Lament for the Fallen (4 page)

The woman’s eyes are large and sad. She touches her accuser on the shoulder, stroking his neck up to his cheek, holding his eyes.

‘Where is your compassion, my child? We are children of the earth, just as you.’

The boy can feel her warmth. Her touch, gentle and loving. He feels her forgiveness and knows he does not warrant it. A moment of humiliation and panic, and then he runs away. The others follow swiftly and in silence, their dropped stones testimony to how rapidly this was turning very ugly.

‘Are you hurt, my child?’ she asks, pulling him carefully towards her. She recognizes him: Modupe, Folami’s son. They have only been in Ewuru a year. His father is late, falling to bandits on the long journey south.

He weeps now, his small body trembling with shock and fear. She deftly feels his arms and head, sensing that the damage is not physical.

‘Mama Chibuke?’ Abishai rushing into the small street. ‘I am so sorry,’ breathing quickly. ‘I came as soon as I heard.’

They are a few blocks south of the market in an area of the village where many of the recent migrants live. Cooking smells filter through the air, strange and wild compared to those on the other side of town.

In the blue-glow of the street lamp, the old woman is almost smaller than the child she comforts.

Abishai, her heart still pounding from the frantic run here, has no words to speak her embarrassment and horror. Mama Chibuke smiles up at her.

‘Come here, child,’ and presses the boy to her.

Abishai hesitates, knowing what is needed but uncomfortable with the familiarity. The boy holds her anyway, and she hugs him tight. She kisses him on the forehead, ‘I will find the children and they will apologize. You are as much a part of Ewuru as they are.’

Mama Chibuke shakes her head.

‘It is not the children who need to learn this. It is their parents,’ she says. Her eyes are kind but challenging, and Abishai struggles to meet them.

‘I understand, Mama. I will talk to the elders and see what we can do.’

The old woman smiles, holding Abishai’s hands in hers and pressing them.

‘I know you will, my daughter.’

She takes the boy by the arm. ‘Come, child. I will walk you home.’

Abishai watches them go and then makes her way back to Ikoy Road, through the market and along Ikot towards the north gate.

‘My sister, please.’ Esther answers her knock and happily invites her in to the kitchen.

‘Sit. I will make you tea,’ turning on the kettle while continuing to load the dishwasher. There are a few stray items of cutlery left. Only two for dinner this evening.

‘Is Isaiah still up?’

‘Yes, he is playing. What is wrong, Abishai?’

Abishai shakes her head, her eyes unreadable, heading into the next room.

Isaiah is lying on the floor, focused on attempting to build some complex creation. ‘Hello, Aunt,’ he shouts and jumps to embrace her, but his heart is not in it, distracted by his mechanisms.

‘Go play,’ she smiles. ‘I will sit by you.’

Isaiah is instantly back amongst the blocks. Abishai recognizes the set as the one her brother played with as a child.

‘How long have you been playing with igwe?’

‘A long time, Aunt,’ he says. ‘Weeks. One of the girls at school wants to have a race tomorrow, and we need to build a car to drive on its own around a course our teacher will make.’

Abishai smiles, remembering the mechanisms her brother made. Every generation seems to rediscover the toy and pesters the printers with new ideas for new pieces.

Esther brings tea and they sit on one of the sofas and watch Isaiah as he struggles against distraction. The car is only half-built, and he is busy with something that looks like a single-wing airplane.

Esther grins and raises her eyes to the ceiling. Poor Isaiah has inherited none of his mother’s technical ability.

‘What is troubling you?’

Abishai holds her tea like a shield. ‘I was in South Town. A group of children attacked a small boy. I think he is one of the new arrivals. From Tchad.’

She is speaking softly. Anguish and contained outrage, trying not to disturb the boy playing in his own world on the floor.

‘They were throwing stones, Esther,’ her face horrified.

Esther puts her tea down and moves closer, holding the other woman.

‘You stopped them?’

‘No. Mama Chibuke was there before me.’

‘Were either of them hurt?’

Abishai shakes her head. ‘They were already running away from her when I arrived.’

Esther grins. ‘She is an amazing woman.’

