Maybe if I had a mother ...
No, it wouldn't have mattered.
She wouldn't have done anything anyway
Chapter1
Papa paced up and down the living room, eyes fixed on the ceiling with its patches of peeled white, and blackened edging. Then he'd stop, his cell phone plastered to his ear. "Don't worry, Chief," he whispered. "I'll take care of it. I'll...yes...yes. David will be easy to find."
He glanced at me.
I knew that look; another unspoken rule pulsing through Papa's yellowed eyes. Translation: Lock the doors and windows. Don't let anyone in. And don't leave.
Stiffening, I pushed myself off the wall, sweat prickling my underarms. Papa had woken me an hour before, grasping my tee-shirt and barking curses in my ear. Provoking him now would be stupid. I just had to play along.
I wasn't going to miss David.
Papa flipped his phone shut, and shoved it into his pocket with an angry hiss. I bit my lower lip, and shifted my gaze to his feet. Ugly things, with toenails all curved in different directions. He'd soon make his way back through the corridor, and return with his Glock 35, his knife, maybe even the machete...
"Osita..." Papa said his voice quiet. "Hurry up."
Swallowing, I dug in to my shorts. My fingers soon closed around a metal clump, and I sprinted toward the front door, already sliding one of the keys through the lock.
"Osita, my shoes" he called out behind me, his voice raised now. "Are you stupid?"
Of course I was. I was still here, wasn't I?
Heart racing, I hurried back to the center of the room, and crouched behind the high-backed settee, a mish-mash of torn upholstery and cushions with rat bitten holes. I thrust my hand under the sofa. After a few desperate seconds, I gave a sigh of relief as my hands closed over Papa's canvas .Then I pushed myself off the floor, trying to ignore the pin-prick sensation of sand and grit on my knees. It was better than a punch in the chest. That happened last week. Something about the way I looked at Kevwe. I couldn't remember.
Curving my hands round Papa's canvas, I straightened up and blinked at the spot where he stood a few seconds before, old boxes and cardboard hovering in the background. Another hovel. The fourth in six months. The police weren't supposed to find us here. The people on Adesanya Street wouldn't allow it, all of them bowing and smiling as Papa passed by. It was safer...smarter to be grateful to Chief.
David should have remembered that.
I rubbed the back of my neck, staring back at the sofa. It was probably in there, hidden under all that foam and spring. It could be there, all three hundred thousand. It was just like Papa to leave it there in plain sight. I'd never look there of course. I wasn't that smart.
The sounds of Papa's breathing jerked me back into reality, a white tee-shirt wrapped round his muscled frame, head glistening bald under the one fluorescent light. A duffle bag thrown over his shoulder. I stepped forward, and passed him his shoes. The frown was gone from his eyes now; all that was left was a squinty-eyed blankness. This was the second stage. The first stage was the quiet anger, the rage at being barked at by Chief, and not able to do a damn thing about it. Now he was still and calm. Ready to do what needed to be done.
As he slid his feet into his canvas, I resisted the urge to reach behind my back, and feel the scars running up and down my flank. I stared at him instead, watching as long fingers secured Velcro straps. When he stood up, I turned away quickly, and stared out of the window. Kevwe had hung her wrappers across them again, exactly the same ones as the night before. Blue-patterned cloth flung across the sill. She was too stupid to realize that if someone wanted to look through, they could. They just didn't dare.
"Osita."
I turned back. "Papa."
Tilting his head to one side, he hefted more of the bag over his shoulder. "Lock the doors."
"Yes, Papa."
"Check them. Again. Not like last time."
"I won't...," I began.
"Check them. Windows. Doors. Don't let anyone in."
I bit my lower lip. "Yes, Papa."
He shifted forward, narrowly missing the wooden side table to his left. He wasn't ready to go yet. He didn't trust me.
Chest tightening, I hurried to the door again. I jiggled the key in the lock, and gripped the doorknob. He had to go. He wasn't getting called out often enough anymore, and there wasn't any time left. If only he'd take his latest whore with him.
I swung the door open, and stepped back. The night air filled my lungs, swelling up on the inside of me, clearing up my insides. Reaching for the switch by the door jamb, I flipped it on. The florescent tube flickered to life, the veranda suddenly visible.
