Song for Night (8 page)
It was deserted. Most of the neighbors were dead or had fled south to safety. Something was rattling in the empty kitchens; some hungry rat despairing. Cobwebs hung in fine lacy decay from the soot-blackened walls. The bathrooms stood still in bracken-scum-surfaced puddles. A lovely breeze blew a newspaper across the courtyard vainly fluttering against the silence.
Hidden in a small latch space behind the headboard of my parents’ bed, I found the rolled-up bundle of knives. I took them out. One of my chores was cleaning and honing those knives: the imam’s circumcision knives. Small, curved blades that could cut through flesh with a whisper of effort. I grew to love them, polishing the silver blades until they shone. I stroked them, played with them, spoke to them. They in turn spoke of the blood-spattered hysteria of the younger boys and the grim, tight-lipped grunting and moaning of the older boys and the honest wails of babies. They spoke of the wisdom of blood—veins, capillaries; of flesh and bone—brisket, tendons, ligaments, and skin. When some of the other boys in school started bullying me, I took to carrying one of the knives hidden in my dashiki. Pain was a sharp, ripping lesson those boys learned early on.
Still hanging in the imam’s closet was a single Fulani robe. A shiny gray, it was symbolic of his office. Alone like that there was something about it that was both incongruous and melancholy. I felt the tears coming as I pressed my face into it and pretended I could still smell my father on it, even though my uncle must have worn it last. I pulled it over my head and it fell to the ground like a ballroom gown. I hitched it in my belt to keep from tripping, but still it swept the floor. I slipped one knife into the pocket of the robe and wrapped the others carefully and put them under the robe, tucked into the belt of my pants. With one last look at the empty house, I stepped out.
Barely a mile away, a man grabbed me. I didn’t know what he wanted and I writhed like mad, trying to get away. I attempted to bite his hand but he delivered a stunning blow to my head. As I tried to grab my robe away from the man’s clutches, my hand slipped on something hard and cold: the knife. I felt its sharp cut on my thumb goading me to action. I retrieved the knife; its gentle sag in my palm the weight of my decision. I struck. The first cut sliced off the man’s finger, splashing surprised jets of blood onto his robes. A terrifying rage came over me and I slashed wildly, ripping gashes deep in the man’s arms and face. It all seemed to happen in slow motion. There was blood everywhere. I broke free as the man convulsed and died. His face and arms crisscrossed with cuts. With a cold detachment that surprised me, I stuffed the bloody knife into one of my pockets.
I headed rapidly for the train station. The city center was alive with mobs. Fires burned everywhere, some from Igbo-owned businesses, others from cars or piles of goods seized from the markets. There were even some Igbos tied to flaming crosses, their screams pitiful. The night sky was a red glow. It must have been at least midnight and yet both the old and new towns were alive with people like red ants crawling over a lump of sugar.
The ancient city was split into two distinct parts. The old city held the old sultan’s palace, the central mosque, and the Islamic university, and was home only to the Fulani. Only they were allowed to live or conduct business in the old city. In fact, an infidel who so much as walked through there was courting death. The new city was called Sabon Gari—infidel’s quarter. It was here that all the non-Muslims lived, conducted business, and had their churches. It was the commercial hub of the city.
I had to cross five miles of Muslim-controlled territory before I got to the trains. Soon enough, I was stopped by a mob.
“Who are you?” one of them asked me in Hausa.
“Sheik Rimi’s boy,” I replied, also in fluent Hausa. The Fulani backed off. Sheik Rimi was important, not only because he had the sultan’s ear, but also because he was the feared ideological leader of the suicidal jihadic Maitasine sect. I only knew his name because my father hated him with a passion. Passion that was expressed in his use of the Arabic word walahi, and the way he used it, it snaked into the air and snapped back like a whip.
“Walahi! Fundamentalists will be the end of us all,” he said.
I figured it couldn’t hurt to use the sheik’s name in this situation, and it paid off. For a while anyway.
“It might be dangerous to mess with one of his boys,” one of the mob said.
“But up close, this one definitely looked like an infidel,” another said, advancing.
