The thick, maroon carpeted stairs must have cushioned his footsteps because I didn’t hear Mervyn come up. I only heard him at the door, shuffling from one leg to the other, his stance slumped and awkward, the expression of deep sadness on his face. He opened his mouth several times but no words came out. He looked smaller in the doorway. I asked myself how that could be possible. Fresh tears sprang in my eyes. We stood there just looking at each other. I took my time, putting my mother’s scarf back under the pillow, as if he wasn’t standing there watching me. By the time I left the party, Gregory Isaacs was crying for his night nurse.
Outside, the night had the illuminated intensity of an owl’s gaze. I took off my Converse shoes and walked barefoot, carrying them gingerly. A white van tore down the street, its exhaust pipe panting magic smoke waiting to catch my sleepy eyes. Later, I knew I’d get home and think of my mother’s scarf still faintly smelling of Opium, a red flag under a white pillow.
Peter Lowon Journal entry March 20th 1956
I met my Felicia. I only met her two days ago but one day I will marry her. It was inside a small, thriving shop several miles from the barracks in Onisha. She was sitting behind the till, sipping from a Supermalt bottle. I have never envied an inanimate object before! She looks like a Fulani girl, with delicate features and her hair braided in an elegant style. She is beautiful. About five of us stopped off to buy some refreshments, maybe bread and tins of sardines to eat on the ride back. She barely glanced our way as we descended on a wave of noise.
I listened to one soldier call her “pretty girl” and wink at her after asking where the beer was kept. I had been pretending to check out maize flour while watching her discreetly. Her voice was calm. “Soldier man, is under the sign that says beer. You dey lose sight for army?” We laughed and she dismissed us, turning to concentrate on the magazine open in front of her on the till counter. She looked no older than twenty to me but her voice had an assurance to it. I watched her bend down in her little shoebox of space, head disappearing under the counter only to come up again with a cigarette stuck between her lips. The slim cigarette glowed. I found myself starring at the white strap of her top on her shoulder. I picked up more than I needed, bottles of beer, Fanta, pounded yam flour, Bournvita, bread, a packet of Tom Tom sweets. The others were teasing each other at the back, grabbing products, putting them down again.
At the counter I laid everything out carefully. Smoke curled from her mouth. Stupidly, I told her smoking was for fast women! I don’t know what made me say that, especially considering I smoke myself! She rang up the goods laughing, telling me if I wanted to ask her out that was not the comment to make! Throughout our brief conversation, she managed to watch what the boys were doing at the back. After she asked if my friends were in the shop to play. I whistled at the boys.
Inside the rusty, white Volkswagon on the way back to the barracks I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Up close, she was slim and not too tall. Say 5ft 5in and had the kind of shifting face that looked subtly different each time you saw it. Felicia seemed capable of being a little cruel. For some reason, this made me more curious about her, intrigued. The boys teased me. “British gentleman nah wah oh! See how he just become smooth in front of woman!” They slapped me on the back as if they were proud. “She fine well well but she dey make yanga.” I didn’t care about their words. I knew they were jealous. I kept playing my conversation with her over and over again in my head, thinking about army life. I can no longer say whether I like it or not, the sound of soldiers boots is constantly in the background. But I like what the army can do for me. It is why I am still here, waiting to take opportunities when they come.
Obi, Emmanuel and I have not talked about the thing we did that night, but there is a coiled string attaching all three of us. These days, when we talk, our sentences have double meanings. I can see the truth, white words written in chalk on their foreheads. Obi is jovial as ever, you would think he has won the lottery. I wonder how long it will last, but the money is good, nawah! Emmanuel is surprisingly calmer than I’ve seen him in the past. For now this situation has been the making of him. These boys are confident nothing will happen. The General has paid us well, made good on his sugarcoated promises but we will see. I thought of sending the brass head home to my father, a gesture and gift he would love. This would amuse me, the irony of it. But yet I want to keep it to myself, it is mine after all. It is safely tucked away amongst my possessions. Whispers of a military coup taking over the current government have begun slipping in and out through keyholes. Who knows if this will manifest, but if it does, the death must not be for nothing. Also the General will think of me for the bigger plan, if not I will remind him. I have not told Obi or Emmanuel about the brass head, it is better that way. At unexpected moments I catch myself wondering what I have become now that my heartbeat is no longer my own.
Felicia. Unflappable Felicia was still on my mind the day after. But Caretaker man, the white-headed seer, a ruffled man in his rumpled uniform, still drifted around looking for clues and making strange proclamations. The mystery of Caretaker man’s identity is something the soldiers like to get their teeth into during moments of boredom.
“He must be related to somebody high up, why else would they let a mere caretaker roam around in full military uniform? Ah ah, it is like something out of a comedy.” Soldiers often say or, “Oya, something is not right with that man in the upstairs compartment. You know what I’m saying. How old is he?” This is another mystery to us. You cannot tell his age, his face is smooth and unlined, but his completely white hair tells a different story.
At times I imagine he must have received some terrible news in the past, that this news was too much to bear and the days which followed saw the changing of his hair, like a change of seasons, greying and whitening itself from the roots up. Unrealistic I know, though this has stuck in my brain. Other times, I imagine him rising and brushing cobwebs from his head. There is no mention of a wife, children, or family. Nobody knows. One evening, a few of us took it upon ourselves to spy on him. We crouched low under the window of his quarters, listening to high life music coming from his cheap radio. The light from several candles was flickering. He sat on his bed in his white vest and shorts staring into a distance. One soldier imitated a cock crowing and we ran, most of the group chuckling. I felt uncomfortable having seen him in that state. We had intruded on a private moment and whatever he was seeing had rendered him completely still. I remember his uniform hung neatly on a hanger on a nail. I liked him just a little bit more for that.
Earlier that same evening, Caretaker man was sniffing around looking for answers. Mustapha, the soldier who tore his letters to shreds, ran through the barracks naked, screaming at the top of his lungs. He interrupted groups huddled around playing cards, polishing their boots or arm wrestling. He spoke in a strangled, voice and ran frantically to people, shouting that there were demons in uniforms that made promises with smiling faces. That the dead soldier’s crime was knowing too much and he was silenced. I did not witness this scene; this is what I was told.