From Caves of Rotten Teeth
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FROM CAVES OF ROTTEN TEETH A COLLECTION OF SHORT STORIES BY A. IGONI BARRETT 2 Published in Nigeria in 2005 by Daylight Media Services Ltd. Copyright © A. Igoni Barrett, 2005 Daylight Media Services Ltd. [email protected] +234-803-724-4744 All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced without the prior consent of the publisher. Author photograph © Lindsay Barrett Cover incorporates a painting from the collection ‘Douens’ by Leroy Clarke ISBN 978-019-359-6 3 A man said to the Universe: ‘Sir, I exist!’ ‘However,’ replied the Universe, ‘The fact has not created in me A sense of obligation.’ —Steven Crane What is lost cannot be found in the eye, it is a memory of death; it will not die. —Lindsay Barrett (A Memory of Rivers) . hear words stripped of their soul hanging like bats from caves of rotten teeth… —Leroy Clarke 4 For my mother, Eretoru, for the Love and the Unstinting Support, and For my brother, Boma, for being all the things which I am not 5 CONTENTS I PLUCK TODAY TOMORROW’S WILTED FLOWER 6 II POT-POURRI 13 III A LOSS 19 IV IN THE HEAT 23 V THE TEMPEST 31 VI THE FATHER, THE SON, THE PASTOR AND THE HOLY SPIRIT 37 VII A TYPICAL DAY 58 VIII DANCE DOWN A ROAD THAT LEADS NOWHERE 64 IX THE TWILIGHT ZONE 71 X THE PHOENIX 80 XI DOMINATION 88 XII THE MONSTER WITHIN 106 XIII THEY WOULD BE SWINE 115 XIV UNCOMFORTABLE WORDS 131 6 I PLUCK TODAY TOMORROW’S WILTED FLOWER She woke with a start, feeling heavy in head and limb, her eyes wide-open but unseeing, her ears filled with the roar of a heart hopelessly choked with fear: it was her father’s hands nudging her awake. ‘Time, my precious – time to go.’ She rose, but was almost laid back down as a wave of vertigo hit her. Then it passed. Moving blindly towards the splashes of her father’s preparations for fajr prayer, she stepped on the fleshy bulk that was her mother’s arm, and a moment later drew a yelp followed by a tearful imprecation from her kid brother as her foot connected with his groin. She wasn’t feeling well today but of course she couldn’t stay home: she hadn’t missed a single day since she began to work with her father nearly four years ago. 7 The tiny room in which the family of four cooked, worshipped and slept was in complete darkness, and it was to this unfamiliar gloom that she had arisen for the past three days since her mother, heavily pregnant and peevish, had complained that the fumes of the kerosene lamp sent bad spirits into her dreams and its light awakened her before she could return their heart-breaking curses. She stumbled, again, this time with the clatter of ironware beating their displeasure upon the earthen floor, and though she felt her father’s rebuking eyes on her it was her mother’s sleepy voice that rose from the darkness, dispelling whatever lingering doubts the hollow clangour of the pots may have left as to the state of their insides. Hunger, that stalking beast crouched beneath the horizon of conscious thought, showed for an instant the glint of its pitiless eyes. Through gaps in the caulking of the room’s log walls the blush-pink skies of another working day peeped in at her as she sank to her haunches beside her father. Lifting her plastic kettle she absent-mindedly began her ablution, her attention taken up by the sounds of her favourite time of day. The melancholic whistle of a chugging train trailed off in the far distance. Cars coughed and grumbled awake, their horn-blares cross in the pre-dawn silence. The whisk of working brooms, mesmeric in their regularity; the slap and whirr of pigeon wings; the careless slam of a wind-caught door; the rhythmic thumps of hurried pestles; the smell of rising dust and curling wood smoke and boiling water and the warm sad waft of abandoned shit; the lonely lilt of a mother’s voice raised in melodious devotion: one and all they signaled the daily miracle of Man’s resurrection. 