“Prove it,” the Fulani challenged. “Prove you are one of us and that the blood on your clothes belongs to an infidel dog and not a believer.”
“How?” I asked.
“Sing the call to prayer.”
In my best voice I began the call to prayer. A hush descended on the crowd as my voice went from a childish soprano to a cracked and smoky alto and then back again. The cracks teased some with memories of loves lost and dreams turned rancid. To others it was a caress that burned. Finally, unable to stand it any longer, a man screamed: “Stop! Somebody tell him to stop!”
The Fulani youth who stopped me initially pushed me roughly on my way. The rest of the trip to the train station proved uneventful. No one else stopped me. There was a train idling at the station and it was easy to sneak past the officials who were busy watching the mobs, onto the train, which was made up mostly of cargo coaches. Whatever they were carrying was very carefully held down with tarp. Ignoring the cargo cars, I headed for the one passenger car. It was empty and I hid in the toilet.
The journey down south to the nearest Igbo city of any significant size took thirteen hours. It was the longest, most harrowing trip I had ever undertaken. I kept expecting the train to stop at one of the many stations it rolled past and for the police or soldiers or an angry mob to pull me off and shoot me or eviscerate me. But there were no stops. The train was cheered at every station, town, and settlement it passed through and I guessed it had passed into Igbo territory when the cheering ended. A few hours later the train finally stopped, hissing angrily. I peered out of the window of the toilet, relaxing when I saw the sign on the platform. I was home.
I waited a few minutes before getting out of the train to be greeted by wails and screams of sorrow. The tarp had been rolled back to expose the cargo: dead bodies, hundreds of Igbo corpses, the harvest of a few weeks of carnage. Some of the bodies had started to decompose, filling the air with their rankness. Many were mutilated—vaginas, penises, mouths, noses, ears, hands, and feet were cut off or out. Even pregnant mothers hadn’t been spared; their fetuses cut out and draped sickly over them. I turned away, retching.
I saw a group of men surround the Fulani train driver. He stood in their midst trying not to look scared, but his eyes gave him away. The first blow, when it came, was sudden and caught him off guard. He sank to the ground with a sigh. The blows that followed were swift and the only sounds were the fading cries of the driver, the soft thump of fists on flesh, and the gentle grunts of the men. In a few minutes they had beaten him to death with their bare hands. But the bloodlust was keen now and they were not sated. Seeing me standing mouth open, robes spattered in blood, they advanced toward me. But the women in the crowd formed a circle around me, a wall between the men and me.
“Step aside,” the men said.
“So we are down to killing children now?” the women asked, not moving.
“They have murdered our children, so we must murder theirs,” the men countered.
Just then I found my voice and screamed repeatedly. “I am Igbo!”
I throw my cigarette into the street and walk to the door of the bar. I stand just inside, signaling a request for food. I am an officer too, I think. I have led a platoon of mine diffusers, I have earned this right in blood; but they ignore me. Finally, an older man, graying, stands up and approaches me. He hands me his chicken. I am so clumsy, I let it fall. As I stoop to pick it up, he asks me if I have come for him. I shake my head, not understanding what he means.
“You are not a demon?” he asks.
I shake my head thinking all the old soldiers in this town must be shellshocked. I hear the other soldiers laughing about how the older man always sees ghosts and demons coming for him. I wonder why he thinks I am a ghost. How do ghosts appear?
Just then he raises his revolver. “Go now!” he screams.
I am already disappearing into the night when he fires.
The bullet tears past me harmlessly. I hide in a bombed-out house further down the street.
“Crazy fucks,” I mutter.
I am still holding onto the chicken.
I take a bite.
It tastes good.
A Thumb in the Air,
Clicking an Imaginary Lighter
This is what we were told: in the army, one mile is one click. It means nothing to us beyond army speak, so this is how we sign it: a thumb clicking an imaginary lighter held between fingers palmed into a fist. The number of clicks equals the number of miles. Simple really. I don’t know how many clicks I have traveled yet; must be a lot though. I stretch in the early sun. The chicken last night was good but I am hungry again—however, if this town is full of old shellshocked, trigger-happy farts, then I need to leave. Still, there is no harm in trying to find another meal in the meantime.