"Turn it off." His voice was calm again.
I reached for the switch again, and the veranda faded back into shadow. Closing my eyes, I waited for the sounds of the night to reach out and grab me. Make me forget for a second or two.
Our third home had been like that, with babies crying at all hours. Young people partying, laughter streaming down the street, everybody's generator groaning in unison. The occasional car shrieked past, even at two in the morning. Life. Not like here. Not like all these people with their fake smiles, their hate barely hidden. They didn't want us here, but didn't have a choice. People like Papa protected them, kept them safe.
Safe from people like him.
I could feel his breath at the back of my neck, and I pulled back, allowing him to pass. The floor boards groaned under his weight as he trudged across the veranda, giving a final squeak when he stepped off to cross the gutter. He soon stood alongside his red-wine Mazda. An efficient car. Inconspicuous. Easy to get rid of. I'd tried to take it the first time I ran away from home, but ended up with two front tires in a ditch instead. I got my third set of scars then, but not from the accident.
"Osita," he called out suddenly from the darkness, startling me out of my thoughts. I stepped forward, but didn't go past the doorway.
"Don't be stupid," he said, finally.
His silhouette melted into darkness. Then there was an opening click of a car door, the turn of the ignition, and the Mazda's answering groan. I watched the lights dissolve into the distance, soon a blurred, dull glow. I waited a few more seconds, just to make sure. Then he was gone.
Spinning round, I clicked the door behind me. More softly this time, I didn't want to wake Kevwe. The last thing I needed was her wandering through, her large, grey eyes searching mine. I didn't know when Papa would leave again, and I had to make the most of it.
I ran toward the sofa again, the chill of the floor drilling through the soles of my feet. Lowering myself to the floor, I reached under the sofa, searching for a loose flap or an unexpected give in the slabs of plywood underneath. Nothing. I cursed, and thrust my hand upward. Nothing still.
I rose to my feet. This wasn't the time to give up. The more money I had, the quicker...the further away I could get. I wasn't going to become like him.
Pulling at the cushions, I felt along the armrest, my finger nails dragging at old zips and fitted buttons. I wasn't going to become a monster.
The sound of my breathing pushed through the silence in the parlor, with its turned-up cartons, and stacks of newspapers. It had to be here, Papa's retirement plan. He'd boasted about it enough times during his drunken hazes. His 'rainy day' money, all hidden safely away just in case Chief thought a little too hard about his number two man. Maybe someone younger. More eager.
Everybody had laughed, his good old friends that stopped by every few months. Chief would never let him go. What would the old man do without him? They'd all laugh again, drink beer, and thrust themselves into big breasted girls with foul breath. But it was true. I'd seen it. I'd seen Papa roll a wad of brown notes into a nylon bag, one night when he thought I wasn't looking.
It had been four years, and I still hadn't found it.
I dropped into the sofa, and kicked at the nearest carton, an invisible spring twisting into my left thigh. The room seemed to get smaller every time I stared at it. On my left, a rough slice in the wall led to the corridor which branched off into three smaller rooms. Further left was the kitchen, brimming with cockroaches and other flying insects.
Maybe today I would get lucky. Get lucky and this time Papa would be the one on the other side of a gun or a rifle. I'd be free then.
As I sank deeper into the couch, I swiped at a buzzing sound near my ear. Cursing, I sat up again. What the hell had Kevwe done anyway? My chest still hurt from her frantic insecticide spraying, noxious fumes pumped into corners, under beds, in our faces. I wanted to tear the can from her hands. Stuff it down her throat too. But that was something he'd do.
I had to work fast.
"Osita...what's going on here? What did you do to the chair?"
Too late.
Kevwe stood in the doorway, her hair a tumble of red braids, a bright, yellow wrapper corseted round her, her eye red from sleep.
Too late.
"I cleared this place before I went to bed," she continued, a frown on her face now. "What did you do?"
I shrugged. "Nothing."
Flicking a flame braid from the front of her face, her frown deepened. "What do you mean nothing? Pick those things up now."
Barely twenty and she was trying to order me around. Again. I sank back into the springs, and folded my arms across my chest. "I'll do it later," I turned my attention to the newspaper-ridden floor.
But she didn't go away- not that I thought she would. "No," she hissed, tying more of her wrapper round her, red fingernails clutching at yellow cotton. "You'll do it now."
