Butterfly Fish (31 page)

She was vicious that evening, she said things, accused me.

Of what?

Of seeing another woman.

Were you?

No, I'm a man who flirts a lot; I can't help it I'm wired that way. Why did you keep it from me?

Your mother thought it best you didn't know about us.

And this had been going on for?

Years.

Even while your wife was alive?

Yes.

I stayed absolutely still for a minute because I needed to.

So?

I went out, took a walk around to cool off man, I came back the basement door was open and there she was. It was so strange to see her dead, I swear I never touched her; I loved her. You saw the medical examiner's report.

You left her there.

I don't know where my head was at. I panicked. To find her like that, it was a shock, too much.

He looked me dead in the eye then.
I wanted to tell you.

No, no, no, no, no. I stopped him. All at once I felt faint and sick. He was showing who he really was to me. The way he'd always been there, in the background and his boys, always there too. How could I not have seen it? I realised the night I found my mother dead I never called the ambulance. Mervyn had. After the screaming dial
tone and the voice that replaced it zapped down the line and his trembling fingers hung up the receiver, he hit the ground, running away from us, my mother reduced to a dirty dead secret. I'll never ask by how much time I missed him.

I left him there at the cliff edge, to untangle the knot stretching back many years.

Then there she was, wearing the purple scarf from Mervyn's. Why in death was my mother Queen becoming real again? My glass feet broke repeatedly on the pavement. Heartbeats were gunshots fired in my chest. She was high up above, a fevered angel sleepwalking on the wings of planes.

Peter Lowon Journal Entry, July 1964

Now that it is two years since General Akhatar has been pronounced the new minister of defence under military rule, and I am a General in my own right, my marriage has become a shell. I wanted it all, but it is never as you expect it to be. Still, I cannot bring myself to tell Felicia the one thing she wants to know. Instead, I have picked seedless fights over the years. If she cooks I tell her the eba is too hard, that her soup tastes flat. I shout her down over the dining room table on days she attempts to sit with me the way a good wife does. And wish aloud she'd cease breathing instead of asking me endless questions while she watches in horror. One night she came home late smelling of beer after running around with some of these Lagos women. I called her a prostitute and threw her out, while Queenie slept soundly. After her staying with a friend for three days, I demanded she come home, accused her of abandoning her duties as a wife and mother and of attempting to embarrass me. I have become another type of man in my own home and I don't know how to stop being him.

Felicia and I sleep in separate bedrooms. I have never experienced a lonelier feeling than the sound of her footsteps heading towards her bedroom, where the only comfort that awaits her is an empty bed. I am punishing both of us; I wonder why she stays. I kept my promise and she has a clothing boutique in Lagos where through my connections some high
profile clients flock. She spends her days there, running it with her cousin's help. Felicia and I will not have any more children; I have resigned myself to it, despite always wanting more. Queenie deserves a brother and sister; she has asked me about it many times. I always give her the same answer, ‘When the time is right.' Knowing that time will never come.

His name is Ben Okafor. He is a journalist with The Nigerian Trumpet, a parasite whose big shot father owns the paper amongst other ventures. I first received a call from him some weeks ago. He told me he wanted to do a lifestyle profile on generals in the military, a series that would run over a few weeks.

Initially I said no. No warning bells went off. For a while I heard nothing, and then more phone calls, he became persistent, falling just short of harassment. It was after the call from his father, a friend of the President that I agreed to see him, sweeping aside my worry. I met him on neutral ground, in an eatery with the smell of meat pies and baked bread in the air. The place had fewer people than chairs, and the walls were a pale yellow as though they had turned sickly from all the stale conversations. It was deliberately low key.

Okafor was younger than I expected, an Ibo in his mid-to-late twenties. He was a very handsome man, 6'2in tall with a practiced braggadocio and an air of wealth. I hated him on sight. He had on cream pressed linen trousers, brown sandals with his toes peeking out and a multi coloured shirt. Tucked in his shirt pocket was a pair of dark sunglasses; a cigarette dangled from his mouth. He waved me over on arrival, his lean, sculpted face breaking into a smile, pumping my hand warmly as though I was a long lost friend, his features drawn into a kind of welcome. He had a neat trick of smiling without any warmth appearing only to have moved his lips. Okafor jumped from one comment to another as though they were hot coals, touching on traffic on the way in, why I'd chosen this particular place to meet, offering me a cigarette then smiling ruefully and asking if a woman had anything to do with my decision after informing him I'd quit years ago. He had a dynamic energy, even doing simple things like
patting his shirt pocket for his wallet before fishing it out from a green satchel that slumped against the leg of his chair. I tried to steady my shaky hands under the table, tried to control the heat spreading through my bloodstream. I felt naked, vulnerable. Why had I agreed to do this? This was a bad idea. I should never have folded under the pressure. I drummed my fingers on the table, nerves jangling. I must admit I embraced the small relief when Okafor stood abruptly to grab two malt drinks from the fridge at the side, before handing it to the woman at the counter who opened them with a gleaming silver opener.

