Yellow October fails to exalt me strangely. I left at sunset, down the estuary.
A chicken thief in flight I left the Haven of Peace at midnight. The silence of the night lifted in a howl from the lorry and the noise at the airport became ours. Father had borrowed the lorry to ferry me and a mob took the offer of a free ride to see planes take-off. In the cab sat father, mama and father's friend, the traffic policeman. I sat back with the tenement.
A toothless old man hooted and two boys balanced precariously on the sidebars while the girl with an organdie bow commissioned a shriek and her friend ululated. That was when the rooster cackled exasperatedly since it was going to die, thirty minutes before boarding I were to slaughter it and sprinkle the blood on the boarding gate. The Indian riding a vespa at the tail of the truck rested his fat palm on the horn. The tenement answered with explosive shouts."He's gone!" The streets' cell leader shouted, his chin pointing at me. A threat enveloped the airport when we climbed out. The truck was property of the army where father was sergeant.
"Grasshoppers!" One of the boys on the sidebars exclaimed at the planes. The toothless old man shouted mysteriously, "Europe!" As frightened tourists retreated into fluorescent lights mama shed tears and gave me the tenement's address: "Write us a postcard to decorate the sitting room."
Father disagreed: "What can a postcard do to a sitting room? Send us rather fashion magazines-they have bigger pictures."
Someone with an aunt working at the airport took care of my passport and the check-in procedures. Then the send-off committee marched to the lounge where a touching speech was given by the toothless old man, who, in peremptory enthusiasm, urged the tenement to throw a dance. As if inspired by the idea, the Indian who lent me money for the ticket leaned toward me: "Don't pay me with cash, send a video camera."
The tourists relaxed and took out their own cameras and wrestled with our visions. "Most of us will die without setting foot in Europe," father said sadly. He was dressed up for the occasion, flannel suit, patent leather shoes with little slits to relieve the pressure of his bunions, and his digital watch. The girl with hard breasts and a polka-dress plastered to her brought out a parcel of mangoes to my honour. But father asked someone to wash the fruits first. "We don't want to send bacteria to Europe."
There was no water the spigots glinted empty and beautiful, which caused a minor disturbance.
"Where do tourists go when they want to shit?" The boy asked and took a thoughtful bite.
"They wait until they are airborne." Father said as he wiped a mango with the edge of mama's wrap. "Besides, they don't use water in the toilet." A security officer appeared and warned the tourists against taking pictures of the republic's strategic point and the evening died as I watched a dawn disperse the maze of my dreams. A high, clear and lonely flame ascended to the opaque sky that broke into a drizzle of stars. Cold blue moons sunk into the depths of my stomach. I cruised through the clustering of our tenements covered with a gauze of torment at the veils of brownish tampons and a dead cat. A fluid movement of putrefaction washed over the land and hearts began fluttering with anxieties before bending into a bustle of darkness. This went on for hours and the tenement became a prayer house where inordinate cries of hunger translated into sacral tones of prayers. The profound sadness in the cries came nearer with tedious pain. A magnificent death hovered over us like a gift, watched by time.
Father flinched. A curious definition broke on his face. His face glowed. His eyes became disconsolate coals emitting a debilitating light that pierced through and through perforating walls, furniture, air. And cups scattered, saucers of hot stews flew, vases broke in the gale of the stink.
"I want to sell the airport." The boy said nonchalantly. A short bright silence followed a clap of thunder. Geckos, cockatoos and lizards glittered in his words and luminous declarations took over the night.
"Sell me first."A politician made-up in gothic style said. She wore a lace-trimmed slip and stood at the entrance to the republic. She was the security officer of bawdyhouses and finances. But she'd already sold herself before, to the Indian trader.
"Is there anything remain in you to be sold?"
"My soul." She said tranquilly. "But I pawned it to buy this lace slip."
She opened her knees and gave a hint of grave delights.
A magic stillness came over us. I saw myself through the fog of a dream. Imperceptibly at first, trellis and stalls of secondhand clothes, cauldrons of lard and a fortuneteller's table appeared. A woman bearing large gold bangles on each hand sat solemnly on the throne. She had large unforgiving eyes and stuffed herself from a Babylonic platter of foods.
"I am going to study." She said.
"You can send a cousin on your behalf." The boy said.
The woman snorted: "There is no respect for leaders these days."
"Face it. You messed up and now you want to read. You colleague sold himself, and us, for a pittance and now he engages lawyerly gymnastics."
On the roof a raucous feast was going on. I bribed my way into the cavernous rococo hall decorated with Japanese paper lantern. A new commotion began. Someone set up a Victrola of old meringue tunes and gave lessons to voluptuous succubi. The toothless old man buried his face between the buttocks of a nymph where a calabash of 'kangala' was imprisoned. A tipsy succubus walked over and asked for a number with me. She waltzed me round the floor and taught me how one somersaulted while doing it in the air. She burned furiously, my thumb pressed on her virtue. I was mirrored in her deep eyes. Sense, lust and glory merged together.
A breeze sprang up. And about noon, lucidity returned with a vengeance.
"Niggers' paradise. Cheers." The boy said and passed a gourd of wine.
The others blinked in their stupor and resumed their partying.
"How come?" I asked without meaning to.
"There is temporary death everywhere. Professors sell themselves for a fuck. And the republic is made of plastic. You can bend it this way, that way. Pass the gourd, please." I gave him the wine. "This is our curse, you see. Those with eyes cannot see while nymps want to fuck in the air. This makes me sick."
"Is there a future?"
"The future belongs to grasshoppers. Right now Man eats God to sustain himself. Faith is another ploy of slaves to survive. In your midst there are flecks of international charity and bits of foreign faith that is how we have survived so far."
"But do you always have to make enigmatic statements?"
"If I do come out clean they will send a rain of shit over me. That is why. I have to be impartial at my age."
Indeed. The angry sky boiled. Vapours ringed and gyrated round the airport. Vision blurred, grasshoppers tried to lift up the air, failed, fell flattened under the thick darkness. The stench that encompassed the republic was deep as the clay pot by the tamarind tree. The boy said it would last for an eternity.
Among the labyrinth of smells a sudden flash of oleanders, there was also some imagination; a flicker of pimento, and a little vision. It was the same path that we have trodden on for centuries, since the first shot was made at the mouth of the river. Through elephant grass and white skulls, grew the glory that the breeze bred. I refused to be defined.
I left at sunset, down the estuary. The tenements were surprised when the rooster began to shit eggs and grasshoppers sailed over Aden, Giza, Rome then the fabled London became a patch of dusty embers. Inside my ears are the many wailing cries of misery.
Poor things! But we'll come together once again and shape the stage to a higher ground. But for now our sabbath wrinkles downriver.
2. Sep 1998