put it into perspective for him.
“A divorced woman with three children in dis society? Shit, dat’s a hard life. She needed your father to give her some kudos. Dat’s all. Simple. Now nobody can call her a harlot or wonder which man is supporting her. She only wanted de respectability dat being with a man can bring.”
At the time, Elvis thought perhaps Redemption was right; but if that was indeed all she wanted, why was she so mad, so clearly disappointed?
“Who cares? I’ve told you, dat’s all shit,” Redemption had said. “Dat’s bullshit,” he had repeated for emphasis.
“Elvis, when you go pay rent?” Comfort asked. Her voice, several octaves above normal, coupled with her stern demeanor, suggested she was expecting a fight.
“Good evening,” he said.
The implied insult over her lack of protocol did not go unnoticed.
“See dis small boy O! Don’t cheek me, just pay rent.”
“But this is not even your house,” he responded. “It is my father’s.”
“Does ya father have a job? Does he pay de rent? Pay or pack out,” she said.
“How much?” he asked. He did not have the energy for this.
“What?” Her reply betrayed her surprise. Either this tirade was not about the rent or she had expected more of a fight.
“The rent, how much?” he repeated.
“Three hundred naira,” she said.
He counted out the money from the roll held together with an elastic band and carried in his pocket. Handing it to her, he returned the rest to his pocket. She took the money and folded it into her bra and flounced out. He lay back and shut his eyes.
He was just about to drift off when his door squeaked open on rusty hinges. He sat up. Comfort was back, and when she did not move from her place at the door, Elvis looked at her with raised eyebrows, the way he remembered Roger Moore doing in The Saint.
“Ya papa no dey house,” she said.
“I know,” he replied. “So?”
“Elvis, I dey fear. He drink too much. More than before.”
“What are you afraid of?” he asked.
She shrugged. There was some silence. Then she spoke, her voice breaking slightly.
“Ya papa no love me.”
Elvis yawned. He couldn’t care less whether his father loved her or not.
“Na ya mama he love. Every night when he dey sleep, him go call her—‘Beatrice, Beatrice, soon, soon.’”
Elvis sat up.
“I dey fear say ya papa want to kill himself with drink,” she went on.
“My father hasn’t got the courage to do that,” he said.
“He want to kill himself to join ya mama. Only you fit help him.”
“Me? He doesn’t love me either, how can I help him?”
“Elvis,” she said, catching hold of his arm. “I never talk to you like dis before. I beg you be like son to him.”
Elvis was a mess of conflicting emotions. He’d been pretty sure that he hated his father, and now he had this strange urge to help him. He didn’t believe his father would actually kill himself, but he knew Sunday certainly had self-destructive tendencies. But why was Comfort telling him all this? What did she expect him to do? He felt the walls closing in on him. He shrugged off her hold.
“This is nonsense. I am going out now, excuse me,” he said, standing up and walking past her.
He had no idea where he was going, but after a while he realized that unconsciously he’d taken a bus to one of Lagos’s oldest ghettos, Aje. It was nothing like Maroko. It had no streets running through it, just a mess of narrow alleys that wound around squat, ugly bungalows and shacks. It occupied an area the size of several city blocks, and the main road ran to a halt at either side, ending in concrete walls decorated with graffiti. This was where Redemption lived.
It took Elvis a while to find Redemption’s tenement, a squat bungalow with rooms built around a paved courtyard. Across the street was a kiosk that sold everything from cigarettes by the stick to candy and liquor. In front of it, a man sat on a bench picking a tune out of a guitar
“A divorced woman with three children in dis society? Shit, dat’s a hard life. She needed your father to give her some kudos. Dat’s all. Simple. Now nobody can call her a harlot or wonder which man is supporting her. She only wanted de respectability dat being with a man can bring.”
At the time, Elvis thought perhaps Redemption was right; but if that was indeed all she wanted, why was she so mad, so clearly disappointed?
“Who cares? I’ve told you, dat’s all shit,” Redemption had said. “Dat’s bullshit,” he had repeated for emphasis.
“Elvis, when you go pay rent?” Comfort asked. Her voice, several octaves above normal, coupled with her stern demeanor, suggested she was expecting a fight.
“Good evening,” he said.
The implied insult over her lack of protocol did not go unnoticed.
“See dis small boy O! Don’t cheek me, just pay rent.”
“But this is not even your house,” he responded. “It is my father’s.”
“Does ya father have a job? Does he pay de rent? Pay or pack out,” she said.
“How much?” he asked. He did not have the energy for this.
“What?” Her reply betrayed her surprise. Either this tirade was not about the rent or she had expected more of a fight.
“The rent, how much?” he repeated.
“Three hundred naira,” she said.
He counted out the money from the roll held together with an elastic band and carried in his pocket. Handing it to her, he returned the rest to his pocket. She took the money and folded it into her bra and flounced out. He lay back and shut his eyes.
He was just about to drift off when his door squeaked open on rusty hinges. He sat up. Comfort was back, and when she did not move from her place at the door, Elvis looked at her with raised eyebrows, the way he remembered Roger Moore doing in The Saint.
“Ya papa no dey house,” she said.
“I know,” he replied. “So?”
“Elvis, I dey fear. He drink too much. More than before.”
“What are you afraid of?” he asked.
She shrugged. There was some silence. Then she spoke, her voice breaking slightly.
“Ya papa no love me.”
Elvis yawned. He couldn’t care less whether his father loved her or not.
“Na ya mama he love. Every night when he dey sleep, him go call her—‘Beatrice, Beatrice, soon, soon.’”
Elvis sat up.
“I dey fear say ya papa want to kill himself with drink,” she went on.
“My father hasn’t got the courage to do that,” he said.
“He want to kill himself to join ya mama. Only you fit help him.”
“Me? He doesn’t love me either, how can I help him?”
“Elvis,” she said, catching hold of his arm. “I never talk to you like dis before. I beg you be like son to him.”
Elvis was a mess of conflicting emotions. He’d been pretty sure that he hated his father, and now he had this strange urge to help him. He didn’t believe his father would actually kill himself, but he knew Sunday certainly had self-destructive tendencies. But why was Comfort telling him all this? What did she expect him to do? He felt the walls closing in on him. He shrugged off her hold.
“This is nonsense. I am going out now, excuse me,” he said, standing up and walking past her.
He had no idea where he was going, but after a while he realized that unconsciously he’d taken a bus to one of Lagos’s oldest ghettos, Aje. It was nothing like Maroko. It had no streets running through it, just a mess of narrow alleys that wound around squat, ugly bungalows and shacks. It occupied an area the size of several city blocks, and the main road ran to a halt at either side, ending in concrete walls decorated with graffiti. This was where Redemption lived.
It took Elvis a while to find Redemption’s tenement, a squat bungalow with rooms built around a paved courtyard. Across the street was a kiosk that sold everything from cigarettes by the stick to candy and liquor. In front of it, a man sat on a bench picking a tune out of a guitar
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