Say You’re One Of Them (7 page)

Behind him, the crowd of well-wishers swelled the aisle with dancing, bringing up the gifts of yam, fruit,
amala
flour, and toilet paper we had brought from home. In this flux, the ushers stood like statues, holding out baskets into which we tossed naira and cefa bills. When we had gathered in front of the sanctuary, Pastor Concord Adeyemi, short, thin, and bearded, came before us. His suit was charcoal black, and a sizable cross dangled from a chain around his neck over his tie. He wore jheri curls.

“Now, bring out your offering and raise it to the Lord to be blessed . . . Amen!” he thundered into the microphone.

“Amen!” the church responded.

People began digging in their pockets for money. Yewa and I brought out our twenty-naira bills, which Fofo Kpee had given to us solely for this purpose. Fofo had said it was important today we held up N20 bills instead of the N1 coins we had held during other people’s Thanksgivings. Today wasn’t the day for us to be ashamed, he had said. Now, when I looked behind, Fofo was holding up a N100 bill. The roof of the church looked littered with naira and cefa bills, suspended in the air by hundreds of hands.

“Raise it higher to the Lord,” the pastor said. “And be blessed in Jesus’ name!”

“Amen.”

“Higher, I say. . . . You get from the Lord what you give. We need to finish building this church, Amen?”

“Amen.”

“Don’t curse yourself today. . . . Add more to the Lord. This is your salvation Sunday, your breakthrough Sunday. You, that man, don’t spoil it for the Lord by offering so little.” He pointed somewhere in the back and everybody turned to look in that direction. “If you change your ways, tomorrow the Lord could bless you too, with a Nanfang. Poverty is a curse from Satan. . . . The Lord is ready to break that curse. Do you believe?”

“Yes, we believe.”

Some people substituted their bills for a higher denomination.

“And do not spoil it for Smiley Kpee either. He has been a faithful Christian over the years, OK. Don’t bring bad luck to his Nanfang.”

“God forbid, God forbid!” the church hollered.

“Don’t spoil it for these two children of his!” He reached out and touched Yewa and then me. “May the Lord bless you with infinite goodness. May you always be lucky, Amen?”

“Amen.”

“And you can bless your neighbor too,” he said to the church. “What is your neighbor holding up?” There was a low murmur as people spoke to their neighbors, some teasing others to bring out more money. Big Guy whispered something into Fofo Kpee’s ear, gave him a CFA10,000 bill and took away the N100 bill, and both men smiled. Fofo was so happy, there were tears in his eyes. “Our God is a rich God, not a pauper,” the pastor said.

“Amen.”

“And make sure your neighbor is not tempted to put back in his pocket what has been shown to the Lord. Amen?”

“Amen.”

He signaled to the choir, which intoned “The Lord Will Bless Someone Today.”

The Lord will bless someone today

The Lord will bless someone today

The Lord will bless someone today

The Lord will bless someone today

It could be me

It could be you

It could be someone by your side

The Lord will bless someone today

The Lord will bless someone today

As we sang along, our gift baskets were passed over the sanctuary rails to the assisting pastors, two wives of Pastor Adeyemi. After the wives had finished putting the gifts behind the sanctuary, they came out and joined in the blessing—two tall, elegant figures making their way through the praying crowd, placing their hands on the abdomens of the pregnant, whispering, “
Omo ni iyin oluwa,
. . . Children are the greatness of God.”

Then, as the pastor came down to bless the Nanfang, he asked us again to lift our money higher. He prayed that God should bless our household forever and that He should protect Fofo from Satan. Then his composure disintegrated as he bent down and grabbed the handlebars of the machine and launched into the “Holy Spirit, Fire!” benediction. His jheri curls flew everywhere, his cross jangled against the gas tank. He shook the Nanfang hard, to banish ill luck, until the faces of Fofo Kpee and Big Guy became clouded with fear. Eager to protect the bike, they reached out and held on to it with all their might while the pastor rained blessings on it. Soon the pastor placed his hands on our heads, and then people dropped their money into a collection basket, watching one another to keep cheats from substituting lower denominations or stuffing it back into their pockets.