‘I promised that the children would apologize. Mama said, “It is not the children. It is the parents.”’

‘She is right.’

‘Where did this come from?’ asks Abishai. ‘A year ago we never had this. Now? Once a week I see children fighting. We hear complaints about outsiders. It makes no sense. Ewuru was built as a place of peace.’

Esther sips her tea. ‘More refugees, is the answer.’ She nods and looks sad. ‘Too many people the old community do not recognize. New sounds and smells. People who look different. There is fear and anger. It troubles Joshua.’

‘I know, but what will he do? The people ask for a democratic council.’

Isaiah has given up on his mechanism. He has not managed to make one that works. His flying wing rests against the car, both half-built. Pieces of igwe lie scattered. The schematic on his slate has made way for him to draw. Colourful figures of animals emerge beneath his fingers and run away across the surface.

‘Clean up, child. It is time for bed.’

‘Mother,’ he sighs. The agony of the child preferring the mess of making to the effort of tidying up. ‘I want to stay up till Father is home.’

‘That is well,’ she smiles, ‘but put everything away so none of us ends up with igwe stuck in our feet.’

He slowly packs the pieces into their box as they speak and joins them on the sofa, struggling to remain awake.

‘You know he will not agree to that,’ continues Esther.

‘I know, and I understand his reasons. But what then?’

‘I do not know, but we must find a way.’

They look out of the windows and across the village to the moon reflected on the Akwayafe and the darkness beyond.

‘Will you come with me when I visit Mama Chibuke tomorrow? She can take us to the child.’

‘Yes, of course, Abishai. I will even bring a cake.’

Abishai looks mortified. ‘Has the child not suffered enough? Your cakes are terrible.’

Esther joins her laughter, stroking Isaiah’s head where he has fallen asleep in her lap. ‘True, but yours are worse.’

5

None of the soldiers has any lamps. Neither have Joshua or his men brought any. It is almost too dark to see when they reach the main trail to Ewuru.

Heavy purple clouds gathering for the evening rainstorms add to the gloom. Thunder reverberates off the cliffs. They are all soon drenched: a relief after the closeness of the day.

It is easy to lose track of time in the darkness and wet. The soldiers are worn out before they see a few small lights at the edge of the village rising up on the hill out of the jungle ahead.

As the trail winds past the maize field, Joshua can see two men on watch. ‘My brothers,’ he says.

‘Joshua,’ their eyes bright in the darkness.

It is late, most people already at home, and the village is quiet as they enter the east gate, the streets dimly lit along the main Akwayafe Road thoroughfare. A few people linger in the market, and Joshua leads Pazzo and his men there. Tables and chairs are scattered in open spaces between market stalls, most of which are already closed.

‘I am sorry that we do not have a proper inn where we can serve you better. We will eat in the market and then we have a storeroom here where you can spend the night.’

This is not, strictly speaking, true, but no self-respecting Ewuru innkeeper will tolerate such rancid guests.

The soldiers drop their gear against the market stalls within reach, propping their rifles haphazardly, drying their faces with their sleeves and drawing up chairs and tables to accommodate them all. Only Daniel and Joshua remain as the scouts head home to their families.

Gideon Okotie’s food stall is the only restaurant open, although some of the other traders are still about. Sweat gleams off his broad bald head, collecting about grey stubble.

‘I have white soup or egusi, with plantains and pounded cocoyam. You are fortunate, I still have catfish left for you,’ taking orders as he goes.

Gideon vanishes into his tiny kitchen, and the others lean back and survey their surroundings.

The rooms housing the cellulosic printers at this end of the market are running much as they do throughout the year.

Ofoesi is producing clothes, soft colourful dashikis emerging and being stacked on pallets. He cannot be producing any new designs or the doors would be firmly closed to prevent anyone seeing. The stacks grow: multicoloured blocks of clothing piled up against the white walls of the room.

Alongside Ofoesi, the doors on Dala’s ten-metre machine are open wide. She produces much of the capillary mesh needed for agriculture. Gwamife, from the university’s recombinant team, is deep in conversation with her as they stand over the control console planning the next seed stock for the coming planting season.