The sun is high in the sky and the roads are melting from the heat, the tar coming away in sticky licorice strings with every step. Apart from a few die-hard traders and a record shop playing high-life tunes at full blast, there are only a few scraggy dogs lounging around, tongues lolling insanely, and I wonder if they are rabid. I decide not to take any chances and avoid them. Though the town looks deserted, I know it isn’t. Everyone is just hiding from the possibility of a sudden blitz. I make my way to a decrepit and abandoned restaurant. Since I won’t have any luck begging, I decide to treat myself to whatever I can liberate. I walk behind the counter, open the fridge, and help myself to a cold bottle of Coca-Cola. There is no electricity so the fridge must be kerosene-powered. There is some dry, weevil-infested bread on the counter and I wash it down with the Coke. Weevils are protein, I figure. The food and the sugar from the Coke give me a burst of energy. I decide to leave town. I already have so much ground to cover if I intend to catch up with my platoon.
I walk through the untidy spread. It is as though someone has thrown the houses down in a huff. The town is built on a slight hill and the houses look like spangles marching up the side of a doughnut. Glancing around, I guess I have stumbled on the poorer part because the houses have closely pressing walls of corrugated iron and cardboard and open sewers running out front. Here, children, naked, many sporting sores attended by tomb flies, run through the narrow alleys screaming in play, unafraid of bombing raids. There are no adults in sight except for a pregnant woman who lounges in one of the open doorways, cooling herself down with a raffia fan. I assume that most of the adults are either hiding or at work scavenging old farms or battlefields, trying to eke out a living. Life has to go on, war regardless.
I emerge into a leafier more salubrious neighborhood. It has taken longer that it would normally because I keep getting lost. I didn’t intend to explore the town; I am actually looking for a way out. Here the houses range from old colonial mansions with rusting iron roofs to more recent mansions built by the new rich. Bougainvillea hugs nearly every wall.
I stop outside a high-walled house on a tree-lined street. Ornate gates open up onto a graveled path that sweeps up to a wooden colonial house. I know who lives here: the rebel minister for propaganda. This is where John Wayne stole his Lexus from. This is the house where I shot my first and only pregnant woman, the minister’s youngest wife. I wasn’t aiming for her, but for her husband, on John Wayne’s orders, when she threw herself in front of him. All of us were shocked. That kind of love we had only seen in the movies, never in real life and certainly not in this war. It was a very strange moment for us. We had seen fathers shoot their children on our orders, sons rape their mothers, children forced to hack their parents to death—the worst atrocities—all of which we witnessed impassively. But this was different. We all cried when that woman died, except John Wayne, who was well lost. It wasn’t dramatic really, just silent tears and a shame that kept us from meeting each other’s eyes.
I approach the house from the back. Huge French windows, sans glass, open up onto a patio made from baked terra-cotta tiles. Giant tubs fringe it. Each has a small palm tree. I can’t bring myself to enter, so instead I peer through the bare door frames. There are figures in the room talking. I must be dreaming, I must be because one of them is John Wayne, and if he is alive then I must be dreaming. I shot him. I know I am definitely dreaming when I see Ijeoma standing off to the left. She smiles sadly and says: “You aren’t dreaming, My Luck, my love. These are memories. Before we can move from here, we have to relive and release our darkness.”
I have no idea what she means. Does she mean I am going to die? Or that I am dead? I am pretty sure I’m not dead though, because that would make me a ghost, and I am pretty sure I would know if I was. There are known methods for determining things like this, I think. When I pinch myself it hurts, so I know I am not a ghost.
I turn and run back to the road. I walk for hours until I find myself back where I started. I stop at the record store and ask for directions to the next rebel-controlled town. I am sure I will find my comrades there. As I walk off, I beat a rhythm on my gun’s stock. Playfully.
This is how we sign this: forefinger pointing to the sky while the whole body gyrates. For Ijeoma and me, play is a veiled thing, our own private language within a private language, sweeter for being secret. Rock, paper, scissors: one tap on our gun’s stock, two taps, three.
One tap. One.
One tap. Two. A loss.
Two taps. One. A win.
Two taps. Two. A draw.