Ériga threw his bat on the table. “I don win,” he said. He strode to the umpire and held out his hand. “Give me my money.”
“No give Ériga that money o, Chibuzo,” Krotembo said. He, too, tossed his bat on the table, and began to unbutton his shirt. “You must replay or we go cancel the betting. You no strong enough to cheat me.”
The two boys drew up to each other, stood nose-to-nose, and exchanged glares. Krotembo, who was shorter, had muscles like a blacksmith’s apprentice. He raised a clenched fist, nudged Ériga in the chest. “No try me, Ériga,” he said.
Ériga stepped backward, lowered his gaze, spun round on the ball of his left foot, and ran. Krotembo barked with laughter. He turned to Chibuzo, chuckling in his throat. Then he heard the crash of glass. From the corner of his eye he saw the shadow of death bearing down on him, and he bolted.
“Why you run?” Ériga yelled after him. He stopped beside the table, strutted back and forth, panting with anger and brandishing a broken bottle. “Come and fight — if you get power!”
Krotembo watched Ériga from a safe distance. His naked chest heaved noisily. Then he touched the tip of his forefinger to his tongue and bent down to scrape the earth with it. He pointed the finger at Ériga and said, in a voice that quavered: “I swear, Ériga, anywhere I see you, anywhere I catch you—”
“Sharrap there, buffoon!”
Krotembo pressed his fist to his lips. His arm shook, his forehead bulged with veins. Then he turned around and strode off. Ériga watched the receding figure until he was sure the retreat was not a trick. He walked to the table, tossed his weapon under it, then snatched up Krotembo’s shirt from the table, wiped the sweat from his face and neck, and flung the shirt away. It sailed through the air, unfurling.
Chibuzo spoke. “Make sure you run any time you see Krotembo o — e no go forgive you. Anyhow, two of you bet one-eighty, so after I remove my cut, your money nah three-ten. Correct?”
Ériga nodded, and watched Dimié Abrakasa from the corner of his eye. Dimié Abrakasa caught his gaze, and he turned away, accepted the roll of notes from Chibuzo. After counting the money, he asked Dimié Abrakasa:
“You wan’ play me betting?”
“Never!” Dimié Abrakasa replied.
Ériga threw back his head and laughed. “No fear, I no be Atanda Musa, why you no try your luck, maybe you go beat me.” His eyes danced as he awaited a response. Then he said, “Anyway, since nobody want to play me, I don dey go.”
Dimié Abrakasa shrugged. “Me too,” he said.
As Chibuzo gathered the balls and bats, the two boys left together. They strode across the sandscape, their footsteps flopping, their progress marked by the leap-and-dance of their shadows.
At the end of Yakubu Gowon Street loomed a pink, three-story building, a hotel. The wall around it was crowned with colored glass shards, and the yard was planted with a profusion of fruit-bearing trees. Near the gate a large false almond tree grew at an abnormal angle and leaned over the wall. Its foliage formed a thick shade on the outside of the fence.
The boys reached the fence, and Ériga walked under the tree shade, turned to face the road, sank into a crouch in the bed of dead leaves, and rested his shoulders against the wall. Dimié Abrakasa followed. A gentle breeze wafted the smell of decayed fruit into their faces. A moment of silence, during which the leaf dust stirred by their arrival sailed through the air, and then Ériga touched Dimié Abrakasa’s shoulder, said, “Wetin be your name?”
“Dimié.”
“Dimi. Dimi Craze. . De Craze.” Ériga nodded, pleased with himself. “I go call you De Craze. My name nah—”
“Ériga. I know.”
Dimié Abrakasa trapped a wood ant crawling up his arm. He picked it off his skin and looked at the waving legs, the snapping pincers. He crushed it between his fingertips and wiped his hand on his jeans.
“Why you stone that crazewoman?” Ériga asked. His eyes were fixed on his companion’s hand — the long, tapered fingers, the bitten-down nails, the network of fine veins.
Dimié Abrakasa noticed the direction of his gaze, and balled a fist. “Nothing,” he replied. But the image rose in his mind of his mother sitting in bed with her knees drawn up and her hands pressed against her ears. His fist rose in the air and struck his knee twice, then he let his hand fall onto the carpet of leaves.
“You be strange person sha. De Craze,” Ériga said.
The street grew busy with schoolchildren returning from extramural classes. A group of uniformed girls was headed toward the hotel. The girls whispered to each other and darted glances at the boys; as the group filed past, the girl who walked in front turned her head to stare at Ériga, and snorted with laughter.
Ériga sprang to his feet and bounced on the balls of his feet toward the girl. The girl was tall and stocky, she had the calves of a shot-putter, her hair was shaved to bristles, and she wore the one-piece dress of a high school junior. Her sole ornament was a rubber wristband that announced her loyalty to Chelsea FC. Ériga drew up alongside her, and asked in a rude, deepened voice, “Nah who you dey laugh, woman-man?” The whole group halted and faced him. He repeated his question, and the girls, as if on signal, broke into peals of laughter. They stamped their feet and clutched their bellies and bumped against each other. Ériga’s face puckered with anger. He grabbed the wrist of the girl whom he’d addressed and twisted her arm, not too much, but enough to make her aware of his strength. “Laugh now,” he said, and pulled her forward, trod on her foot.
The girls fanned out, encircling him, buzzing like disturbed bees. He felt the movement of his hostage, but thought nothing of it, until her fist sank into his belly. He released her arm and doubled over, mewling with agony.
“Are you crying?” the girl said, as she bent over him and clasped his shoulder in playacted sympathy. “Stand up—” her words were interrupted by a snigger, “if you can.”
Gritting his teeth, Ériga straightened. The girls watched him and waited. He stood, undecided. Dimié Abrakasa stood up. “I know you,” he said, addressing the girl who’d struck Ériga. “We used to go to the same school — you remember? — Saint Ignatius.”
The girl stared at him. “You are Méneia’s elder brother?”
“Yes.”
“Ehen — so it is you! I was telling myself that I know your face.” She stepped forward, bumping Ériga with her shoulder, and thrust out her hand for a handshake. Dimié Abrakasa took it. Her grip was firm. She kept hold of his hand. “Adafor is my name. Your own is. . ah, I’ve forgotten.”
“Dimié.”
“Dimi! Yes, Dimi.” She beamed at him. “I’ve come to your house before,” her tone dropped, took on some hue, a bit of blue, “when your father died.” Then her face brightened. “What school are you attending now?”
“GCSS Boys,” Dimié Abrakasa said.
“I’m in Holy Rosary.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“You’re wearing the uniform.”
Adafor laughed, tugging at his hand as she swayed. Then she caught the smirk on Ériga’s face, and her laughter stopped. She released Dimié Abrakasa’s hand.
“This dude is your friend?” she asked.
“Yes,” Dimié Abrakasa said.
Her nostrils flared with disapproval. She opened her mouth, but shut it without a sound, then looked at Ériga. “You will fall inside my trap another day.” She turned back to Dimié Abrakasa. “Greet your sis for me.”
As the girls’ voices receded round the corner, Dimié Abrakasa asked, “How your stomach?”
“Okay,” Ériga said. He took a step forward, then pulled up sharply and burst out: “Girls!”
Dimié Abrakasa laughed. “I agree with you, troublemakers. I get one for house.”