whose appearance belied its rich tone. Stopping, he bought two beers and headed down the long corridor to Redemption’s rooms at the back.
“Madam, bring me one bottle!” Sunday shouted. “And one for everybody here!”
He hadn’t left the bar since he got there early in the morning. He looked around for Benji, but he was not there.
“Em, Mr. Philanthropist, before you give anoder person drink, pay for de one you done drink.”
“Haba, madam, why are talking like dis? It is me, Sunday de tycoon. When my numbers win lottery I will make you rich.”
“You never win lottery since de past twenty years, so why you go win it next week? Please pay me money.”
“Madam, dis is me, don’t be like a sourpuss.”
“Who are you? Money for hand, drink on de table. Simple.”
“Hah! dis woman wicked O!”
“I am wicked, eh …”
“Ah, not you, madam, I mean my wife.”
The madam of the bar smiled. She was very ready to extend credit to all her customers, who were mostly poor and unemployed anyway. But even her generosity had its limits, though she understood that they had come to drown their sorrows in her watered-down alcohol. They needed her and she needed them; they drank, she sold. If she was owed, she owed the palm wine supplier, who owed someone else; everyone owed someone these days, it was the vogue. But she needed to crack the whip from time to time just enough so that her customers did not take her for granted.
“Madam, how about one bottle on my account?”
“Which account? Dis place look like bank to you? Cash sale only.”
Sunday gazed stubbornly at the palm wine seller, who in turn tried to stare him down, but Sunday was used to this. They played it out every night and the palm wine seller always lost. He felt confident of victory. It was only a matter of minutes.
“You want to drink but you have no money,” she said, her resolve already weakening.
“We’ve got to start thinking beyond our guns,” Redemption said, slamming down his checker piece and picking up the three he had just killed.
“Damn!” Kansas said as he watched his pieces leave the board.
Elvis took a swig of beer. “What guns?”
“What guns?” Redemption repeated, his eyes never leaving the board. “Don’t you remember dat film, De Wild Ones?”
“ Wild Bunch ,” Kansas corrected, taking one of Redemption’s pieces.
“You’re sure it’s not Wild Ones? ” Redemption said.
“Want to bet?” Kansas asked with a crooked smile.
Redemption recognized the confidence in the smile and declined.
“But what has this got to do with my father and me?” Elvis asked, sounding more than a little frustrated.
“Crown me, crown me king!” Kansas shouted as he won.
“Fuck dis,” Redemption swore, getting up and letting someone else slide into his place. He had just lost ten naira. They were sitting in the backyard of Redemption’s tenement, where there was a money game every night. Kansas and Redemption were the usual winners, making enough to pay their rent.
“See how your constant distraction cost me money?” Redemption said, sitting down next to Elvis on an upturned bucket. He reached for Elvis’s beer and took a deep drink.
“Ten naira is chicken change to you. I need advice,” Elvis said, wresting the beer bottle back and draining it.
“But talking is thirsty business,” Redemption said.
“Please, I just bought you a bottle of beer. You know I don’t have that kind of money. I am a laborer.”
“Okay, okay. Let me treat you,” Redemption said, handing money to one of the kids hanging around the game. “Go and get me two beers.”
“Three!” Kansas shouted from his game.
“Three,” Redemption repeated to the kid.
“Four,” someone else shouted.
“Your mother!” Redemption shouted back. “So remember what I just said?” he continued, turning back to Elvis.
“Something about thinking with guns from The Wild Bunch.”
Redemption shook his head.
“I said we got
“Madam, bring me one bottle!” Sunday shouted. “And one for everybody here!”
He hadn’t left the bar since he got there early in the morning. He looked around for Benji, but he was not there.
“Em, Mr. Philanthropist, before you give anoder person drink, pay for de one you done drink.”
“Haba, madam, why are talking like dis? It is me, Sunday de tycoon. When my numbers win lottery I will make you rich.”
“You never win lottery since de past twenty years, so why you go win it next week? Please pay me money.”
“Madam, dis is me, don’t be like a sourpuss.”
“Who are you? Money for hand, drink on de table. Simple.”
“Hah! dis woman wicked O!”
“I am wicked, eh …”
“Ah, not you, madam, I mean my wife.”
The madam of the bar smiled. She was very ready to extend credit to all her customers, who were mostly poor and unemployed anyway. But even her generosity had its limits, though she understood that they had come to drown their sorrows in her watered-down alcohol. They needed her and she needed them; they drank, she sold. If she was owed, she owed the palm wine supplier, who owed someone else; everyone owed someone these days, it was the vogue. But she needed to crack the whip from time to time just enough so that her customers did not take her for granted.
“Madam, how about one bottle on my account?”
“Which account? Dis place look like bank to you? Cash sale only.”
Sunday gazed stubbornly at the palm wine seller, who in turn tried to stare him down, but Sunday was used to this. They played it out every night and the palm wine seller always lost. He felt confident of victory. It was only a matter of minutes.
“You want to drink but you have no money,” she said, her resolve already weakening.
“We’ve got to start thinking beyond our guns,” Redemption said, slamming down his checker piece and picking up the three he had just killed.
“Damn!” Kansas said as he watched his pieces leave the board.
Elvis took a swig of beer. “What guns?”
“What guns?” Redemption repeated, his eyes never leaving the board. “Don’t you remember dat film, De Wild Ones?”
“ Wild Bunch ,” Kansas corrected, taking one of Redemption’s pieces.
“You’re sure it’s not Wild Ones? ” Redemption said.
“Want to bet?” Kansas asked with a crooked smile.
Redemption recognized the confidence in the smile and declined.
“But what has this got to do with my father and me?” Elvis asked, sounding more than a little frustrated.
“Crown me, crown me king!” Kansas shouted as he won.
“Fuck dis,” Redemption swore, getting up and letting someone else slide into his place. He had just lost ten naira. They were sitting in the backyard of Redemption’s tenement, where there was a money game every night. Kansas and Redemption were the usual winners, making enough to pay their rent.
“See how your constant distraction cost me money?” Redemption said, sitting down next to Elvis on an upturned bucket. He reached for Elvis’s beer and took a deep drink.
“Ten naira is chicken change to you. I need advice,” Elvis said, wresting the beer bottle back and draining it.
“But talking is thirsty business,” Redemption said.
“Please, I just bought you a bottle of beer. You know I don’t have that kind of money. I am a laborer.”
“Okay, okay. Let me treat you,” Redemption said, handing money to one of the kids hanging around the game. “Go and get me two beers.”
“Three!” Kansas shouted from his game.
“Three,” Redemption repeated to the kid.
“Four,” someone else shouted.
“Your mother!” Redemption shouted back. “So remember what I just said?” he continued, turning back to Elvis.
“Something about thinking with guns from The Wild Bunch.”
Redemption shook his head.
“I said we got
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