Elvis began sobbing and the Colonel rubbed his head tenderly.
“Listen, stop crying, okay? Tell me where de King is?”
“I don’t know. We were running and we got separated.”
“Okay, tell me where he lives.”
“Under the bridge.”
“Which bridge?’
“By Ojuelegba.”
The Colonel laughed. It sounded like wet rope rasping on dry wood.
“Dis one is just a child. Throw him back,” he said, walking out.
They threw Elvis out of the van before it had stopped. He hit the rough road surface and rolled painfully, coming to a stop by the base of a wooden electric pole. He used the pole to pull himself up and pulled down the blindfold. He could see the army truck speeding away in the distance.
He was on a back street that was deserted except for the corpses of hundreds of dead rats that littered the roadside. The sound of children playing carried out to him. He stood up and covered his nakedness behind cupped hands, nude except for the Fulani pouch hanging from his neck. He stole some clothes from a line and started walking. He didn’t know where he was or where he was going. He just walked. It wasn’t clear to him if he was really free or whether it was just an illusion. All day long he just walked, on and on, like a man possessed. The sun dipping on the horizon cast long shadows behind him. Cars whizzing past him blared their horns angrily as he wandered into the road. He stumbled on a rock jutting out of the ground and fell with a thud at the foot of a brazier that burned bright. The children roasting corn and pears for sale with their mother screamed in shock.
“Get up, madman!” the woman yelled. “Shut up!” she threw at her screaming children.
Elvis raised his head and tried to focus on her but saw only the leaping flames. Sitting beside the corn seller, hunched and chewing on a corncob, was an old woman who reminded him of Oye.
“I said get up — are you mad?” the corn seller shouted at him. “You are blocking my market, get up!”
She swung a firebrand at him. It crackled through the air and hit him on the leg. The burn felt good, brought him back into his body. He laughed as he got up and stumbled away into the night.
SYNSEPALUM DULCIFICUM DANIELL
(Sapotaceae) (Igbo: Udara-nwaewe)
A small tree of the rain forest, it has a green bark and elliptic leaves that are somewhat wedge-shaped. Small pink-and-brown flowers cluster around the axils of the leaves, and it has an oval, purplish fruit.
The pulp of the fruit, around the seeds, is sweet and has the lingering aftereffect of making acid substances consumed within three hours of it taste sweet.
TWENTY-NINE
There is only one history: Igbo.
But there are things that cannot be contained, even in ritual.
The Igbo have a saying: Oya bu uto ndu. That is the joy of life.
Lagos, 1983
The King marched at the head of the mob, singing in a deep baritone. Immediately behind him were the three druids. The rest of the mob was comprised of the curious, thugs looking for some trouble, market women and students. They all sang at the top of their voices as they marched on Ribadu Road, the seat of government.
“Who shall be free?” the King sang.
“Nigeria shall be free,” the crowd responded.
Like a strange pied piper, he picked up more and more people as he marched. No one had any clear idea why they were marching or where they were marching to. But that did not seem to stop them. The King, like Gandhi on his salt march, was resolute. Even the press joined the march. They had covered the Freedom Square raid, but this was much bigger.
Predictably the army soon got wind of the approaching mob and set up a barricade. The Colonel was there in person, having decided to put a stop to the irritation that the King had become. For the past few months, as the King’s media profile grew, the Colonel’s bosses brought the King up at every briefing.
The Colonel walked up to the barricade of tanks. “Who is in charge here?” he asked.
“Lieutenant Yar’adua reporting for duty, sir!”
“Listen, if you want to survive de day with your rank — when dat mob reaches here, do not open fire until I give de order. Understand?”
“Yes sir!”
“Good,” the Colonel said. He walked back to his car, a black BMW, and came back with a sniper’s rifle. He picked a spot ahead of the tanks and settled down to wait for the crowd.
They soon came around the corner, singing. The King was well ahead of the mob by at least ten yards. The Colonel was impressed by the size of the crowd that the King was able to muster. Raising the sniper scope to his eye, he held the King in a perfect cross. But then he noticed the news cameras. It would not do to have an assassination taped, especially by the BBC. It would affect foreign investments, and his bosses wouldn’t take kindly to that. The Colonel put the sniper rifle down and walked back to the tanks.
“Do you have a megaphone?”
The lieutenant nodded and passed the megaphone. The Colonel walked out front to the face the crowd.
“My fellow countrymen, I wish to assure you dat dere is no need for dis demonstration. If you disband now and return to your homes, we will forget de whole incident.”
“And if we don’t?” the King demanded.
“Nobody wants dat,” the Colonel said. He was losing patience with the whole situation, and he would soon order his men to stop the mob, cameras or no cameras.
“We get legitimate concerns. We want democracy.”
“Yes, democracy, no more army!” the mob chanted.
The Colonel took in the agitated crowd and the media and felt his rage building. He had one nerve left, and this King guy was jumping on it.
Lieutenant Yar’adua came up to him. “How do you want us to proceed, sir?”
“I’m not sure. Radio de General and ask him what he wants. Dese journalists are my main concern, otherwise I would just kill everybody here,” the Colonel said.
“Yes sir,” Lieutenant Yar’adua said, saluting and making his way back to the tank to carry out his orders.
The Colonel watched as some younger members of the crowd began to gather stones and rocks, anything that could be used as a projectile. The Colonel turned to the soldiers behind him and, identifying a sergeant, motioned for him to come over. He pointed out the troublemakers to the sergeant and asked him to have a few men armed with tear-gas launchers aimed at the edges of the crowd. They would need to keep the crowd contained in one place if they were to maintain control.
Lieutenant Yar’adua walked back to where the Colonel stood smoking a cigarette and watching members of the press creep closer.
“Sir!”
“Proceed.”
“De General said to send some men to remove de press while you talk to de Beggar King. He wants you to calm him down and remove him from dis place with minimum damage.”
The Colonel swore under his breath.
“How? By magic? Okay, take a group and begin to round up de press, starting with dose one over dere,” the Colonel said, pointing to some members of the press who had crept forward.
“Yes sir!”
“Lieutenant.”
“Sir?”
“Handle it yourself. Don’t send junior officers.”
“Yes sir!”
The Colonel turned back to the crowd. “You — come forward,” he said, pointing to the King.