THAT
AFTERNOON
,
BACK
AT our house, Fofo had rented white plastic chairs and a multicolored tarpaulin canopy for a party. Women, whom Fofo had hired to cook, brought the food in
coolas
and ladled it out to our guests. Though it wasn’t a big crowd, Fofo had gotten the dirt road in front of our house blocked, to give the impression of a large, overflowing party. In our part of the world, if a party didn’t disrupt traffic, it wasn’t a party.

Fofo Kpee stood up when he got a chance and said in his comedian voice, “My people, my neighbors,
honton se lé,
family
se,
dis de day de Lord has made . . .”

“Make we rejoice and be glad!” we all replied, laughing.

He cleared his throat and shouted, “Alleluuu . . .”

“Alleluuuia!” screamed the crowd.

“You see my broda and his wife who live abroad send me dis
zoke˙ke˙!
” He pointed to the Nanfang, which was standing under the mango tree, alone, as if on exhibition. “You see, I no go die poor man,” he continued. “I can’t be
agbero
ing all my life. I must do someting to get rich. Like carrying
una
good people on my
zoke˙ke˙
and making money. You must patronize me
o.
You no go just come here to eat my rice for notting
o.
”

“You go carry us till you tire!” someone said. “Smiley Kpee,
na
true talk!”

“I mean, look my face.”

He touched his scar and pulled at his lip and people began to laugh.

“Scarecrow!” one woman shouted, her mouth full of rice.

“No worry, when I get money well well, I go do surgery . . . my face no go smile like dis all de time again.
N’do˙ na dio˙
face
se,
military face. Den
una
no go know again wheder I
dey
vex
o,
wheder I
dey
sad
o,
wheder I
dey
lie
o.
. . . I mean, even now, who tell
una
say I
dey
happy wid
una?
”

More laughter. “
Agbero!
Nanfang
agbero!
”

He paused and pointed directly at Big Guy, then wagged his finger. “Make sure you no be like dis, my new friend, who want disgrace me before my Tanksgiving!”

People laughed and Big Guy shook his head in jest, stood up, and said to the people, “
Mon peuple,
I no dance well for church dis morning?”

“You dance well well,” the crowd said, supporting him.

“
Mais, il est un bon homme.
Very good man,” Fofo Kpee said. “
Na
my new friend. . . . Dem just post
am
to dis area. You go know
am
better later. . . . For now make you just
dey
enjoy me,
dugbe se to ayawhenume se.
Once I become rich, my dogs no go even let
una
come near my gate
o, comme
Lazarus.”

“Den make you remain
agbero
till dy kingdom come!” someone said.

He waited out the laughs, then said, “
Kai,
you better start looking for anoder monkey man to harvest your coconuts. . . . Anyway, on a serious note: joy full my belly today because my broder and wife done rewarded me, say I do deir children well well.”

“Make God
dey
bless dem
o!
” someone said.

Fofo Kpee pointed to us, and all the attention shifted our way.

Yewa and I stopped stuffing ourselves with rice and looked at each other. I felt lost because I knew my parents were in the village, not abroad. It was as if I didn’t hear Fofo well. Did Big Guy bring the bike from my parents in Braffe? No, that couldn’t be true. My parents weren’t that rich even when they enjoyed full health. Again I thought maybe he said they had recovered, and this party was also in their honor. So I stuffed myself with more food. With my bare hands, I ate my whole mound of jollof rice; the hired cooks used Uncle Ben’s rice, which we could consume fast, without fear of pebbles. I saved a piece of fried
zebra
fish, sliced as thin as a plantain chip, for last. I didn’t give what Fofo had said another thought.

“When my broder and his wife and oder children come to see us,” Fofo Kpee continued, “you go even eat better better tings. . . . Alleluuu . . . !”

“Alleluuuia!” the people said, and he sat down.

That evening, the visitors danced to music coming from our recently bought, used Sony boom box. Big Guy stood up and took off his jacket to reveal an immaculate white shirt. He pulled his trousers up to his waist to give his long legs room and showed us how to dance
makossa.
He moved his arms and legs, as if his suit now gave him permission to do so. He rolled his hips and gyrated to the electric guitar and heavy drums. With his smooth moves, he was a spectacle to behold. We began to like him. He reminded Yewa that she was an intelligent girl. He picked her up and tossed her repeatedly into the air and caught her. Many kids gathered around him, asking him to toss them too. He got sweaty, his shirt got dirty, his loafers became covered with dust, but he didn’t care. We had so much fun that the next day we had diarrhea and a temperature. We didn’t go to school.

