“Forget them abeg. Hunger dey waya me — I wan’ go find food.”
At the mention of food, Dimié Abrakasa glanced over his shoulder in the direction of his street. “I have to go,” he said.
“Oh, all right,” Ériga said, and reached his hand into the waistline of his trousers. His hand emerged with a flash of blue, a Chelsea FC wristband. He slipped it around his wrist and admired the fit, then looked up and caught Dimié Abrakasa staring. He dropped his arm to his side and edged away.
“Hey!” Dimié Abrakasa called. Ériga halted.
Dimié Abrakasa recalled the moments of his meetings with Ériga: the request in the alley, the amount of the bet with Krotembo, the scuffle with Adafor. The disappearance of his money. Now it made sense. Random pieces fell together and a picture rose in his mind. Just like table tennis had served as bait for Krotembo, the baiting of the madwoman was the game that lured him into Ériga’s trap. But of course. And the dare to stone her was the bet, the gambler’s opening, the pickpocket’s ploy. For Ériga, he was sure, was a pickpocket, a master thief.
His heart pounded in his head as he stared at Ériga. He was furious, as much with himself as at Ériga, and now that he felt a kinship with Krotembo his sympathy for the outsmarted boy grew to levels almost unbearable. Ériga was shameless and hardened in his ways — he had seen ample evidence in the episode with Krotembo. Yet he hoped. Maybe Ériga would do the right thing, given a chance.
“Erm,” Dimié Abrakasa said, his voice a croak, saliva clinging to his teeth, “I fit borrow money from you?” The boys searched each other’s faces. Dimié Abrakasa dropped his eyes. “Please,” he said. “I lost my mother’s money today.”
Ériga’s tone was curt. “I no get anything to give you.”
Dimié Abrakasa nodded, and averted his face to hide the angry tears that wet his eyelashes. He turned, walked away, but after a few paces he glanced around. Ériga stood at the same spot, watching him.
“Bye-bye, De Craze,” Ériga said softly, then whirled around and quick-stepped away, his arms swinging.
. 8 .
Night was seeping in from the sky’s edges when Dimié Abrakasa arrived at number 197. He met the landlord driving in. Alhaji Tajudeen stuck his head out the window and yelled, above the noise of the engine, “Wait there for me!”
Dimié Abrakasa watched the landlord park the car, wind up the windows, and lock the doors. The car panels were dented, rust-eaten. The windshield was spiderweb-cracked in the right-hand corner.
“Is your mother in?” Alhaji Tajudeen asked, twirling his car keys round his finger as he approached Dimié Abrakasa.
With a sinking feeling Dimié Abrakasa gazed into the landlord’s face. Alhaji Tajudeen had the widest nostrils he’d ever seen. They were choked with a jungle-growth of gray-brown hair, the same color as his ear tufts, which he left untrimmed even though his head was clean-shaven. There was only one reason the landlord would want to see his mother. Dimié Abrakasa nodded the affirmative to his question, and then said, “But she’s not feeling well.”
The landlord was headed for the doorway. “Is that so?” he said over his shoulder. “That’s nothing new. She hasn’t been well for one day since you people moved into my house.”
The landlord entered the corridor. Dimié Abrakasa marked his progress by the echo of his footsteps and the voices that rose in greeting at each apartment he passed. The sound of wood crashing against the wall startled him forward.
The door of their apartment was open. There was still no power: the figures in the room were outlined in shades of gloom. The landlord stood over his mother, who sat at the bed’s edge, her knees clamped together, her feet pressed on the floor. Méneia and Benaebi were huddled in the corner, beside the dresser.
“You and your children must leave my house today,” the landlord was saying in a loud, hectoring tone. “For a whole three weeks your rent has expired and till today I’m still waiting? You think I’m running a charity here? You know how many people have been asking me for this room?” He paused to draw breath. “I’m telling you, if you can’t afford to live like a human being, then live like a dog in the street. But you’re leaving my house today!”
Benaebi snuffled. Méneia covered his mouth with her hand. Daoju Anabraba shifted her feet, rubbed her thighs with her hands, sighed deeply, and spoke.
“If we can just talk in private, please, Alhaji.”
“Talk what? Talk money!”
“Okay, Alhaji. But let my children go—”
“What you mean, go where? Or don’t your children live here too? Look, woman, somebody must answer for my money today. Whether it’s your son o, or your daughter o, or you o, I don’t care. All I know is that my rent must come out today or all of you will pack out!”
“But Alhaji, why are you talking to me like this?” Daoju Anabraba caught the fold of her wrapper, which was loosening, and tucked it under her arm. With the same hand she swiped the sweat from her face, and then rose to her feet. She was taller than the landlord; his head only reached her shoulder. One step and her breasts would push into his face.
The landlord stared at her. His gaze moved down, traveling over her body, chest to foot, and back up again. He cleared his throat. “Okay,” he said, “I will respect you, if you respect yourself. But before we talk anything, do you have my money?”
“No. But if you just give me a few more days—”
The landlord sniffed with derision. “Your rent is already three weeks overdue. People are lining up for this room. I’ve heard that you don’t have a job — that you like to drink. I don’t want any drunkard in my house, and a jobless one for that matter.” He lowered his voice. “So tell me, why should I wait?”
Daoju Anabraba was silent.
“I’m waiting for your answer, Mama Dimi.”
Dimié Abrakasa tried to help his mother. “Please, Alhaji—”
“Shut up when your elders are talking,” the landlord said, without looking at him.
Footsteps approached from the direction of the courtyard, then hurried past the doorway of their apartment, and continued at a sedate tattoo out of the building. It was the only sound in the house.
The landlord sighed. “I am not a wicked man,” he said. “By Allah’s grace, I have children too. I don’t want anybody to say that I threw out a widow and her children from my house. That is why”—he paused for effect—“that is why I will give you a chance to pay the three weeks’ rent that you owe me, today.” He held Daoju Anabraba’s gaze, and licked his lips, then lowered his hand to adjust his trouser crotch, his expression pantomimic.
Daoju Anabraba got his meaning. Her eyes widened. “Ah, no, Alhaji. .”
The landlord shrugged. “We’re both adults here. The matter is in your hands.” He rubbed his palms together with a washing motion and held them out. “It’s your choice. Pay me my three weeks’ rent, today, or pack out of my house, today.”
Daoju Anabraba sank down on the bed and bent her face to the ground, her movements slow and heavy. Her hands lay in her lap; she cracked her knuckles and tugged her thumbs. Her shoulders flexed.
When she looked up at her first child and spoke, her voice was firm. “Dimié, take your brother and sister and wait outside. Close the door.”
Dimié Abrakasa did not move.
“You heard me?”
“Yes, Mma.”
“Get out!”
The children filed out of the room. In the gap between door and post, Dimié Abrakasa saw the landlord cross to the bed, and he heard him say, “Dimi is a good boy. He helped me push my car today.”
Footsteps padded up the corridor. Effusive good wishes, this time in farewell, marked the landlord’s approach. When he appeared in the doorway, he halted and blinked at the full moon that bobbed in the night sky. His face gleamed in the moonlight. He yawned, then raised a hand to wipe his brow, dropped it to rub his belly, and let it fall to his side. He did not look at the children as he trudged to his car, unlocked it, started the engine, and drove away.