I hissed, and dug myself further in, the springs tearing into my butt now.
"I'm not in the mood for this, Osita." she said, clutching at the fold of wrapper under her left arm. "I cleaned this place up yesterday...look at it now."
I had to keep calm. "I said I'll clean it."
"I can't keep cleaning up after you. What are you? Fifteen?"
"Seventeen."
She exhaled sharply. "That's even worse."
She lowered herself to the floor, her shoulders and upper back exposed, clear and blemish free under the harsh fluorescent.
Her clear, beautiful skin.
Squatting, she grabbed at the newspapers, and balled them in her hands. "I have to do everything here." she muttered, and pushed back the braids from her forehead. But more bleached strands fell across her eyes. Cursing under her breath, she turned to look at me.
I blinked. It was happening again. She'd turn, her grey eyes squinting at me and I wouldn't be able to breathe. I'd look away, like I was afraid of her or something. What was wrong with me?
I stood up. "I'll do it."
She shrugged, and snatched up more newspapers. I should have sat back down then, hoisted my feet up on the armrest.
I crouched beside her instead, and picked up a cushion. "Papa just left a few minutes ago." Maybe if I was nicer, she'd leave. I'd get on with what I really needed to do.
She gave another micro-shrug, turned and reached in another direction. "He might not be coming back tonight."
"Maybe. But I need to stay up just in case. You can go back to bed."
"Just in case...like if he's wounded or something?" I could hear the sudden sharpness in her tone.
I reached for another cushion a few feet from me. "Sometimes. Papa just wants me awake if he comes back. Just to be ready, that's all." Red nails clutching at the last set of paper. "Aren't you a little young for that?"
I shrugged. "It's what Papa wants."
"On your own? But what if... you're only seventeen."
I swallowed, gripping the cushion in my hands. "I'm not a child. I'm used to it."
Settling herself into a more sensible squat, she looked up at me then, her lips turned up into a smile. "Of course not."
She was laughing at me.
I threw the cushions on the couch. Kevwe wasn't going to back sleep. She was going to run her mouth instead, and say something stupid. Just like all the rest of Papa's whores. I was stuck with her.
Breathing hard, I plunked down on the sofa, crossed my legs at the ankles and stared forward. Seeing nothing. Knowing she'd still talk.
Kevwe must have sensed the change in my mood, because her smile wavered. "Would you like to eat something?" she asked suddenly, rising to her feet. "I think there's some rice left. And I didn't burn it all this time," she added, her smile broadening.
I folded my arms. Why didn't she just go back to bed? Sleep off the moan-filled orgy of the night before. "No." I glanced up at her. "I'll wait up for Papa."
But Kevwe wrapped bright, yellow African print around her frame, drawing attention to voluptuous curves and dips. "I'll wait here with you," she said, grabbing a cushion, and settling in beside me. "I'm already awake. He'll be happy to see me."
I glared up at her, but bit back down what I had to say as she clutched the cushion, crossed her legs and stared straight ahead. Forget tonight. And God only knew when I would get another opportunity like this. The bitch had ruined everything.
I slapped at another set of buzzing sounds around my ear, hissing as I felt the already swollen skin at the back of my neck.. But I couldn't go anywhere. Couldn't sleep. I needed to find that money.
Kevwe leaned forward suddenly, and smacked her left shoulder, her lips contorted into a grimace. Whose fault was that? There had been a whole lot of noise about buying Raid the night before, and how well she was going to spray everywhere and everything before nightfall.
"You're nothing like your father," she said suddenly, her words rushed as if unsure whether she should speak but saying it anyway.
I felt myself stiffen. Maybe if I kept quiet for long enough, she'd shut up. Leave me the hell alone.
"So quiet. You never say much of anything."
I leaned back into the sofa. "There's not much to say."
"I don't think I've ever heard you say more than two words when he's around. Either you're just staring into space or you're in your room."
I shrugged, and smacked at another sting near my ankle. More buzzing sounds. I didn't have to talk to her.
"And he never takes you anywhere. Like he wants to keep you in."
I shifted in my seat, something nipping at my insides.
"Like he doesn't want you out of the house." She leaned forward, grey eyes boring into mine. "Have you ever met Chief?"