8 From somewhere close the unrelenting trills of two jays locked in operatic battle floated into the room, their pauses for breath more exasperating for the knowledge that they would start up again. After enduring a chicken’s lifetime of their studied garrulity she finally had enough, and pressing both hands tightly against her ears she slowly counted to six – her age and lucky number - knowing that the birds would be gone when she unstopped them. She was not disappointed. She had just resumed washing her feet when her mother muttered complainingly in her sleep and with imperial munificence broke wind. She clapped a hand over her mouth in empathetic remorse – her mother was of late doing a lot of that, and though her father had since explained that it was her unborn brother’s affinity for soccer that lay behind this habit, when it came it still shocked her. The smell, when it finally found her cringing in the corner, was so obnoxious with its attentions that she couldn’t stop herself from retching; even her father seemed a trifle displeased as he rose and threw open the room’s only window. The aggravating persistence of the pong called to mind her earlier indisposition and precipitated another dizzying spell, this time accompanied by nausea. With youthful alacrity she forsook all and any former thoughts of martyrdom: there was enough time in all the tomorrows of her life to with safety play at adult games. She turned to her father to lay bare her woes but he looked at her with a knowing smile, and motioned with his head that she should pray. A cup of tepid water, with a used tea bag briskly swirled in it, was all she was provided with to pick from her teeth before she and her father set off. They would be joined by her mother and kid brother much later in the day. Her mother had, with the 9 slow advancement of her pregnancy, gotten with each passing day more temperamental, and the detrimental effect this had on her daily returns made her even more ill- tempered and useless, till in the end her husband had to submit to commonsense, and now only made her work at sundown when the pickings were more and the heat less. The cold morning breeze that played through her long hair invigorated her spirits, but it also crept into her calico chemise and, soon enough, teased her into wasting her breakfast by the wall of an empty schoolyard. As she leaped over the steaming puddle and ran towards her father’s receding figure, she skipped in the air several times for the exhilaration of total freedom. Then she caught up with her father and took his hand – for an instant he glanced down from the distance of his thoughts. He was wearing his red turban, the one that she liked best because it contrasted so nicely with his yellow skin. She had both his complexion and small straight nose but her mother’s brown eyes, and both parents agreed that her wavy black hair was a trait neither could explain. It was her pride and joy, and she would remember to pluck a red hibiscus for it from the fence of the big white house whose noisy dogs made such terrible faces at her each morning. They arrived at the motor-park. Her father, as always, wished her luck, and then he headed for the gigantic almond tree under whose time-gnarled branches all the other patriarchs convened. There, protected all day long from the sun’s traveling gaze and the heat of bustle, they rubbed their indolent minds together while quaffing iced tea purchased with their children’s takings from sly-eyed, slink-hipped hawkers, with whom they exchanged bawdy banter, and spat contemptuously on their foot-prints once their 10 backs were turned. Time, that dogged bystander, only saw them rise from their cross- legged perch when their wives and daughters seemed in real danger of having their heads turned by the amorous advances of park touts and lorry drivers. Work began for her and the other children when the first bus rolled into the park from a night spent on the road, and unloaded its sleep-hungry human cargo. Through the press of bodies stretching out cramped muscles, of frantic passengers searching with darting eye for missing luggage, of stop-gap romantics nostalgically exchanging mobile numbers they intended never to use, adroitly weaved the urchins, lending a hand here, relieving a pocket there, and at all times chanting their mendicant mantra. The first person she approached, a man, took one look at the flower in her hair and without breaking stride snapped something about using the gifts one was given. The second avoided her like she had the plague, breaking into a lope when she persisted. And the third, a coiffured young woman in a steel-grey business suit purchasing some items from a kiosk, remained promisingly silent as she rattled off her litany until, in a bid to ingratiate herself before the change forever disappeared down the handbag’s open mouth, she called that stranger ‘mummy’; whereupon yon tower of taciturnity whirled with the quickness of a cornered cobra upon the bewildered child, and grasping her by the ear, spat full in her face.