“I dey very hungry,” he said.
The beggar took in Elvis’s confusion and labor-dirty clothes and, deciding he wasn’t going to get anything from him, moved off.
Elvis came alive. “Wait!” he called.
The beggar stopped and turned.
“Wait and I’ll share a meal with you,” Elvis said.
The beggar nodded and smiled. Together, they walked over to an open-air buka, sat down on the rough benches next to night workers and policemen on break and ordered. Elvis studied the beggar as they ate together in silence. His nostrils were distended, perhaps from years of ramming snuff up them with his thick forefinger. His hair was a mess of matted brown dreadlocks, yet he was clean, and his old clothes appeared freshly washed. His dreadlocks had a smattering of white, and Elvis guessed he was in his late forties or maybe early fifties.
After dinner he looked up at Elvis. “Tanks.”
Elvis nodded.
“What’s ya name?”
“Elvis.”
“Like de musicman?”
Elvis nodded. “And you?”
“Mhm, well, I am known as de King of de Beggars,” he replied. “But my parents name me Caesar Augustus Anyanwu. Big name for poor man is good magic.”
“Not so good,” Elvis muttered. The King of Beggars laughed, head thrown back, his one eye caught savagely in the light. A big rat scurried across the floor, stopping to turn a curious stare on Elvis, causing him to shiver. The King noticed it and threw an empty Coca-Cola bottle at it, making it scurry for cover.
“All dese bukas no get hygiene,” he said. “But no worry, germ has no authority in black man belly.”
Elvis laughed along at the old joke. There was a moment of awkward silence. Finally Elvis asked:
“Do you live here?”
“Yes, here in Bridge City.”
“I guess that’s why you became a beggar.”
“Someone does not become a beggar; we are made beggars.”
“Is there no work you can do?”
“I beg. Dat is my work.”
“But where is your pride?”
“I cannot afford it,” Caesar said, laughing.
Elvis chuckled hesitantly. There was another protracted silence. Breaking it, the King got up.
“I mus’ go, but I am sure we go meet again, Elvis de musicman,” he said.
Elvis smiled and watched the King disappear into the darkness, then turned and headed home. What a strange fellow, he thought.
The rest of the night was a restless one for Elvis. To start with, his room was leaking: not tame drip-drops but a steady stream of water that filled the bucket placed in the middle of the floor in a few minutes. He gave up trying to empty it, and as it overflowed, he settled down and prepared to be flooded out. It wouldn’t be the first time. The steady dribble of water provided a soothing background to fall asleep to.
Just as his first snore broke through, he was woken by steady splashes in the water. Rats swimming in the flooded room. One clambered up the iron leg of the bed and onto his foot. He lashed out, sending the rat flying across the room to crash with a sickening thud into the opposite wall. There was a dull plop as its lifeless body fell into the water that had overflowed from the bucket and coated the floor in a pool.
Elvis finally settled into an uneasy sleep, dreaming he was drowning in a rat-infested lake and every time he tried to swim to safety, the rats would drag him back under the waves. He struggled and spluttered but couldn’t get away from them.
He woke with a start to find himself lying in the water on the floor, staring into the bright eyes of a rat that was using one of his sandals as a raft to float around the room.
YAM PEPPER SOUP
(Igbo: Ji Minni Oku)
INGREDIENTS
Yam
Salt
Palm oil
Desiccated crayfish
Dry fish
Curry
Fresh bonnet peppers
Ahunji
PREPARATION
First, peel the yam and cut it into chunks. Next, put in a pot of water, add a pinch of salt and put it on to boil. When the yam is soft, take off heat and drain. Put another pot of water on to boil. Add about three dessert spoons of palm oil, the crayfish, the dry fish, and a pinch of the curry, salt and fresh peppers. Pull the fresh ahunji apart and drop the shredded leaves into the mixture. Leave to cook for about twenty minutes. Bring off the boil, dish the spicy sauce into a bowl containing the boiled yam, and serve.
FOUR
We are all seeds, we are all stars.
There are several stages in the rites of passage for the Igbo male. Of prime importance is the understanding of the kola-nut ritual. At the heart of the ritual is the preservation, orally, of the history of the clan and the sociopolitical order that derives from that history.
Afikpo, 1974
It had do with the smell of damp loam, the green shade of Gmelinas, the way the light caught a tomato by surprise, making it blush deep, or the satisfaction of earth worked between the fingers that made Beatrice return to her little garden in spite of the doctor’s orders to stay in bed and rest. This was more relaxing than any rest, she thought as she weeded the plant beds until they shone.
Oye watched over her from the back porch where she sat chopping spinach for dinner. She never scolded Beatrice the way Sunday did when he reminded her of the doctor’s orders. Oye tried hard not to intervene in those fights, in deference to her daughter’s request, but she could not hide her distaste for her son-in-law. Oye called out to Elvis. He was playing with his ten-year-old cousin Efua in the sandpile at the corner of the house. The sand was there so the mason could use it to fabricate cinder blocks for the new bathroom extension he was building.
“Bring some water for your mother, child,” Oye said as Elvis ran up to her, Efua hard on his heels. Oye took her presence in with a smile and a shake of the head. “And be careful. I canna tell why tha both of you have to fetch a cup of water together,” she added.
Elvis and Efua returned with a frosted glass of water from the kerosene fridge. Oye intercepted them and sent them back to the earthenware pot half buried behind the kitchen that held water cooled by the earth and enriched by the sweet herbs Oye dropped into it daily. When the children returned with the right water, Oye called Beatrice to take a little break. Beatrice obliged her mother. She drank the cup of water even though she wasn’t thirsty. She could hear Elvis and Efua squealing as they played some game in the front yard. Probably hopscotch, their favorite. After a few minutes of rest, she returned to work on the plant beds.
Each bed was carefully arranged in geometric regularity, each stem and leaf carefully loved and tended. Beatrice was only truly happy amid the rows of green pepper stalks ripe with yellow and red fruit, in this place perfumed with curry leaves and thyme and that most fragrant of herbs, ahunji.
“Elvis,” Beatrice said, surprised to see him suddenly standing in front of her. “I thought you were playing with Efua.”
“Uncle Joseph called her.”
“Okay. Do you want to help me with de garden?”