Trembling from fear and pain, and bleeding from the cut to his face, the policeman squeezed his eyes shut and crawled into the pool of muddy water. He lay down on his belly, bobbed for an instant, and then began to roll, the water rippling. The sergeant hung his whip round his neck and, with deliberate slowness, folded his sleeves. When he was done, he said, his voice barely above a whisper: “Out.”
The policeman scrambled out of the water on all fours, gasping for air. The sergeant turned to his men and ordered, “Clear that lorry from the road.”
The soldiers leaped into action. They beat up the lorry driver and then offloaded his cargo of cattle, which they sent galloping off with kicks to their rumps. Then they strode through the crowd, handpicking hefty men. The men pulled the lorry, and the soldiers pushed. The sergeant directed the traffic, his whip flailing as he yelled instructions. In a few minutes the cars were honking their thanks and speeding off.
The rain had stopped. Dimié Abrakasa was wet, hungry, and tired. He had been gone too long — Méneia and Benaebi would be waiting for him, maybe even now watching both ends of the street to see who would spot him first. Then his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of his name. He looked up and saw a sea of cars. Dimi! he heard again, above the noise of the engines. He saw the waving hand and recognized the car — a decrepit white Peugeot 404—and then the face of his landlord, Alhaji Tajudeen. The landlord was pushing the car with one hand and controlling the steering wheel with the other. The line of cars behind him honked at his slow progress. Dimié Abrakasa ran to help him.
“Afternoon, sir,” he greeted. He moved to the back of the car. They pushed together. The car rolled faster.
“Can you push alone?” Alhaji Tajudeen asked, looking over his shoulder.
“Yes,” Dimié Abrakasa answered.
“Okay.” Alhaji Tajudeen jumped into the driver’s seat and pulled the door shut.
“Push! Push!”
Dimié Abrakasa bit his lip; his feet scrabbled on the rain-slick tarmac.
“Come on, you’re not a woman—push! ”
The exhaust backfired with a blast of thick, white smoke. The engine caught, sputtered, and sparked into life. Dimié Abrakasa, his face shining with sweat, ran toward the passenger door. He was reaching for the handle when the car swerved into the hooting, fast-flowing traffic and sped off. Dimié Abrakasa stood clutching the air. And then he scrambled off the road.
. 6 .
The outdoor bar had for shade an old beach umbrella, under which stood a table and a bench. Six men sat on the bench, three stood around the table. The men held beer tankards, whiskey glasses, plastic cups. Bottles of different sizes, shapes, and colors, arranged in no particular order but with a woman’s eye for beauty, covered the table. The bar owner sat on the knee of one of her customers. The man’s hands rested in her lap, and he tilted back his head to drink from the glass she held to his lips. When the woman saw Dimié Abrakasa approaching her stall, she thrust the glass into the man’s hand, stood up, and walked forward.
“Wetin you want?” she said, as she planted herself in front of the boy. “Make you no think sey I go serve you drink o!”
The woman had a spoiled milk complexion, the reward for a lifetime regime of bleaching cream. Her knuckles were the color of healed bruises, her arms and legs were crisscrossed with thick blue veins. The deep brown of her unpainted lips made them seem sweet, coated with treacle, smudged with chocolate.
“Wetin you dey look, you no fit talk?” the woman asked angrily. She placed her hands on her hips, harassed Dimié Abrakasa with her gaze. He dropped his eyes.
One of the men on the bench gave a snort of a laugh. He called out: “Madam Glory, leave the small boy abeg.”
Madam Glory spun round and pointed her finger at him. “Hear me, and hear me well — no put your rotten mouth for this one o! I no dey serve pikin for here. If this small boy wan’ kill himself”—and here she turned to face Dimié Abrakasa, her forefinger stabbing—“make e find another person shed. No be my business Satan go use to spoil another woman pikin.” She raised her hand, sketched a halo above her head, and then snapped her thumb and middle finger at Dimié Abrakasa. “I reject it in Jesus name!”
“Ah ah, Madam Glory, you sef!” exclaimed the man who had spoken. “You know whether somebody send the boy?”
“Even still,” she said in a calmed voice. She stared at Dimié Abrakasa, her eyes sparking suspicion. “They send you?” she asked.
“Yes,” Dimié Abrakasa said.
“Who send you?”
Dimié Abrakasa was about to say the truth, that he had been sent by his mother, when his right hand, which was tugging the hem of his T-shirt, crept into his trouser pocket. He pulled back the hand, stared at Madam Glory with horror, then dug both hands into his pockets, and gasped out:
“My God!”
“What!” Madam Glory cried. “You dey make joke with me?” Goaded by the guffaws that burst from the men behind her, she bore down on Dimié Abrakasa. She caught him by the earlobe just as he turned to flee, and dragged him forward, cursing under her breath, her face stained with rage. She reached the edge of the road, released his burning ear, and with a shove to his head she ordered: “Get away from here! Useless child, mumu, I sorry for your mama! Get away!”
On the trek back to a house that loomed before him like a Golgotha, Dimié Abrakasa ransacked even the most protected corners of his memory for the missing money. Despair, at several points on his journey, almost made him break down in tears, but each time his will overcame that foolishness.
. 7 .
Number II Sand Field was at the intersection of Yakubu Gowon and Adaka Boro Streets. It was one of eleven open spaces — Number IV Grass Field, Number VI Paved Field, Number VII Clay Field, Number X Sand Field, et cetera — set up all over Poteko by a past military administrator. Number II was a football pitch, with white sand instead of turf, and it was enclosed by a low concrete wall. On weekends when football matches between local clubs were staged in this arena, the wall disappeared under a swarm of spectators, but on this afternoon, as Dimié Abrakasa vaulted the wall, the field was deserted.
At one end of the field, in the space behind the goalpost, a table tennis board was set up. Three boys stood round the table, and two of them were engaged in a game. The ball flew into the net as Dimié Abrakasa drew up beside the table, and the third boy, who clutched a wad of naira notes in one hand, called out, “Park five!”
“Who dey win?” Dimié Abrakasa asked.
“Sh!” hissed the player whose turn it was to serve. He cast a furious look at Dimié Abrakasa. They recognized each other at the same instant.
“You!” Ériga exclaimed. “But how you dey? How you escape that crazewoman?”
The other player spoke. “This nah the boy you tell us about? The one wey stone the crazewoman?”
“Yes o!”
“Strong man — correct guy!” Three pairs of eyes gazed at Dimié Abrakasa with approbation. Then Ériga whirled round to face the table, and served the ball. His opponent was taken unawares: he scrambled for the balclass="underline" his bat struck it out of play.
“Game up!” the umpire announced, running to where the ball had fallen.
The second player glared at Ériga and snorted with annoyance. “Nah lie Chibuzo, I no agree — I never ready when Ériga serve the ball!” he said.
“But you no say let, Krotembo,” Ériga said. “Anybody hear am say let?”
“No,” Chibuzo said.
“But you rush me! You must replay!”