Dangerous Love

  ‘I don’t agree, but I don’t want to argue.’

  ‘So what can you do about it? Can you bring the girl back to life? Can you catch the people who killed her? Is there one day in which you don’t see a dead body in the street? And what can you do about a drunken soldier who shoots someone just like that? What can you do about armed robbery?’

  ‘I don’t want to argue.’

  ‘Why not? Tell me: what can you do? You either keep quiet or you do something.’ Okoro laughed. ‘Or are you going to paint her dead body? What will that do, eh?’

  Okoro was getting more agitated. He made violent gestures. Omovo began to think of leaving. Okoro came over to him, touched him roughly on the shoulder, and was about to launch into a new set of questions when knocks sounded on the door. Okoro shouted: ‘Come in if you’re good-looking.’

  Dele came in, grinning. ‘Of course I’m good-looking, you fool,’ he said.

  Okoro laughed, and eased the tension in the room.

  ‘Hey, Dele, how are you?’

  ‘Great!’

  ‘Man, guess what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve just got myself a new girl.’

  ‘That’s great, man!’

  ‘Hi, Dele,’ Omovo said.

  ‘Hey, Omovo, is that you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘We never see you at all. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine. Thanks about that night. I hope we didn’t disturb your father.’

  ‘It was okay. You know, when I saw you that night I didn’t recognise you at first. Your shaven hair makes you look like a stranger. You should get a hat.’

  Omovo smiled. Okoro said: ‘Have my hat, man. It’s an expensive hat.’

  ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘Have it, man. Protect your brains from the sun.’

  Okoro got up and fetched the hat, which had been hanging on a nail behind the clothes rack. He dusted the hat and put it on Omovo’s head.

  ‘Wow! You look like an artistic gangster.’

  Okoro brought him a mirror. Omovo looked at himself. He looked even more of a stranger. ‘It’s good for disguise,’ he said.

  ‘Disguise your baldness, my friend,’ Dele said. ‘Or the whole world will treat it like a drum.’

  Okoro laughed. Omovo took off the hat and put it on the table. ‘I’ll take it,’ he said.

  ‘Great,’ said Okoro. Then returning to Dele he said: ‘Let me tell you my news, man.’

  Dele hovered by the door, smiling in anticipation. He was tall, handsome, and had an even complexion. He wore a pair of sunshades, which he kept on in the relative darkness of the room, and which made him look like a minor film star. His father was a wealthy and illiterate businessman. Dele was one of those people who aspire to a life of great ease and luxury. He despised the wretchedness around him. His single greatest ambition was to go and study in America. He believed that life would begin for him out there. But in his own country he felt that he was living in a state of suspended animation. He worked in one of his father’s firms as an assistant manager.

  ‘Tell me your good news,’ he said, sitting down on the bed.

  Okoro talked excitedly, as if he was telling the story of how he ‘captured’ July for the first time. His face was animated with pleasure. He went into some intimate details and Dele laughed, slapping his thighs. When Okoro finished, Dele launched into stories of his own recent exploits. While they talked, Omovo listened, smiling when they turned to him to include him in their stories. And while he listened he couldn’t be sure what his friends enjoyed the most: the actual experiences or the telling of them. When the narratives had been exhausted, Okoro got up to play another record. Dele turned to Omovo and said:

  ‘Hey man, how is that business with the dead girl?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen Keme since.’

  ‘What really happened that night anyway? Tell me from the beginning.’

  Omovo told him briefly about the exhibition, the park and the body. When he finished they were both silent. Dele became serious.

  ‘So they seized your painting, eh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Okoro lowered the music. ‘But why?’

  ‘They said it insults our nation’s progress.’

  Dele laughed sarcastically. Okoro said: ‘I must admit it is strange. What can a painting do to anyone, eh? A painting can’t hit you, can’t shoot you, can’t make you faint, can’t drive you mad. And yet they seized your painting. Very strange.’