ONE
WEEK
LATER
,
FOFO
Kpee came back early from work and sat on his bed, wringing his hands. He was so preoccupied with what he wanted to say that he didn’t change his work clothes or bathe for the night. Then he leaned forward and said, “You
dey
enjoy school dese days, wid your new book?”

“I like my books!” Yewa said.

“The teachers like us now,” I said. “We share our books with our friends.”

“Good,” he said, wriggling into the bed until his back touched the wall. Above his head was a big old 1994 World Cup calendar that featured pictures of the thirty-two national soccer teams that had made the finals. The lantern’s rays mapped out patches of light and shadow on it, because the wall was uneven.

He pulled Yewa in between his legs and tugged at her cheeks playfully. The bedspring squeaked, sending a wall gecko scrambling from under the calendar. It went up the wall and rested on the wide space between the wall and the roof, its tail on the bicycle chain that held them together.

“Your godparents go happy say you
dey
enjoy school,” Fofo said suddenly. “Be grateful to dem
o. E je˙ do˙ mi ni d’ope na yé.
”

“Godparents?” I asked, sitting up on our bed.

He looked at me carefully and nodded. “Oh yes, you two
dey
lucky to have godparents, you know.”

“From Braffe?” Yewa asked. “When did they come?”

“
Non, pas comme ça,
” Fofo giggled. “Ah, no, you no know dese ones.”

“Does Big Guy know them?” she asked. “I want to dance with Big Guy. He can go with us to Braffe and teach Ezin, Esse, and Idossou to dance
makossa.
You promised to take us to Braffe.”

“We go go dere . . . for sure. But I want introduce you to your godparents first. Dat man and woman done give us many many tings. Nanfang. Sony. Drugs for your parents. Uncountable tings.
Onú lo˙pa lo˙pa lé
. Your parents like dem
beaucoup.
Your godparents want help our whole family, beginning wid your education. . . . We be deir adoptees.
Comprenez
de meaning of
adoptee?
”

“No,” we said.

“When stranger come take a child like him own . . .
Mais,
listen
o,
we must tell people de godparents be our real relatives
o.
”

“Our relatives?” I asked.

“You lie, Fofo,” Yewa said. “You go go hell. You lie.”

“Oh, young people, you no
dey
understand de Bible!” he exclaimed. “I know say dis one go hard to explain. Dat’s why I no boder to shower or
na yi changer nú se lé
before talking to you. If you tell a good good lie, you no go enter hell. Only de bad lies go put you for hell,
mes enfants
. As your Sunday-school teacher
dey
teach
una,
in Genesis twelve, ten to sixteen, Abraham, de fader of faith
meme-lui,
come tell de Egyptians good lie dat his wife Sarah be his sister to spare his life. Also, Jacob and Rebekah come deceive Isaac to claim Esau’s inheritance in Genesis twenty-seven, one to tirty-tree, remember?”

“Please, Fofo, tell us that story again,” Yewa pleaded as we drew closer to him. “Tell us about Abraham . . .”

“Quiet! No distract me
o,
” he snapped. “Just
dey
listen now because I
dey
preach.”

“Yes, Fofo,” she said.

“And
dans la Nouvelle Testament,
” he continued with renewed fervor, “make you no forget how de tree wise men come trick Herod to save de Baby Jesus in Matthew two, tree to sixteen. So like dese Bible people, we must protect our fortune. We must say dat your godparents be our relatives; oderwise, people go start to bring deir own children to dem or start being jealous. . . .
Vous comprenez un peu, oui?
”

“Yes, we understand,” we said.

“In any case, your godparents want it like dat. You two go understand well well when you grow up. My children, dis world
est dangereux.
Make you no trust anybody
o.
No tell anybody about our blessings,
d’accord?
Or you want make armed robbers come visit us from Lagos? You want make dem spoil
am
for us?”