For a moment, I pictured Okafor holding that opener, scraping my insides with it. He set our drinks down, folded his rangy body in the seat opposite me. The questions came quickly. What made a man like me join the army since I did not strike him as the army type? Why had I had such a quick progression up the ranks? How come everybody he spoke to about me divulged the same things? Good, fair, proud hardworking family man. Nothing to the contrary, as though I'd carefully presented the same image to everyone? I smiled when he said this. Inside I thought, don't let this parasite see you crack! Stay calm Peter, stay calm. I adjusted myself, pulled my body upright, something I find myself doing in an uncomfortable situation. Okafor had grabbed a worn, small writing pad and a broken pen that had seen better days. “Sir I'm interested in true portrayals,” he said. “Fair ones, despite what assumptions you may have about me being a spoiled, rich boy. This is not play for me. I am not amusing myself till the next thing comes along.”

I gave him some carefully rehearsed responses, trying to read his expressions as he scribbled away. I told him that the structure and discipline of the army had appealed to me from adolescence, the idea of a shared experience, camaraderie, protecting your country. All lies of course. I had nothing but my own self interest in mind but you cannot deliver this kernel of truth to a stranger without true context which cannot be conveyed in a mere interview to a journalist of all people! I was ambitious I said. I made the right connections, wanted to do well. After all, I had a family to provide for. Okafor tapped his pen on the pad, looking up. “You know, I like you Mr Lowon but I'm still trying not to hold it against you that you've been
so difficult regarding this interview. Do you have something to hide?” He leaned forward when he said this, holding my gaze, searching it. I took a sip from my Supermalt, welcoming the coolness of the liquid, hoping it would dampen the rising heat inside me. That sly bastard Okafor actually smiled at that point, a slow, loaded smile. I pointed out that if I'd had anything to conceal, I would never have agreed to the interview. I was a very busy man after all, a General in demand, advising on all kinds of military matters. A newspaper interview was hardly at the top of my list of priorities. Okafor continued to dig, restless in his seat, throwing a leg out, sinking back then springing forward when some small detail caught his attention, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. Then he asked me if I had any regrets? Hah! Did this man take me for a fool? Asking me to walk into a potential land mine. I confessed I wasn't always the best son, that my father and I had had a tricky relationship, full of tenseness and misunderstanding. He hadn't been an openly affectionate father, in fact he was awkward expressing emotions. I never knew if he loved me but he was happy I joined the army, pleased about the discipline it instilled in me.

Okafor then says he'd like to tell me a story.

“Of course” I respond, happy to take a break, to pause and gather my thoughts, to drink more Supermalt.

Some months back, Okafor was at a party, a good one as parties go. Nice looking women, plenty of people, the usual. But there was this man in bad shape with a damaged leg, most people were ignoring him but Okafor went to help. The man rambled while Okafor held his arm, taking him outside for some air. He asked what Okafor did for a living. Okafor told him. Then the man said he had unbelievable stories to tell.

Doom twisted inside me as Okafor continued with his tale. The man said he used to be in the army, his name was Emmanuel. He talked about his friends Peter Lowon, Obi and the General. He revealed things, secrets some very powerful people want to stop coming out.

I felt my top lip trembling, I hadn't heard from Emmanuel for almost a year when he suddenly stopped asking me for money. Okafor informed me that Emmanuel had died four weeks earlier, he had been in serious
trouble, owed some dangerous people a lot of money. His girlfriend called the police after finding him in their apartment with a bullet wound in his head. At first I couldn't move, Okafor's voice seemed to be fading and I was busy chastising myself for my arrogance, my presumptions.

All these months Ben Okafor had been sitting, waiting on this golden egg to hatch.

“That night sir, did you know the soldier you killed had been General Akhatar's lover?”

I shook my head. The seductive Ben Okafor was scribbling almost furiously. Then, he paused and studied me. He didn't explain why he believed the ramblings of a drunken man. I felt my cheeks swelling with denials. I knew this day would come, all these years of quiet fear, of waiting, of regret. I swallowed my protests, knowing if they were released, they would die on the tips of impatient, surrounding knives.

Who

In my living room I watched Anon drown old pictures in her blue river. Images I didn't recognise, unfurling against the wet mouth of a tide; shots of a woman tying her wrapper running down a dusty road, a man cowering before a gulf in his floor, dead babies in the womb turning. Then footsteps outside caught my interest. I looked through the window, spotted Mrs Harris throwing away a large, black bin bag. The dented shapes in it spoke. The green wheelie bin squeaked as the bag landed. She looked different. Her long, lace black dress with a bulbous skirt spun as she moved, its hem whispering against her ankles. Slouchy, burgundy boots, round wire-rimmed spectacles and a black beret topped off the outfit. Her hair cascaded like a silvery waterfall down her back.

I grabbed my camera from the side table and snapped away. She stood still for a few moments, staring at something out of the frame. She sighed and my curtains trembled as though her breath had blown them. The wheelie bins were then adjusted till they were level. For a brief moment, I felt guilty watching her pale hands on the handles. She was only doing an ordinary task on an ordinary day. Mrs Harris threw her shoulders back and went inside. She emerged a few minutes later holding a long, wooden cane. Its handle curved in the shape of an umbrella's. Her back was hunched, head bent. Her walk altered by a slight limp; her face bore a pained expression.
I watched till she was out of my line of vision and Anon had eased her grip on my chest.