  ‘What really annoyed me,’ said Omovo ‘was that the officer said I was a bad artist. He’s probably right.’

  Dele laughed again. ‘Why would he bother to seize it if it is so bad, eh? And besides, what do soldiers know about art? They seized your painting because they did not understand it.’

  ‘I disagree,’ said Okoro. ‘They seized it because they understood it.’

  ‘Neither of you has seen the painting anyway,’ said Omovo.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ replied Dele. ‘They seized it because it was probably truthful. People in power don’t like the people’s truth. I mean...’ and here Dele connected with his favourite subject, ‘I mean, in America they wouldn’t do a thing like that. Why are we so trivial? That’s why I want to get out of this place. One should live as fully and as freely as possible. I bet that girl was a victim of a secret society, you know, one of those frightening secret societies. Our own people. We just destroy our young ones, like that... without thinking...’

  Dele trailed off into silence, momentarily trapped by his inability to articulate what he meant. He sat on the edge of the bed. He took off his sunshades and stared ahead of him. Then, as if he were caught in a strange passion, he began to fidget. He leaned forward. His features darkened. He made helpless gestures with his hands. He continued:

  ‘There are too many unnecessary struggles in our lives. It’s a struggle to wake up in the morning, to bathe, a struggle to catch a bus, go to work, and make a decent living. It’s a struggle to come back from work, to relax, to have electricity and running water, to get a good woman, and to keep her. It feels like a lifetime of struggling. That’s why I want to leave. I want to go where people are building new, exciting things every day.’ He fell silent for a moment. But the silence only served to increase his passion.

  ‘Man, can’t you see me getting onto the plane, breathing good air, having a conversation and exchanging addresses with some beautiful woman? Can’t you imagine me arriving in God’s own country, looking around, walking like a real important guy? I can feel the freedom already. I can see me shaking hands with black Americans and I can hear my American accent improving rapidly. I will be dressed in style, man. I wouldn’t wear rubbish. I’ll have the best clothes in town. And I’ll send you guys pictures of myself. I’ll take pictures with chicks, in nightclubs, in parks, and my photo album will be heavy. You won’t catch me with any useless women, man. Only the best. Heavy white women, black women, Spanish women. I’ll have real fun and I’ll buy myself a sports car. You won’t catch me doing all those stupid jobs Nigerians do when they go to America, man. No waiters’ jobs or cleaners’ jobs for me. No! I’ll study hard, I’ll learn all their tricks, and I’ll come back and make a contribution to our society, man. But when I’m there, I’ll visit the Empire State Building, the White House, Disneyland, the Wild West and maybe even get myself some famous actress, man.’

  Okoro laughed nervously.

  ‘Don’t laugh, man. Of course I might get a famous actress, you never know, man, and she might take real care of me. I must go out there! And when I come back,’ he said, slapping Okoro on the shoulder, ‘you guys won’t recognise me. I will have changed. You guys can stay here and enjoy the insane struggles. But me, in the name of God, I must leave this place!’

  Dele had spoken excitedly and wholly without embarrassment. The room became silent. Omovo stared at the posters on the walls. Okoro’s face bore the despair of one continually left behind. He looked sad. It was ob
vious that Dele had touched on his own desires. Dele had done this with such authority, such certainty, that he had unknowingly deepened Okoro’s sense of helplessness.

  Omovo opened the curtain. He stared out through the only window in the room, out into the muddy street. He had a smile on his face. The fantasies Dele had expressed meant nothing to him. ‘We are a new lost generation,’ he thought. He got up and played Fela Anikulapo Kuti’s mocking ‘Follow Follow’. Then he went and lay on the bed.