"What?"
"Chief. Have you ever met him?"
Papa...please....Papa...leave me alone...
I wiped at the sweat on my forehead "No."
"Maybe one day."
I clenched and unclenched both fists. The living room seemed much smaller than it did five minutes ago, as if the walls were inching closer. Sucking the air out of the room as they did so. I needed to get out of there
I needed to breathe.
Ignoring her raised eyebrows, I pushed myself off the sofa, and headed for the door.
"Where are you going?"
I froze, my hand closed round the door knob. I could still smell it, the stench forcing its way through my nostrils. Taunting me. Reminding me of that night.
Please...Papa...please...
And Papa's words.
I'll kill you, you little wretch. I'll kill you before you disgrace me.
I reached for the keys in my pocket.
"Osita," Kevwe called behind me, her tone calm. Maybe she thought I'd gone mad. "Come back, and sit down."
Keys in hand, I shifted to the left of the door jamb, and peered through Kevwe's wrapper. Darkness bathed our narrow street, our neighbors hidden behind cement hovels. No hope there. Not one of them would dare help me. They heard nothing, saw nothing. And in return for their silence, the residents of Adesanya Street were allowed their ... sleep.
As Kevwe shuffled behind me, I jerked the quasi-curtain back, and scraped at the netting. It wasn't enough, I needed air. Not Kevwe tapping at my shoulder.
I pushed her hand away and spun round. "What do you think you're doing?" I spat. "You think you can control me?"
She stared at me for a few seconds, clutching at her wrapper. "You know what your father said. You can't go outside when he's not here."
"You don't know anything about what Papa says. You just got here."
"I'm just trying too..."
"You're here to screw my father, that's all."
Her eyes narrowed then. "Are you mad?" she muttered. "Who do you think you're talking too?"
I forced a laugh, and turned back to the door. Sliding the key into the lock, I exhaled sharply. Maybe when I opened the door, I'd be able to breathe again. Get rid of the stench.
"You wouldn't have the balls to say that if your dad was here," Kevwe said suddenly, raising her voice.
I spun back round, wrenching my hand from the doorknob. She still stood there, her lips curved into a mocking smile, arms folded tight against her chest. What did she say to me?
She snorted. "You better go back, sit down and shut up. Or else..."
I took a step forward, chest tightening. "Or else what?"
"Your dad will soon be here. So you'd better control yourself, Osita."
I took another step forward. All I wanted to do was breathe, get some fresh air. But she couldn't keep her mouth shut. Papa was right. They were all the same. And they had to be taught a lesson. "But he isn't here yet," I said finally, lowering my voice the same way I'd heard Papa do for years. "Just you and me."
She laughed again, but it was more forced than before. Not as confident.
She was scared.
Gut clenched, I took another step forward. I'd grab her by her braids; tighten them round my fingers and pull. Pin her arm behind her back and thrust it upward till I heard that all so-familiar snapping sound. Then I'd get the stick from under Papa's bed. The one studded with nails. That should shut her up.
Horns beeped.
I spun back round, and clutched the curtains in between my fingers. Yellow head lights bobbed down the rut-covered streets, dimming as it got nearer. Brakes creaked, and a door clicked open. Maybe he didn't find David. Or he found him too soon.
I stole a glance at Kevwe, my chest tightening as she glared back at me. I could already see it, Papa pushing me down on the floor with one hand, removing his belt with the other. Another night. Another scar.
She grabbed the keys from my hand. "If you're just going to stand there," she hissed, slotting the key in the lock. "I'll open the door."
Exhaling sharply, I hung back as she pulled the door open, and stepped aside. Papa trudged into the room, lips tight, his eyes narrowed.
Something had gone wrong.
"Welcome," Kevwe purred as he made his way inside, not even flinching at his mumbled response. Standing on tip-toe, she flung her arms round his neck, and kissed him on the chin. "You're back so soon."
I turned away, staring at the cement floor. I didn't want to watch Papa slip and slide his hands over her again.
Kevwe pulled herself away from Papa. "I didn't hear you leave," she breathed, her lips curved into a smile. Like she'd been caught doing something bad, and was hoping he hadn't noticed. "You should have woken me."
He flicked an imaginary strand from her temple, but didn't smile in response. "Go to bed. I need to talk to my son."
