One of the soldiers shot him in the back and the undergraduate buckled, staggered, his arms flailing. The soldier shot him again and the young man cried:
‘Hey God!’
Then he fell on his back and stayed there twitching and died with his eyes wide open, his fingers clamped between his teeth.
The soldier who had shot him went over, stared down at him, spat, his gun ready. Then for some reason, maybe to make sure the young man was dead, the soldier tried to pull the dead man’s fingers from between his teeth. He pulled the arm. Kept pulling it. But he couldn’t get the desired result. Instead of the fingers being freed, the dead man’s upper body kept rising and flopping as if he were in the grip of obscene spasms. His death grin, his burst chest, his shirt swollen with gore, and his wide-open eyes, made him look horrifyingly inhuman. The soldier, having failed in his intention, frustrated, annoyed, dragged the body to the roadside and kicked it into the gutter. The rest of the soldiers joined him. They lit a cigarette, shared it, and discussed their next destination in rough voices. When they’d finished the cigarette they pushed on down the street, waving their guns in the air like conquering heroes, and carried on with their task of Igbo hunting.
The street was silent. The townspeople had watched the event from the protection of their windows. No one moved. Then not long after the soldiers had gone a wailing noise, more piercing than the sirens, came from the beer parlour. The prostitute rushed out, cursing and screaming, her hair in disarray, her clothes torn. She wept and threw herself down on the street inconsolably. Then she stopped and lay there. She lay still as if dead. Then she got up and with a strange calm, tears running down her face, emptied her purse onto the body of her dead lover. She emptied all her coins, all her pound notes, on the body. Then she disappeared down the street, staggering, pulling at her hair.
That night the people of the street saw her return. She dragged her lover’s body from the gutter, dragged it down the street, and rumour had it that, without stopping, she carried the body three miles to the graveyard and buried it. She was never seen again.
By morning word had gone round and gangs of boys from all over town came to scavenge in the gutter for the prostitute’s money.
Omovo saw it all from the sitting room window. He hadn’t slept all night. Fear had kept him awake. He saw the boys his own age struggling amongst themselves, kicking around in the gutter, trying to retrieve the coins and pound notes. He saw it all, but he didn’t understand what he had seen.
He understood now. Sitting in the darkness of a strange town, fighting off the mosquitoes, the memory brought a bitter understanding. His mind was calm as he thought: ‘That is my generation. Scavenging for blood money. Corruption money. Scavenging for the money of the dead. The money of corruption. Curse money. Scavenging our futures, our history. A generation of guilt, and blindness, and infernal responsibility.’
Hours later the light returned. He heard the children of the town cheering the return of the lights. He heard activity, music, noises of hope. But for Omovo the lights merely provided an escape from memories of cruelty.
Later that morning Ayo brought his food. After he had eaten they both went to a sea inlet. Omovo sat on the ground staring at the sky. Ayo tried to catch fishes with his bare hands. The wind blew criss-cross ridges on the water’s surface. Ayo gave up on catching fish and suggested a swim. Omovo didn’t want to. Ayo pointed to something in the water. Omovo got up and looked. He saw a coral of lovely colours entangled in seaweed. As Omovo marvelled at this vision he slipped and fell into the water. Ayo laughed and jumped in after him. They splashed around. Ayo dived down and when he came up he was holding the coral. It was such a beautiful sight. The coral, marvellously streaked, had been strangely eaten away at the centre, like an imperfect heart. When Omovo took it in his hands, turned it round, studied it, holding his breath, something went through him. He shivered, twisting, and cried:
‘I’ve got it! I understand!’
Ayo said: ‘What?’
Omovo was silent. The illumination dwindled on his face. He sank to the ground. With his face on his palms, he said in a disappointed voice: ‘It was nothing. It’s gone.’
Soon afterwards, both dripping sea-water, they headed home.
On the way back they were silent. Omovo kept looking at the lovely coral as if it were the undeciphered emblem of a mystic understanding. In a voice both calm and desperate, Omovo said: ‘Ayo, your name means “life”, right?’
‘Yes. But it’s short for Ayodele, which means “life has come into the house”.’
‘I know.’ Omovo continued: ‘Well, I want to tell you a story.’
Then Omovo told of the strange dream he had about the door and the room. When he had finished Ayo said:
‘And what happened? Did you get to the room?’
‘No, the room was coming to me.’
‘Did it?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘But did it?’
‘No. I don’t think so.’
Ayo was silent. His youthful face took on a disturbing aspect of wisdom. He said, eventually: ‘I’m happy it didn’t.’
‘Why?’
‘My father has been having dreams like that. Different, but similar.’
‘So?’
‘If it came to you, it means you will die soon,’ Ayo said.
Omovo said nothing. After a moment, Ayo asked: ‘When did this story happen to you?’
‘It happened on the first day I arrived in this town.’
Ayo said: ‘It’s sad.’
They parted company. As Omovo went to his room he experienced a curious sweetness as he pondered the dream. It wasn’t long before the indefinable sadness of a premonition swept over him.