  For a while everyone was silent. Omovo felt the need to breathe deeply, but the air was too dense. Then Dele went on and on about how life was really being lived out there in ‘God’s own country’. Omovo felt exhausted. His head spun. He felt restless. He wanted to do something. Okoro began to dance away his despair. Dele went on about the beautiful life that was really only in his mind. Then Okoro said he was going to get some drinks. Dele didn’t want to go with him. When Okoro left, Dele said, in a low voice: ‘Omovo, I’m in trouble.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Do you remember that girl I told you about?’

  ‘The one that’s pregnant by you?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘She doesn’t want to get rid of it.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Look. I’m going to the States in a few days time.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Things have just broken through.’

  ‘I’m glad for you.’

  ‘But I don’t know what to do about this girl.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I can’t marry her. I don’t want the baby. What do you suggest?’

  Omovo stammered.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I... I... I mean...’

  ‘What’s wrong, man?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s just that I, eh, I don’t know what to say. I mean it depends on you.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘That you’re in trouble.’

  ‘Sure. Anyway, do you know what I did?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I tricked her to a friend’s place and both of us threatened her and made her drink some tablets. Later she began to complain about stomach troubles. The doctor said she would be all right. What does that mean? Is she going to have the baby, or isn’t she, eh?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Man, I don’t want complications in my life. The whole thing frightens me.’

  ‘What does your father think?’

  ‘At first he was furious. Then he began to like the idea of having a grandchild. To make matters worse her father is a family friend and I think they have decided to get us married. He even offered to take care of the girl until I returned. Then later he said he doesn’t want me to go to the States. I’m scared, man. I’m scared.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  They were both silent. Then Dele said, in a voice so low that Omovo could barely hear him: ‘He has threatened to disown me.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘If I disobey his orders.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going to disobey them. Either I remain here and become stunted. Or I leave, discover the world, and find freedom. But I’m scared.’

  Omovo said nothing. His mind was blank. Dele stayed silent, deep in thought. The record had stopped. Then Dele got up and said: ‘I’m going for a walk.’

  He went out with his head bowed.

  When Dele left, Omovo stared at the door till his thoughts became indistinct. Then he reminded himself that he needed some oil paints and water colours. He thought about the folding easel he had seen at the art shop and decided to spend most of his next salary buying it. There’s nothing like painting from nature, he thought as he imagined himself at the seaside or at a village. He felt good thinking about the future things he would paint. He resolved to keep his mind open and clear. Overcome with the possibilities of perception, things to see, things to express in art, he felt that life was calling to him with the voice of the ghetto, the voice of his experience.

  Omovo lay on the bed and waited. He felt the sudden wash of euphoria. He let himself be carried on its crest of melancholy and joy. He breathed in deeply and as he exhaled Okoro stormed back into the room, bearing drinks.

  ‘Time for boozing!’ he announced.

  Omovo stirred.

  ‘Wake up! It’s boozing time!’

  Omovo had the sudden urge to paint.

  ‘Where’s Dele?’

  ‘He went for a walk.’

  Okoro put the bottles down on the table, got out some glasses, and put on a record. Dele came back in, his sunshades on, sweat glistening on his brow. Omovo got off the bed, seized a pencil and sheets of paper. He began to draw Dele as he sat at the table listening to Stevie Wonder with his eyes shut.

  ‘Take off your sunshades, Dele.’

  Dele took them off and began nodding to the music. Omovo did a drawing of Dele’s face, introducing a sad delusion over the accuracy of his features. Dele looked at the drawing and remarked that Omovo was ‘a devil’.

  Okoro said: ‘You are there in that drawing. You look like a child.’

  Dele turned to Omovo. ‘Am I a child?’

  ‘Ignore Okoro.’

  Okoro, smiling, said: ‘Do what the soldier did. Seize it.’

  Dele laughed. Omovo stayed serious.

  ‘I was only joking,’ Okoro said.

  ‘Sure.’

  They were all silent. Then after a while Omovo said he was going. Okoro tried to persuade him to stay and have something to drink, but Omovo was obdurate. He picked up the blue hat and put it on. His two friends saw him out into the street.

