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.
In the evening, a light shower of rain fell as I made my way down from the local DVD rental shop. It was after 8pm. Traffic had eased and cars drove by bearing shrunken snapshots in their side mirrors. I’d rented The Big Lebowski. I loved the idea of an ordinary character landing in an extraordinary situation. The rain began to fall more heavily and I counted some of its disciples. I tugged my coat hood over my head. Mrs Harris was standing at the traffic lights across the road, face illuminated by its flickering colours. Gone were the pained expression and her walking stick. She’d also changed clothes. Instead she now wore flowery red trousers, grey plimsolls and a dark, blue raincoat. Her hair was tamed in a loose bun and she clutched a white, plastic bag straining with the weight it carried. I waited for her to cross the lights and reach my side of the road. As she approached, she whistled, wet tendrils of hair stuck to the side of her face.
“My fellow water baby! How is the world according to Joy?” she enquired, smiling.
“Erm ok,” I answered, resisting the urge to launch into full confessional mode. “I’m ordering takeaway and having a night of film watching. What have you been up to?”
She held her bag up as we quickened the pace. “Costume shopping!” A bus sped past splashing us.
“For a costume party? I’ve never been to one. What’s the outfit?”
“Can’t tell you, it’s a surprise! You’ve never been to a costume party? Quite the experience my dear! You’ll have to come, cancel whatever you’re doing this Saturday.”