He looked again at the madwoman. She was growling, the sound buzzed at the rim of her teeth, and she rocked on her heels. Her eyes were bloodshot with fear and yet her expression was calm. Her gaze roamed the circle — she swung her head with abrupt, birdlike motions. Dimié Abrakasa averted his gaze, then pushed through the press of bodies till he got next to Baridom, the nearer of the two boys who he knew, and reached out a hand to tap his shoulder.
“Wetin the crazewoman do?” he asked.
Baripo, the second boy, threw Dimié Abrakasa an angry glance. “She craze,” he said.
At that moment, the madwoman dropped her hands to the ground and pushed herself up. The boys, it seemed, were expecting this move: those holding sticks leaped forward and delivered blows to her head, her back, her buttocks, her legs. Shrieks of pain burst from her throat as she danced around to avoid her attackers, her movements as wild as a leaping flame. Then she sank back to her haunches.
The boys resumed their stargazing. This game was no longer play. They were drunk on high spirits. They fidgeted, impatient with the madwoman’s cowardice. Some of the boys, whoops bursting from their throats, broke the ring to make short, darting runs at the hunched form.
Someone said: “If crazewoman bite you, you go craze.” Nods and murmurs of agreement traveled the circle.
“If dog wey get rabies bite you, you go craze too,” said Baripo.
“Yes o,” Baridom agreed.
“Me, but before I craze, I go burst that dog head,” said the boy who had spoken first.
“You no go fit,” Baripo said. “Dog wey get rabies dey craze.”
“I go fit.”
“You no go fit.”
“I say I go fit!”
“I say you no fit!”
The boy said: “I go fit burst this crazewoman head. Try me!”
Silence. Then the boys’ voices rose in a chorus of cheers and jeers. “You no fit, Ériga — do am, Ériga — burst the crazewoman head!”
Ériga whirled to face Dimié Abrakasa, who was beside him. “You get stone?” Dimié Abrakasa shook his head no. Baripo asked: “You want stone?” Without waiting for a reply, Baridom held out a lump of brick. Dimié Abrakasa, who stood between Ériga and Baridom, reached for the brick, closed his fist around it, hefted it, and then flung it at the madwoman. It struck the side of her head and disintegrated in a shower of dust. She screamed, horribly. It was this explosion of mingled pain and rage — and the superhuman force with which she leaped at her attackers, blood splashing from the gash in her head — that caused the boys to break rank and flee from the alley, their yells trailing in their wake.
By the time the fear that combusted in his belly had been exhausted, Dimié Abrakasa was far from the alley, the boys, and the marketplace. He leaned against the rusting frame of an electrical pole and struggled to regain his breath. His chest heaved and fell. His hands clutched at his throat and clawed at the neck of his T-shirt, smudging the yellow. His eyes darted, searching for the pursuer who had laid grip of his imagination. Passersby slowed as they approached, shot him curious glances, and then hurried past.
. 5 .
Dimié Abrakasa was back on Ernest Ikoli Road, at Railway Junction, when the rainclouds caught the sun. The world turned gray, the temperature plummeted, and gusts of wind sprang up. The wind grew stronger and flung dust into the air. A lightning flash split the gloom and a rumble of cascading boulders burst from the skies. Another flash, sulphuric in its intensity — the thunderclap was like a shredding of the heavens.
Birds crawled across the sky with panicked cries. There was a lull, everything froze in that instant; and then, with a sound like burning grass, rain fell. The raindrops had not made landfall when a bolt of blue-white lightning, like a forked tongue, streaked the sky, and one of its prongs struck a fleeing swallow. The bird stalled in midflight, then began to tumble earthward as the rain hit the ground.
Through sheets of crashing water, pedestrians sprinted for cover. Puddles formed on the sidewalks, then flowed together and rushed for the drains, which brimmed over and poured water onto the road. The road became a river. Car engines drank water, coughed out steam, and died. Both sides of the road — and the sidewalks, too — got jammed. The horn blares of motorists became one long, unbroken blast.
Dimié Abrakasa moved off the sidewalk onto the road and wove through the stalled cars. The bonnet of the Toyota Sequoia beside him was warm — the car was empty but the engine was running. The driver had alighted and rushed off to join the crowd that was gathered at the head of the traffic jam.
Dimié Abrakasa headed for the crowd and squeezed through the swarming bodies till he reached the front, where there was a large flooded pothole. The obstructed traffic was caused by a ramshackle, cattle-hauling lorry that had tried to charge across the pothole. The lorry was stuck. The lorry driver was on his knees in the tea-colored water, scooping handfuls of mud from under the lorry’s tires. Water lapped against his chest.
Like wind in the treetops, loud voices swept through the crowd, arguing. Some urged that the lorry be pushed aside, and others recommended a detour round it. Dimié Abrakasa watched, fascinated, as the crowd split into factions and yelled in each other’s faces. Two traffic wardens and a policeman stood in the crowd. One of the wardens gaped at the angry faces with his hands clasped behind his head, while the second man glared at the lorry, his features drawn into a scowl. The policeman tried to arbitrate contending views, but he was repaid for his efforts by getting sucked into a quarrel that grew so heated he had to flash his handcuffs to extricate himself.
From the edge of the crowd, someone yelled: “Thank God — the army has come!”
A column of soldiers approached at a trot, their bootheels drumming the road. The crowd parted before them, scrambling out of their path. When they arrived at the obstruction, their leader — a stocky, potbellied sergeant who bore on both cheeks the four slashes that was the mark of Egba nobility — bellowed, “Qua Shun!” The soldiers stood at attention. Each held a horsewhip in one hand and an assault rifle in the other. Twirling his whip as he turned to the crowd, the sergeant ordered, “All civilians clear the area, now! ”
The crowd dispersed. There was a flurry of banging car doors.
The traffic wardens had fled, but the policeman stood his ground. Thrusting out his chest, he walked up to the army sergeant, who turned to face him, surprise written across his face.
“Sergeant, sah!” the policeman said, saluting, “the situation on ground—”
The sergeant interrupted him. “What situation?”
The policeman, who towered over the sergeant, leaned forward with a wide smile. “The lorry responsible for this wahala. .”
“Are you a soldier?” the sergeant asked.
“No, sah, but—”
“Are you a retired soldier?”
“No, sah.” The policeman began to fidget.
“Is your wife a soldier?”
“No!”
The policeman, glancing around at the column of stonefaced soldiers when he made his reply, did not see the twist of rage on the sergeant’s face as he roared, “Bloody civilian!” and dealt the policeman a sledgehammer blow to the throat. The policeman fell to the ground, jerking as he fought to keep from swallowing his tongue. Grasping the fallen man by the collar, the sergeant slashed him across the face with his whip, then dragged him to the edge of the flooded pit, released him, and stepped back a pace. The sergeant’s face regained its humanity.
“Roll in the mud, you shit,” he said, calmly.