  ‘When are you leaving for the States?’ Omovo asked Dele.

  ‘Okoro will tell you. It’s not definite. I’ll be having a small party. I would have come round to visit you, but the roads in your area are so bad.’

  ‘Well, if I don’t see you before you leave, take care and don’t get carried away.’

  ‘You bet.’

  ‘Write to us.’

  ‘I will. And you take care too. Don’t let anything get to you.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘The hat suits you,’ Okoro said.

  ‘Yeah. Thanks. I’ll see you at Waterside on Monday. Watch yourself.’

  Omovo nodded and left. The street was clear. Everything was clear. He took off the hat. The bridge wobbled when he got on it. The woman at the toll shed collected her money without looking at him. He felt lonely again. The sun faded from the horizon and the sky had a bright orange glow with streaks of poignant blue. The wind blew litter across at him. Boys chased tyres and hoops along the street. Everything was bright in Omovo’s mind. Things were coming together within him. When he got home he had a shower. He changed into clean clothes. Then he went outside and waited for Ifeyiwa to show up.

  8

  While he waited, the ash-grey evening fell, and the day darkened.

  The compound men were sitting outside. They had gathered in front of the shop. Sitting on stools, with little tables before them, they drank and gossiped. Most of their wives formed an outer circle around them. The children played at the house front and on the road.

  Omovo could hear the loud voices of the men. He watched Tuwo talking about and demonstrating a wrestling contest he had won in his village when he was a young man. The others didn’t seem to believe that he had ever won a contest in his life, and laughed at his comic exaggerations. Another man interrupted and talked about a family in the compound – whom none of the others really liked, and who did not participate in the events of the compound – who had not washed their plates for many days.

  Omovo’s father came out and joined the men. They got him a chair and filled his glass with ogogoro. He listened to their conversation with an expression of detached and elderly amusement on his face.

  As the men got m
ore drunk their conversations got more bawdy. The assistant deputy bachelor began to talk about how he had stumbled into a large wet pair of underpants that had been drying on the line. It was at night, he said, and at first he thought he had been slapped. Upon investigating he found it to be a woman’s undergarment.

  ‘It was as large as a sack,’ he said, unable to restrain his laughter. ‘The thing so big, eh, that the woman’s buttocks must be bigger than a barrel!’

  The others burst out laughing. They rolled over and slapped one another on the back. ‘Dat’s the kind of woman Tuwo likes,’ said one of the men.

  ‘Na lie!’ said Tuwo, who began to describe, with drunken geometry, the shape of his ideal woman.

  ‘She must be slim,’ he began.

  ‘And someone’s wife,’ said another.

  ‘And she must have good breasts, proud breasts, pointed...’

  The men shouted in delight. The women wrinkled their faces. Omovo’s father smiled.

  ‘Where must they point?’ asked one.

  ‘In my direction,’ said Tuwo.

  ‘Both of them?’

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘What about the nyash?’

  ‘You mean the buttocks, the posterior, of course,’ said Tuwo, passing a glance over the women.

  The men laughed again. The assistant deputy bachelor, ever serviceable, filled everyone’s glass and shouted for more ogogoro to be brought. Tuwo took a precious sip before continuing with his elaborations.

  ‘The posterior is for the hands and the eyes. A man needs to get a good grip on them or he is lost.’

  ‘So you like them big, eh?’

  ‘Not too big. Not like that of an elephant.’

  ‘Don’t mind Tuwo,’ the assistant deputy bachelor said. ‘Na only by the nyash nai he deh take recognise woman. One day…’

  And he told the story of how he had seen Tuwo in the market. Tuwo wasn’t buying anything, he said. Tuwo was confused at the sight of so many massive buttocks, so many large-breasted market women. The men laughed again, slapping their thighs, throwing themselves backwards on their stools. One of the men, carried away by laughter, fell over. The men got riotous with amusement. The women helped him up.