That night he had a shower for a second time and went to bed. He kept tossing and scratching himself in places where the bedbugs bit him. He shut his eyes tight, as if the darkness were a blight he did not want to face. He heard the noises of the town. The sounds were not as enchanting as when he first heard them. The mustiness, and the smell of death, in the room, scared him. The constant power cuts filled him with impotent rage. The bedsprings creaked with his every movement. Areas of colours danced before his eyes. The colours became menacing forms. When he opened his eyes he thought he saw ghosts in the room. He thought he heard the rattling of chains, the wailing of gagged slave voices. He turned over and covered his face. The menacing shapes returned and oppressed him. He tried to will them away. But doing this only kept him awake. He felt his muscles palpitate. His shoulders were tense. He felt himself arching his back, felt throbbing in his neck. The moving colours became voids that opened inwards into deep, unfathomed interiors. Things were coming together within him even as he slept.
He woke up suddenly. He heard a sound. A movement. The syllable of a repressed scream. The wind outside rattled the corrugated zinc roof. He heard an explosion somewhere in the darkness. He sat up. Afraid. He waited. He watched. He wondered. And his wonder infested his silence with motion. In the semi-darkness he could see the coral. It was on the table. It seemed to float on waves of darkness. As he stared at it something happened inside him. He got up, put on his shirt and trousers, took the coral and left the room.
At first the town seemed quiet. It seemed quiet in its ancient ravagement. The wind was fresh on his face. The dawn was crisp. Skeins of mist hung in the air. The wind roused the leaves and made the branches of the palm trees weave. He passed the silent houses. He crossed fields. He listened to the cock-crows, the bleating goats, the limpid cries of birds. He wondered if it were possible to create music using only the different sounds of animals. Crossing fields and farmlands he smelt the grass and noticed the different shades of their greenness. He wandered the bushpaths. He was barefoot and the feel of the earth, the wetness of dew, the assenting sound of every footstep, were sensations etched out in moments of shimmering clarity. As he wandered in the limpidity of slowed-down time he began to see the town as it might have been – a place rav
aged by history, a place for the transit of slaves, a place of old feuds, dead kingdoms, of strife and internecine wars.
The sky lit up. The sea, changing colour, took on a subdued lucency. Then the air became full of birds, eagles, dawn-birds, birds of strange songs. Something wonderful happened everywhere around him. The fishermen sang in the distance as they launched out to sea in their dug-out canoes. Then an illumination settled in him. He breathed deeply the dewy air and shut his eyes and saw a face bleeding a curiously quivering – blinding – light. As he breathed in, energy was drawn inwards and he felt oddly faint, felt himself falling into a vortex of primordial, volatile being. Then as he let out his breath he felt as if he had hit upon a discovery, a secret that had been apparent all along.
He shouted triumphantly: ‘THE MOMENT!’
And he gave himself over to the wonder that had awoken in him.
His illumination became a tumble of words spinning in him, erupting in thoughts and speech, in being and words, in visions and emotions deeper than the urge that made him paint. Bursting in this state he saw time enfission into every moment, into endless possibilities of life. Time was the sea – a million lights revolved on every crest – past met present, present met future. Quivering with excessive love, he had the vision of a terrifying and unfinishable portrait of humanity.
He felt the purity of helplessness, the subversion of hope – he saw caves of unmeasured corruption, felt the burden of desperate prayers uttered, unheard – the prayers of slaves – the betrayal of ancestors – the treachery of leaders – the lies and the corruption of the old generation – their destruction of future dreams – they raped our past, we rape our future – we never learn our lessons – history screams and ghettoes erupt with death and maddened youths – they scrambled for our continent and now we scramble for the oil-burst of Independence – traitors and disunity everywhere – those who are deaf to history are condemned to be enslaved by it – enslaved by ourselves, our attitudes, our tribal madness, each for himself – the smiles of the rich grow more predatory while children weep their lives away burning in infernos of hunger and disease – our history hasn’t hurt us enough or the betrayals would stop, the streets would erupt, till we are overcome with the inescapable necessity of total self-transformation – we burn for vision – clear, positive vision – for vision allied with action – for want of vision my people perish – for want of action they perish – in dreams – in dreams begin responsibility – for we have become a people of dream-eaters, worshipping at the shrines of corruption – we can’t escape our history – we will dwindle, become smaller, the continent will shrink, be taken over, swallowed, pulped, drained, by predators, unless we transform – in vision begins – in vision begins responsibility – and even as we die, and shrink, and are taken over, reduced, seen as animals, as invisible, even as the streets spill over with the poor, even as we dance our lives away, and celebrate the powerful, worship like servants at their vulturous shrines, we can utter psychic decisions and set forces into motion that could change our lives forever – in vision begins action – in action begins our destiny – for the things that you do change you – and the changes affect the things you do – to him that hath shall be given – seek and ye shall find – to him that hath not shall be taken from, even that which they haveth – you either become, or you die –
Omovo’s moment of illumination tumbled on within him.
