Butterfly Fish (24 page)

On the nights Adesua did not see Sully she would lay on her mat turning restlessly, wondering if his feet itched the way hers did, thinking how she never meant to start this unspeakable thing that belonged to them. But it would go on, because she felt alive while the spicy, addictive flavours of dissent swelled her taste buds.

Omotole's burgeoning stomach by now stretched out full and rounded and preceded her wherever she went. She waddled about the palace pleased with herself, a puffed up hen crowing above the others. She was beginning to tire even more easily, but she told herself that was what happened when you carried the Oba's heir, as she began the long, arduous walk to the river, on a dirty, loping path littered with stones and shrivelled leaves worn by the sun. It was not too far but far enough from prying eyes. She spat and gulped her irritation at seeing the blue, bubbling spittle on the ground. The petals were still appearing inside the wet fold under her tongue, and every morning she had to rinse her mouth out several times so it wouldn't stain her teeth. She knew she had to talk to the Oba and soon. The fool was spoiling everything, and did not seem the least bit concerned about becoming the laughing stock of his own kingdom.

As she neared the river, she could hear the chattering of birds and close by smoke from crackling firewood wandered up into the endless expanse of darkening sky. She thought she spotted the ears of a hare behind a clenched bush, foraging for what remnants of food it could find. At the edge of the rippling river she steadied her body for a moment to listen to the water gently caressing the banks. This was where she came, clutching at her throat on days when she felt possessed and was fleeing from discovery, to howl out the fire within her. There was nobody around and that was how she preferred it. She took off her wrapper and naked, she waded gingerly into the river. Her swollen breasts sank into the cool water and her dark brown nipples tingling a little hardened to nubs in relief. One day soon she thought, Benin's new heir would be born, suckling all the strength he would need at his mother's breast. His tiny fist curling and uncurling, she saw this vision so precisely, she almost sighed out loud in pleasure. She submerged her head under the clear water, as thin blue veined streams escaped from her nostrils merging with the ripples.

Years before, under the reproach of the shrieking sun and a sticky, suffocating heat that made you weary of your dry mouth, the boy Odion had stumbled upon a truth that was to become the making and the ending of him. It was a day before the Festival of Yam and the palace was humming with activities. People were carrying slaughtered meat, poultry, yams and such a dizzying assortment of ingredients he could barely count them. After slipping into the palace kitchen for a cool drink of water, bored, he kicked jagged stones as he walked round the back of the palace, eyeing its high familiar terracotta walls; daring it to become something else. His friend Ogiso was nowhere to be seen and he wondered why for the third day running he had not come upon him. Usually, they were together, rummaging through some unfamiliar room, following pretty servant girls with their eyes or play fighting.

But something had changed between them. Not just that recently they had become more competitive with each other; but they had argued. It had started off as an innocent comment, under the mango tree suckling the juicy flesh while they joked. When Odion had said that one day Benin would be his, instead of agreeing with him, a strange look passed over Ogiso's face while he said that no, Benin would rightfully belong to him. Suddenly, there was a tension between them as Odion asked his friend to explain. Ogiso chuckled but the expression is his eyes remained serious. Instantly, Odion was on him and the two boys were pummelling each other. Wrestling their bodies to the ground and trying to fight away the shift that was already changing everything. Then it ended almost as abruptly as it had begun and the boys went their separate ways, neither of them really spoiling for a fight.

The boy Odion continued along the back of the palace as it curved like a voluptuous woman. He heard raised voices coming from a wide window overlooking the gardens. He recognised Oba Anuje's voice and his own mother's. He crouched low under the window. The voices became louder, fraught with tension.

“Stupid woman! You think I don't know that Odion is not my son?” From the beginning I have known, do you know what I can have done to you?”

“Do your worst!” The voice he knew to be his mother's responded but there was a wildness to her tone that he did not recognise. He stayed still, completely rooted to the spot.

“I no longer care, as the Gods are my witness. I found comfort when it came and I will never regret it.” Her tone was defiant and he imagined her pacing the room. “Your son will grow up and-”

“He is not my son!” Oba Anuje wailed, “You should be thankful that I have spared the lives of you and that useless child for this long. Come to me with this again and I will have both of you thrown out of Benin.” His mother laughed hysterically. Then some unforgettable words came through the window so swiftly, they stung his heart. “And who is your son Anuje? Why not officially announce
to the palace, to the whole Benin kingdom that Ogiso is your son. Everybody knows you have been lying with his mother, that good-for-nothing servant woman, all this time!”

Odion heard a
whap!
from Oba Anuje's hand as it crashed onto his mother's cheek, and the sound jarred him into movement. He straightened himself up and ran. It all made sense, Oba Anuje had never been able to stand the very sight of him. The humiliation he'd suffered, the coldness, this was the reason all along. The words reverberated in his head; hot tears trickled down his face and along with them went the essence of his childhood. He had thought the blood of kings flowed through his veins but instead it flowed through Ogiso's.

When he met the medicine man Kalu who had given him the ingredients for death, he knew his prayers were answered. It wasn't until he came upon Oba Anuje poisoned and broken, when in that searing moment their eyes bore into one another's, Anuje's hands desperately reaching out to him for help, that Odion finally felt vindicated. In those last moments before he slipped away, Anuje knew what Odion had done. Never had a moment been so sweet for Odion, the song of death had served a dish of revenge and served it well. Benin was his to take; he had earned it. Now even within the grip of self-pity Oba Odion knew that far from being rewarded, he was being punished. Walking aimlessly about the palace he admitted that he deserved it. His guilt was now fully mauling his conscience. But that was the price you paid and even in death, he knew Anuje and Ogiso would haunt him for the rest of his days.