The smile left her eyes. "But don't you want to eat? I could get something. It won't take time."
He gave her a tight, little smile. "You do that,' he said softly, brushing his hand against her forehead. " I need to talk to Osita, okay?"
Kevwe stared at him for a few seconds, then back at me. I swallowed. She wanted to tell him, I could see it in her eyes. But she said nothing, and headed for the kitchen. I still remember how she'd laughed yesterday. I'd opened one of the cupboards, desperate to avoid Kevwe's grey-eyed gaze, and several cockroaches had fluttered out, and into my faded Chicago Bulls tee-shirt. I'd stumbled out of the kitchen, my face burning while Papa laughed.
He wasn't laughing now.
Instead he spoke quickly. "I'll be gone for three days. By the time I get back you should be packed. And ready."
I froze. Ready? Ready for what?
His eyes narrowed, as if he knew what I was thinking. "Chief wants to see you."
I blinked. "Chief?"
"That's what I said."
I rubbed the back of my neck, sweat clinging to my palms. It had all come back now. The screams, the pleas for mercy, the smell of blood hanging thick in the air.
The sound of pots clanging rang from our left. Kevwe was trying her best not to be forgotten, not to be left out even now.
Papa sat down on the couch, the springs squeaking under his weight. I noticed he didn't have his bag with him. Maybe he'd left it in the car. Maybe it was still lying beside David. Who knew? Who cared? In a few days I would be standing in a line with other boys just like me, all ready to take up our fathers' mantle. Machetes in hand, wearing necklaces made from human bone. Our victims would cower in front of us. Another generation of assassins.
Papa...please...please
Get up you fool...
"It's been five years since you saw him last, right?" Papa asked suddenly.
I nodded dumbly as I sank into the nearest wall, trying not to remember a man hunched in a chair, filling out a flowing blue agbada, a weather-beaten face hidden under dark sunglasses.
"He asked for you specially," Papa said, linking his fingers behind his head as he leaned back on to the couch.
I swallowed again."I'm glad."
"Asked me whether your neck was still as long as he remembered. I said it was, but the rest of you had grown longer as well."
I swallowed again, scraping my left shoulder against the wall. "Papa..."
He gave a little laugh. "I said you had an afro now. He said he'd take care of that. Doesn't want you looking like a fag."
"Papa..."
He looked away from me, staring up at the ceiling again. "Not my son. I told him my son was a man. And that you'd prove it to him." Then he looked back at me. "Show him you're a man now."
Don't disgrace me.
I took a half-step forward. He'd given me up to the dogs before I could get away.
I had three days.
He disentangled his hands, and sat forward, his tee-shirt clinging to his muscled torso. "Did you hear what I said?"
More pots clanged form the kitchen, something sickly-sweet floating through the air. "Papa," I said quickly. "I'm tired. Can I go?"
A muscle in his cheek twitched, but he nodded. "I'll wake you before I go."
I could feel the sweat prickling my underarms as I slipped away, leaving Papa and the smell of Kevwe's warmed over stew. I walked through the corridor, not stopping to stare at the doors beside me, their plywood frames blurring and blending with chipped paint. The smell of cheap air freshener leaped out at me from several corners, another one of Kevwe's attempts at smothering the stench of wet wood. She'd failed, of course. But she was still in Papa's good books. But soon she'd be like the rest of them, bruised and confused, wondering when it all went wrong. I'd seen it a thousand times before.
Pushing my door open, I flinched at the buzzing sounds surging at me through the darkness. I reached for the light switch and then thought better of it. I didn't want the mosquitoes to see me coming.
I clambered into my bed, its metal frame screeching under my weight. The mattress was a piece of concrete Papa had thrown my way while he and Kevwe had towed away a king-sized Moukafoam.
So here I was, in this box, the remains of a ceiling fan hanging above my head, a slit of a window, and a travelling bag tossed under my bed. A 9mm Glock sewn into the lining. My gun with the two bullets, just in case.
Something perched on my nose, and I whacked at the air again, knowing I had missed as another series of buzzing sounds tore through the air. I stretched the wrapper over my head, the bottom of the wrapper rising above my feet. A feast. But mosquitoes were the least of my problems. I'd never killed a man before.