defaulting to the ignorance he expected of the other two.
“John Wayne? You dey mad. Dat is Actor. John Wayne is not in movies anymore,” Kansas said.
“But … what?” Elvis said, sounding confused.
“Is okay, Elvis,” Redemption explained. “Things change, you know. Now dere is only Bad Guy and Actor. No more John Wayne.”
“Why?”
“Because de type of movies done change. Dat’s all. Now let us watch de movie in peace.”
Elvis lapsed into silence, drinking several bottles of beer as he watched images flicker across the screen. The color needed adjusting, and everything had a garish red tint to it that made him nauseous after a while.
“Do you have ciga?” he asked Redemption.
Redemption passed a packet of Marlboros to him.
“This is not my brand,” Elvis said, looking disdainfully at the pack.
“Okay, give my ciga back.”
“You don’t have any Benson & Hedges?”
“Give me my ciga back,” Redemption repeated.
“Easy,” Elvis said, taking one and lighting it before passing it back.
“Take it easy. Gulder is strong beer, don’t drink too much.”
“Humph.”
Elvis had no recollection of falling asleep, but woke groggily as Redemption shook him roughly.
“Wake up. Dis is not your house. I told you to easy on de beer. Wake up, we have to go.”
Elvis yawned and stretched. He sat up and wiped drool from his mouth.
“Where is Kansas?”
“He go pick his girlfriend. Come on, we have to go before he return.”
Standing up, Elvis noted that the place had been tidied since he fell asleep. The empty beer bottles were gone, as were the remnants of the meal. Kansas had even changed the sheets.
“Boy, you guys work fast,” he said.
Redemption smiled.
“It is Kansas, my broder! De tings a woman can make you do is wonderful.”
Elvis laughed. They staggered out of the room, the latch locking home behind them. Elvis felt a moment of panic and checked under his shirt for his Fulani pouch. It was still there, he noted, opening it. As were his mother’s journal and a copy of The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran, one of his favorite books.
“I hope he has not forgotten his keys,” Elvis said.
Something about the comment struck them both as funny and they fell about laughing.
“Dat will be one angry broder if dat is so,” Redemption gasped.
“Am I still drunk?” Elvis asked, swaying dangerously.
“No. It’s de ground dat is moving,” Redemption said, laughing.
“So how are we getting home?” Elvis asked.
“I bring machine. I go ride.”
“Which kind of machine? Ha, Redemption! Are you in any condition to ride?”
“How you go know de difference, drunk as you be?”
Elvis giggled. “I guess you are right.”
They approached a burly black motorcycle. Redemption straddled it and kicked the stand up. He swayed for a moment, then found his balance.
“Okay, Elvis, climb aboard. Maroko straight,” he said.
“Are you sure you can operate this?” Elvis slurred, as he settled into the passenger seat, arms firmly wrapped around Redemption’s midsection.
“Hey, Elvis, are you homo? Release me small,” Redemption said.
Elvis relaxed his grip.
“Sorry, I am holding on for my life,” he said.
“Ha! Elvis. Relax, you know I am Easy Rider,” Redemption said, revving up and releasing the clutch. The bike shot off at an incredible speed, swaying from side to side.
“Easy!” Elvis shouted.
“One-way trip to heaven!” Redemption shouted back.
They roared down the Isolo freeway, weaving between cars like a bobbin threading yarn, barely managing to stay upright.
“Whose bike is this?” Elvis yelled over the roar of wind and traffic.
“Dis machine? It belongs to de new people I am doing business with,” Redemption yelled back.
“Hey, slow down. That is a police checkpoint ahead. You don’t want them to open fire,” Elvis said, pointing ahead to the makeshift barricade of oil drums and car tires that sat in the middle of the freeway like a pimple. Redemption ignored him, clutched down, revved up and cut across four lanes of traffic to an exit.
“Redemption!”
“Easy, Elvis. Dis is not States. Dey have no car to chase us.”
“Just don’t kill us.”
“Relax, you fear more dan woman. Listen, punk, do you feel lucky?”
“What?”
“Well, do you?”
“Stop speaking in riddles. Just stop, it will only cost us a couple of bucks in bribes to get past.”
“Number one, we no wear helmet. Number two, I don’t have de papers for dis machine. Number three, I no get license. Plus I hold gun in my pocket. Dat is too much bribe dan I can afford. I no fit to pay!” Redemption shouted as they gunned up the exit ramp and made a sharp right.
“Gun?! Gun!?”
“No dey shout ‘gun’ like dat. People can hear.”
They made a left and were soon traveling down a dirt road skirting the lagoon.
“Where are we?”
“Near Mile 2. One more left and we go dey back on de freeway.”
As they bumped over the road at high speed, a tall column of dust kicked up by the tires chased after them. To their right, the water was a black presence, reflecting the moon. In the distance, Elvis could make out small fishing canoes bobbing on the swell, the lanterns burning in their prows dancing like fireflies.