The pattern continued; on coming back from the market, Iffe, or Nne, as I had started to think of her after her return, spoke little and seemed afraid of being alone; each morning she shone anew. I had not known a person could hold within her such divided states. It was a thrilling discovery, and yet it posed a problem for me. I understood now I would have to assimilate not a single set of qualities, but two.
One evening towards the end of the harmattan I was sitting beneath the kitchen table, watching Ben prepare a chicken for our evening meaclass="underline" he pulled apart its legs, first the left, then the right, then smashed down his knife to cleave them from its body. With what indifference Ben chopped that raw and pimpled flesh! There was no sign of grief in his eyes, not for the chicken (who, I knew, had spent its short life crowded into a dirty coop), nor for myself, who watched appalled. Ben cut the chicken into pieces and placed them into a pot of boiling water. He added chillies, onion, garlic and stockfish. After sprinkling salt and pepper into the pot, he covered it with a metal lid. Shortly after, Iffe or Nne came into the kitchen. Immediately the room dimmed, became dusted with a grimy atmosphere, and every sound seemed to fall an octave. We ate quickly and in silence. At one point during the meal Nne spoke. What she said was truly surprising to me, and helped me to understand the realm of high drama she moved in. Perhaps it was true; perhaps it was her way of demystifying the powers of her rival; or perhaps she was giving me a sign.
‘The Honeymans’ cook is a witch,’ is what she said.
Ade and I gasped. We knew about witches; knew that they were mostly old women; knew that because of a mysterious object in their stomach, they needed only to wish evil and evil would happen. We had heard, enviously, that they could turn into any animal they chose, most often birds, in whose guise they did extraordinary things. And we had heard the stories about Mrs Honeyman, who had taken to her bed when her private parts had mysteriously caught fire.
The harmattan began to blow itself out. The animals returned. Lizards basked on the warm walls of our garden; for the first time in many weeks I heard the swallows, under whose nest, after dinner, I was allowed to sit. One evening as we were listening to the radio, Father said, ‘Tomorrow you may go to the market.’ Next morning my prospects swelled further; as we were walking to the bus stop, Ade whispered, ‘Today you and I will visit Babatundi.’
In the weeks after the harmattan we went to visit Babatundi as often as we could. I remembered it was Babatundi Ade had visited on the day of his beating (which, of course, only added to my excitement). As we approached we always made sure that Sagoe, his older brother, was not around. Sagoe was greatly feared by the market children. It was said he had caused Babatundi’s limp, having thrown him from the branches of a tree.
It was easy to slip from the onion stand to visit Babatundi: running north through the vegetable quarter; passing the meat section; skipping by cloth sellers and traders in bicycle parts where the market narrowed into uncovered lanes; hearing sounds of men and women calling and whispering; skirting the juju stalls to emerge into a wider space; running through the dusty labyrinth of streets; going by stalled trucks, porters with heavy loads; slowing to kick a fish head along the road; Ade shouting for me to hurry; running straight at houses, and between houses; and finally rounding a corner to a lane heaped with rubbish, sided by rows of flimsy huts with gaping doors — there, after checking that Sagoe was not around, we would come to a halt.
‘Babatundi!’
We always found him guarding the lane which led to his garden. He stood on his gate with his feet between the bars, swinging back and forth. A thin boy, taller than Ade, his head was large. Somehow he appeared advanced in age, but I could not have said exactly why — perhaps it was his ashy skin, the corrugations below his eyes. He stood with bare feet on his gate. The sunlight showed the curious aspect of his baldness, his hair patched like continents on his skull. Later I saw beads of perspiration, which seemed threaded on his long lashes. And from beneath his lashes the eyes were wide, wet, slow-moving, and curiously grained.
‘Babatundi!’ Ade sat on the kerb, cracked and mossy like Babatundi’s feet, and threw stones at the rubbish heap. I joined him there. Babatundi wore military trousers torn at the knee, a filthy vest, a string of beads around his neck. Minutes passed before he seemed to notice us. There was a patting sound, a high jingle, and the gate swung, moaning at the hinge.
‘Babatundi!’ His usual mood was one of indefinite sadness. But sometimes he threw out a look of violent force. Stepping off his gate, he would grip the bars with both hands and shake it ferociously. Then he would thrust his head forward and let out an ugly bellow. I think it was rage born of anger at his own speechlessness. But the fit would leave him as suddenly as it arrived. He would step back on to his gate, pat the wall and start to swing back and forth, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.
It was summer of 1953. I was six years old. At that time a delicious laziness invaded my whole being. Every afternoon Ade and I lay on the bank opposite Babatundi’s gate, stretched out in the sun like lions, dozing, listening to the distant sound, like far-away crashing waves, of cars and trucks, and their bright horns, or else watching Babatundi swing back and forth on his gate. As the day grew late, we would pick ourselves up, brush the spores from our clothes, wave to Babatundi, and amble back to the market.
There was one afternoon when things happened differently, however; and it was on that afternoon I acquired my name. I remember very clearly. We were sitting on the bank. Hours passed, filled with heat and boredom. Babatundi quietly moaned, laughed to himself. Scorched thistles crackled on the rubbish heap, and the grass appeared to salivate with glistening sap. At one point in the afternoon Ade peeled himself from the grass and approached me, appearing serious. I sat up. He told me he had something to show me and took a playing card from his shorts’ pocket. It was the Ace of Hearts. I gasped. It showed a nearly naked dancing girl. She was beautifuclass="underline" blue-eyed, with dark hair clasped in a fountain above her head. Sitting on a baby elephant, with one leg stretched out in front of her, she wore nothing but a tiny blue skirt and tassels attached to her breasts. Ade pressed a finger to his lips. ‘Shhh. I will show it to Babatundi. It is the way to reach his garden.’ He walked slowly, earnestly up to the idiot boy with the card held before him. In a lightning movement, Babatundi jumped to his feet and started to run, limping down the alley leading to his garden, leaving his gate uncaptained.
‘Come on!’ Ade shouted. I let out a cry of delight and started to follow. As Babatundi moved futher off his legs became hidden from view — curious how he attained grace when just his upper half was visible. The slow climbing and falling, like the motion of a galloper on its carousel.
We ran to the end of the alley, and there it was: Babatundi’s garden! A dusty yard scattered with patches of sour-smelling grass. In the middle was a tree whose trunk and lower limbs had been painted pale red. Broken mirrors hung from its branches by different lengths of cord, also cowrie shells, shining in the brightness, and little rounds of metal on which a strange script had been painted. The idiot boy was waiting for us under the tree. Solemnly, as if events had been rehearsed, Ade offered him the playing card, and Babatundi snatched it, turning his back on us. Emitting an obscene moan, he lowered himself heavily to the ground and started to rock back and forth with the card held close in front of his eyes. I was frightened and intrigued. I could tell Babatundi was enjoying himself because a certain softness had come into his movements. He seemed completely transformed and, as he leaned forward, dragging his bad leg behind him, and collapsed on his front, I became scared. I turned to leave, but Ade took hold of my arm. Putting a finger to his lips, he led me to the other side of the tree.