Brick Lane was full of the annoyingly, arty, cool young crowd. Too many students with overly contrived senses of style ran the gauntlet of the curry houses, where exotic looking men badgered and smouldered, begging you to eat at whichever outlet they happened to represent that day. I snapped pretty, thin girls in vintage dresses, girls in men’s blazers, quirky t-shirts and penny loafer shoes sporting wispy hair styles; girls who teamed boyfriend jeans with loud, 80s tops. I shot tattoo addicts brandishing intricate designs that shimmered and became multi-limbed black creatures on pavements. I took a picture of a handsome red-headed guy who carried his guitar like a lover and a broad faced gypsy woman with flat features. She had a multi-coloured shawl draped over her shoulders, sold tiny, dead flowers and didn’t seem to care. She shoved them in your face as if they were good interruptions.
Over two days I developed the photos and noticed a strange infiltration. The young woman I’d chased in Harlesden appeared in the background of some shots. I recognised the flurry of her long limbs, her rich dark skin and angular face. She was flicking a coin up behind a picture of a bald woman with a stud in her tongue like a small, silver nipple. Next to the dread-headed African man who sat by his stall in Dalston wearing an orange Fela Kuti shirt, she was naked but adorned in heavy, pink traditional jewellery. There were white markings on her face, a blackboard on which past and present were rewritten. Behind the blank-faced gypsy woman selling dead flowers in Brick Lane, she held the flowers and they were alive, becoming purple flames in her grasp. She looked directly at the camera, at me, as somebody on the fringes getting closer.
On Friday night I broke my sometime habit of watching film noir while slowly sipping Irish cream absorbed in the moody world of dark vices, intrigue and tortured loves. In one of my favourites Bogart and Bacall’s razor-sharp dialogue exchange and electric chemistry entirely transported me. I missed my days as a student, smoking weed, sitting cross-legged writing song lyrics and strumming my guitar, singing folk songs and stealing looks at inanimate objects as if they’d give feedback.
I’d checked TV listings earlier and Spike Lee’s She’s Gotta Have It would be coming on Channel 4 at 1am. It annoyed me that channels usually showed black interest films late into the night when nobody could watch them. I fought sleep, entering the hazy space between sleep and wakefulness. I spotted a stray feather from my pillow, grabbed it. I heard the hum of traffic from outside and cars running over conversations that limped into the night. By this time of night the foxes would be rummaging, the glow from their eyes rivalling the street lamps while they sent ahead prowls to cover more ground. I saw the woman walking through the photos, swapping backgrounds and settings as if it were a game, armed with the wits she’d honed in travel and the wet second tongue she used to pick locks and change the lines of things. I saw her reduced to a small, jagged entity in the corners of pictures, and the early arrival of wear and tear lines creating a white silence over her mouth.
At 1am I was still up and headed to my room. The “blue den” I called it. My crappy, old Alba TV had no antenna so I fashioned one using a hanger. It still produced semi-decent pictures. I’d left the window open earlier and the scent of smoke teased my nostrils. I went to close it and looked into my garden and those of some neighbours. In her garden, Mrs Harris stood over a short mountain of fire, a cigarette wedged in the corner of her mouth. Some of her hair was upright in white tufts. She was having a clear out, burning what looked like documents. Smoke twisted into the sky. I retreated back to avoid being spotted. For a few minutes, I watched flames lick and curl piles of paper in illicit, final kisses.
Cunning Man Die, Cunning Man Bury Am
Half a season passed. The Festival of Yam came and the Oba was bombarded with the best the farmers of Benin had produced that year. The unusual seeds they had planted in the palace garden bloomed into flowers with blue stained petals that covered the ground. The wives continued to bicker amongst themselves. And whenever Oba Odion came to visit Adesua in her chamber he remained uncomfortable, shooting ill-at-ease glances at the brass head as if it would attack like an enemy. The brass head however had seen the slow blossoming of Adesua. It had noticed her desires seeping through her skin, her need for adventure, her longing to hunt. Sometimes in the evening when the hum of Benin settled to a gentle murmur Adesua liked to wander, beginning at the forest, behind the blue garden and onto the weathered pathway that led to the Queens’ palace.
Then a worrying thing began to happen; Adesua would wake in the mornings to find the brass head rattling on the mantle. The first time it occurred she dismissed it, walked to its place and steadied it. But it continued like that over a few mornings as though shaking with anger. She reported it to the Oba who in turn told her she had an overactive imagination and wasn’t it time she adjusted properly? Instead of creating tales about a gift he was kind enough to give her, he warned her to learn from the other wives or she would lose his favour. It was not long before the Oba began to avoid coming to her quarters. She would see him walking out of Esezele’s door, rushing to Omotole or Ono’s chambers. Adesua struggled to know how to feel about the Oba’s rejection of her but there was small comfort in one thing. Filo was ignored too, and Adesua did not believe it was only because Filo had been unlucky during childbirth. There was a strange quality to Filo, pain so strong a pungent aroma emanated off her skin. You looked into her eyes and saw the shadow of things you couldn’t put a name to as she flitted about the kingdom injured but still breathing. In a way, this made Adesua warm to her.
It was a funny thing when a powerful man had more than one wife because the posturing never stopped. It increased even more when an opportunity for one to outshine the other arrived. Such a chance presented itself when the Oba suddenly became sick. His body burned with fever and he couldn’t hold food or water down. His stomach shrunk and his eyes sunk deeper into his head. He became bed-ridden and his medicine man was called upon to provide a concoction of healing herbs. The wives pounced, fussing over the Oba as if the illness was chronic. His fourth wife Ekere refused to leave his bedside for the first two nights till his sixth wife Remitan came and pushed her out, saying that the last thing a sick king needed was to be cared for by a wife struggling for good health who would only infect him with her feeble disposition. Ekere said that the last thing the Oba needed was a lying wife who would reassure him he would survive even if he were drawing his last breath. They bustled in and out, and continued to swap turns keeping vigils by his side. Remitan left and was replaced by Yewande who was shoved aside by Esezele, the oldest and first wife.
Omotole did not hurry to him immediately. She waited for him to improve, letting news of his progress filter through to her from the others before she deemed it safe enough to see him. After all, what use was a sick husband to her? And even the Oba noticed this despite his sorry state. Weak and scared he reached out a hand to her in relief as she had finally arrived to his aid, wiping his mouth and posturing the movements of a dutiful wife.