Figures can be seen pulling narrow carts filled with produce and supplies, restocking the shops and stalls. Others are clearing out waste and loading it into the crates for dumping in the digesters outside the village walls.

Joshua sits quietly at the table, noting the obliviousness of Pazzo and his men to the ordinary interactions of traders and late-night customers. They should take notice, for while such printers and technology may be found anywhere, Ewuru is different from Calabar, where the men with guns dominate the city.

The market is a pentagonal space, the corners open for pedestrians and the narrow carts used to ferry goods in and out. Each side, between the entrances, consists of four-storey buildings, open at the base for the printers and larger shops. The upper stories are filled with offices, studios and some residences. The two guesthouses are on the outer west side, where Pazzo cannot see.

Across the space are a network of carts and stalls filled with fresh produce faintly visible behind transparent cellulosic enclosures, food and tea stands, and all the variety inherent to such a place.

Strung tight between and above the buildings, and rising to the centre, is a single heavy white canopy held up by spars several metres high. Open flaps permit air to circulate, and the overall effect is of a light, airy and open tent.

The fabric of the awning glows. During the day it absorbs light across its upper surface, and at night organic florescence releases the stored energy. Four large overhead panels supplement the surface luminance, and the light is warm and friendly.

At the centre of the market is a small gathering space that hosts the weekly legal council meetings, and evening entertainment. A cluster of men, women and a few older children daring to stay up this late are waiting expectantly for one man to begin.

Rain is channelled down the central spar, merging into water piped into a clear, clean pool before the stage. The man watches the water, his skin red-brown, like dark palm oil. His eyes have an eerie yellow glow. He is dressed in an intricately embroidered ochre-brown boubou and matching kufi skullcap. They look handmade, as do his leather sandals.

He taps the water where it pours down the pole, setting a liquid percussive rhythm flowing down and into the pool. He nods his head in time to the beat and starts to sing, his voice sweet, resonant. The water in the pool continues the cadence of his tapping.

A drop of water falls regularly from high in the canopy on to the edge of the stage. He stares at it, and its sounds, where it lands, are amplified, joining his harmony.

Without breaking song, he plays a few notes on a bamboo flute before placing it on the stage before him. It continues to breathe his melody.

He rattles a handful of grain in a mug. Random, sharp-edged percussion adding depth to the music.

This song is different. Gentle, a prayer, where his performance last night was joyous. He is adding voices now. Harmonizing with himself. Some voices high, some low.

The lyrics and melody are simple: gratitude for the day and for the food we have eaten.

The people sit spellbound, all smiling, some with tears shining in the market light.

‘Why do you have that ubio here?’ asks Pazzo, spitting out the words, his voice shrill.

Joshua is startled out of his reverie. ‘It was the Song for the Harvest last night. The Balladeer always visits this time of year. Does he bother you?’

Pazzo wants to say yes, that he is terrified of this wandering sorcerer. He does not understand his magic or his ways, and he has an unpleasant habit of turning up unexpectedly.

‘I expected him to leave this morning, but you know him,’ Joshua shrugs. ‘He keeps to his own time and place.’

‘Yes,’ says Pazzo, refusing to meet the fearful eyes of his men so that they cannot see the same panic in his.

Even with the odds, they were planning some small malice, Joshua realizes. He sends silent thanks to the Balladeer.

He does not mention that the Balladeer had played another song last night, one he called the Lament for the Fallen. He had not been in the area when the craft had landed, and he did not consult with the village when he came or went. Somehow he knew.

The song had been sad and mournful, as of something passed and forever lost. The griots never interfere or judge, but they sometimes offer guidance for those capable of listening. Joshua had thought long about the music.

Gideon returns, carrying plates of food that he sets down before each of the men. He makes several journeys, and the delicious spicy-prawn smell of egusi mingles with the pepperiness of white soup. Two of the soldiers get up to wash their hands in a communal basin. The others seem comfortable with their state of hygiene and are already breaking off chunks of the cocoyam with their hands, their fingernails cracked and blackened. Each rolls the soft white mass into balls between their palms, presses a thumb into the centre and uses the result to scoop up the thick soups.