I came here to escape and I find our past waiting for me on these shores – now we are the trampling ground of foreign powers – we don’t affect the world – we bear suffering too much – our resilience is our weakness – for want of sugar the whites colonised half the world – we have suffered slavery, the loss of our art, we suffer droughts, we inflict wounds on ourselves, and yet we do not conquer our weaknesses – our blood fuelled their industrial mills – all for the bitter taste in their mouths, the taste of bitter coffee – the bitterness in us should long have festered and turned to acid and turned round into the sweetness of transformation – transform, or die – in dreams begin responsibility –
– the moment breaking down into prayers unheard – cries unheeded – warnings unaccepted – visions unseen – the moment dissolving into steps upon broken bridges, directions untaken, signs unread, prophets silenced – artists destroyed – the moment is self losing its centre, finding new ones – rashes of insanity – wandering in wilderness of lost possibilities – and I am here on these shores, in this strange town, weighed down by soul-clogs of useless knowledge, other people’s opinions, the creative dangers of thinking in an imposed language – betrayed by language – erased from history – deceived – as children, we read how the whites discovered us – didn’t we exist till they discovered us? – weighed down by manipulated history, rigged history books, rigged maps of the continent – weighed down by lies – and then believing those lies – swallowing them – force-feeding ourselves with them – gorging ourselves – my generation is one of losses – inheriting madness, empty coffers, colossal debts, the vanities of the old generation, their blindness and greed – inheriting chaos – confusion – garbage – fumes everywhere – violence – coups upon coups – but chaos is the beginning of creation – God created chaos before he created order – a greater order – chaos is rich in possibilities – in vision begins responsibilities –
And as Omovo’s being swirled a word kept repeating itself to him:
transfiguration – transfigure the deception multiplied by education – all education is bad until you educate yourself – from scratch – start from the beginning, from the simplest things – assume nothing – question everything – begin again the journey from the legends of creation – look again at everything – keep looking – be vigilant – understand things slowly – digest thoroughly – act swiftly – re-dream the world – restructure self – all the building blocks are there in the chaos – USE EVERYTHING – USE EVERYTHING WISELY – EVERYTHING HAS SIGNIFICANCE –
And as lights in the sky, from the sun, grew more intense, the points of illumination within him grew dimmer. As he tumbled deeper into the wells of knowledge and understanding he didn’t know he had access to, his moment of vision became more incomplete. But his contemplation rose beyond words. Rose into higher dimensions within, opened doors, and broke down walls, and expanded the spaces within him, into new states of being. Points of light forever vanish. Visions are always incomplete. Between the chaos and the clarity, the ever-moving motionless being, between the interstices and the clamour of the moment, a secret self was forming, a new man emerging. He had been given an unnamed sufflation and like most of us he didn’t know how to experience it fully.
The wonder was soon gone. His head felt empty, as if all his energies had been expended in a hurricane he himself had generated. The moment had passed. The wind blew hard and he felt lighter than ever, as if he had lost weight with the moment. Veins throbbed on his forehead. He felt devastated, wrecked, he had a terrible headache. He felt cold and vulnerable, afraid of what had happened inside him. The dawn had turned. He felt weak and the late morning sun seemed to weaken him further. He sank to the ground and lay there, staring at the sky.
People going to the farms, on their ways to work, market women, petty traders, praise-singers, carpenters and blacksmiths, people of all trades, passed him as he lay there on the ground. He saw the looks in their eyes. He heard them say things about him. He heard them mutter about him being a stranger, strange and mad. They hurried past. After some time he got up. He felt sad that he had thought and soliloquised away the beauty that had come into him with the dawn.
He wandered down to the beach. He came upon a little girl who was singing to the egrets, playing on the shore, building shapes out of sand and stones. She seemed happy and unaware of it. Omovo knew intuitively that she was Ayo’s younger sister. When she saw him coming she smiled at him and then ran away, her laughter on the wind. He turned and went to his room, walking against the wind, the salt of sea bringing tears to hi
s eyes.
In the afternoon Ayo brought his food and said: ‘My father is ill. He has been ill for about six years. He still goes to the farm. Now he’s in bed and cannot move his legs. He looks very strange.’
Omovo consoled him, saying: ‘He is a good chief and a strong man.’
Later Ayo remarked: ‘You look lonely sometimes.’
‘It’s a lonely business.’
Ayo was silent. Omovo said: ‘We’re all alone. We all carry aloneness inside us whatever we do.’
‘Do we?’
‘I think so. Sometimes we’re aware of it and sometimes we’re not.’
Another silence.
‘What happened to you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What happened to your head?’
‘My hair, you mean.’
‘Yes.’
‘Nothing.’
‘Why did you shave it?’
‘I didn’t. A barber did.’
‘It’s growing a bit.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t notice. But that’s good.’
‘Do you know the story of Samson and his hair?’
‘Yes. It’s a good story.’