The halls were swelling with people and they lowered their voices when they spotted him, bowing respectfully as he moved past them; regardless of the depths to which he had sunk, he was still Oba after all. But his dwindling condition was so apparent, they were touching him and wiping their hands afterwards. Oba Odion summoned Sully to meet him at the gates of the palace. No questions were asked as they fell comfortably into step. They trundled on through a rough, coiling road that would take them to a place Oba Odion
remembered all too clearly. It was time to see an old friend, and even the worst weather would not have stopped him.

Eventually, they came to the opening of a dense, sprawling forest with twisted, gnarling trees and pathways weaving at you from every direction. At this point Sully walked in front leading the way while the Oba directed him. Finally they came to a small hut and Oba Odion ran to it, calling out a name only for it to be carried in the wind. He rushed inside the hut but it was empty. He shouted the name more frantically. Kalu! Kalu! As if it would conjure the man before him. But there was no one and Oba Odion imploded, because Kalu the medicine man was nowhere to be seen. The keeper of secrets had gone, and all that remained was the shell of his hut letting the breeze stroke its abandoned walls, and the tall grass stretch burnished blades towards it in sympathy and remembrance.

Pendulum

The local park was tucked away behind high, Gothic black iron gates that I suspected snagged things unexpectedly; a pair of hands gripping its bars in disappointment after closing time, a letter blown by a gust of wind, one dirty, sodden trainer caught on the angular tip of a bar at the top, laces dangling down like threads. It was fairly large and unfurled maze-like, intersected by paths heading in different directions. On entering, a lengthy walkway was lined by trees that shook. To the right, at the back a pond shimmered, and the benches before it understood the language of ducks.

As I headed there, the high street hummed. Early evening meant scrums of school children dipped into buses that seem to sag beneath their weight. Shop doors whooshed open and shut, lone customers hunched over menus in poorly lit takeaway restaurants. Handles of heavy shopping bags tugged at the hands of people rushing to get home. Cars nudged each other towards the end of the day and streetlamps yawned light. A chill lodged in my bones. The gentle wind blew my coat open, exposing its red lining to bulls that leapt from behind steering wheels, ran through traffic naked, searching for their horns. I sank my hands deep into my coat pockets, lamenting on how small things could turn sinister; lumps of brown sugar in my cereal becoming dusty red stones, double breathing in my room at night, the rhythm of my breath being copied.

At the park, I cut across the middle, avoiding the long way round. Sometimes, I liked to sit by the pond gathering my thoughts, catching bits of conversation as people meandered by; intrigued by contexts I'd never fully know. Approaching the pond, I spotted a familiar, slight figure sitting on one bench, swathed in a bright, kaftan, there was smoke curling above her white hair. Mrs Harris looked very much like what she was: an old hippy drawing from a shrinking cigarette. She leaned forward, staring at whatever caught her eye in the distance, cigarette tip glowing amber. She threw pieces of bread at some ducks, turned to her left. It was too late to pretend not to have seen her and she waved me over enthusiastically. “Hello there!” She greeted.

At the bench I smiled sheepishly. “Hey there yourself, you're in my spot.” I teased.

“Plenty of room for two.” She patted the space beside her but didn't bother to remove the gold box of Marlboro Lights that stored weightless nicotine lungs. The ducks argued amongst themselves. I sat down, undid a few buttons of my coat to allow myself to breathe. I took in her side profile and realised then Mrs Harris had once been a looker with her emerald eyes, charming gap-toothed, wonky smile and high cheekbones. With white hair that was reminiscent of snow, hers was a sly beauty, which made it even more attractive in my eyes.

“What are you doing?” I asked. “Taking a break from something?”

“Aren't we all usually trying to take a break in some way my dear? From routine, the cards we've been dealt. I was talking to the water.” She took another draw from her cigarette, blew smoke that curled into a root before disappearing.

I laughed. “You're crazy.”

“It's true,” she exclaimed wisely. “The water never lies. How do you think I knew you were in trouble that day? It was the water that alerted me, not just dropping my ring. The pipes had been clanging and hissing in a really odd, persistent way. I stopped by to hear if you were having the same problem and of course Buddy going missing gave me the perfect excuse.”

“That's unnerving,” I said.

“Maybe, but it did happen that way. When you didn't answer that second time, I let myself in with your spare key. I found you and the bath water was still running.”

I thought of her discovering me on the cold, chessboard linoleum floor. One Queen Piece in a limp heap, watering roots the eye couldn't see, staining her forever with my blood, strange how you could inexplicably bond with someone by trying to slip away.

She threw another piece of bread at the ducks. “How are you doing?”

I shook my head, wanting to cry on her shoulder. “Oh you know, trying to breathe. Do you think becoming increasingly isolated can make someone see things in a distorted way?” I turned to face her fully, edging my body closer. She pinned me with an intense, luminous gaze. As though she could see what I meant behind the question.

“You mean like some people who for whatever reason don't connect to others, lose their moral compass and become serial killers?”

“Well, not exactly, I'm not struggling with a lack of moral compass. I'm-”

“You meant losing touch with reality?” she interjected.

I blew out a tense breath. “Something's shifted; I can feel it in the air. I'm anxious about being alone in my own flat. Once or twice I've woken up in the middle of the night thinking I'm having a fucking heart attack.”

“It's not the flat, wherever you were, you'd have this issue. You see the grooves in that?” She pointed at the nearest tree, hand trembling. “What do you see?”