Bom Boy Page 6

‘How are you?’ Marcus asked.

  ‘Fine,’ Leke said.

  ‘Ah! So you do speak after all. What was all the fuss about?’ Marcus smiled but Leke just disentangled himself from the awkward embrace and returned to his game.

  ‘Bedtime my boy,’ Marcus said, his smile disappearing and a heavy sense of fatigue settling onto his shoulders.

  Leke didn't resist, he was already dressed in his pyjamas. He climbed into bed.

  ‘Good night,’ Marcus said.

  ‘Good night.’

  Leke spoke only when Marcus spoke to him so Marcus came home earlier in the day to engage with the boy. Slowly he invited friends around and, over the course of four months, Leke was willing to answer any question put to him. He rarely volunteered conversation but that, Marcus decided, was simply the child's personality. Relieved to have cured Leke and relieved to have been extracted from what had seemed like a trance-like ritual of work and home with little or no contact with anyone in between, life-after-Jane continued for Marcus, boring and unremitting.

  Friday 31st July 1992

  For Leke:

  Babalawo mo wa bebe

  I remember when I asked my father what that meant. I could first see the regret in his eyes that his only son didn't speak Yoruba. I told him I knew what babalawo meant, but what about the rest?

  The song tells the story of Ijapa, the tortoise, whose wife, Yonibo, cannot bear children. On the advice of a neighbour, Ijapa travels through a forest and visits the home of babalawo, the Ifa diviner, to ask for guidance.

  The babalawo listens to his plight and performs the necessary rituals. She gives Ijapa a bowl of soup that he is to give to his wife to drink the minute he arrives home.

  Ijapa leaves his offerings and starts the journey home, the babalawo's warnings ringing in his ear – don't drink the soup, it is for your wife.

  I loved the story and, to prolong it, I would find ways to interrupt my father.

  Babalawo mo wa bebe

  Alugbinrin

  I didn't realise I was singing out loud.

  One of my cellmates just ordered me to shut up.

  I'm four. I'm high up, each leg dangling off my father's broad shoulders. We must be going to the farm because I'm wearing my blue rubber boots – I remember they were heavy to walk in – and when I look down the ground is far away. We cross a bridge, avoiding where the slats are beginning to rot and give way. It has rained. I make my father promise to take me fishing He never did but in that moment, right there, I was safe.

  I didn't finish telling you the rest of the “Babalawo story”.

  The journey home through the forest was long and arduous for Iajpa. It was Harmattan season and the dry winds parched his skin and throat. Almost faint from exhaustion, he stopped under a dried out tree and drank the tantalising soup. Arriving home he assured Yonibo the medicine had been in the form of incantations and that it would soon start to work. Within days Ijapa's belly became engorged and an acute pain consumed him. Concerned, Yonibo decided to take him to the babalawo for a cure. As they walked Ijapa sang:

  Babalawo mo wa bebe

  Alugbinrin

  Mo boju wo kun, ori gbendu

  Alugbinrin

  Babalawo mo wa bebe, Alugbinrin

  In Ijapa's song he confessed his greed and supplicated the Ifa priest. Yonibo suddenly understood what had happened.

  When they arrived in front of the babalawo she offered no pity, citing that she had warned Ijapa. He writhed in pain and died in the arms of his wife.

  Sometimes, even as I remember this story, I think about what I've done. I actually ask myself the question in my head, ‘Oscar what have you done?’

  I ask myself, ‘Are you crazy?’

  I dare not tell anyone, Leke. But you I have to tell.

  I've worked very hard and tried many things but I am still uncertain about a way out of “darkness”. That was what my father called the curse – darkness.

  Monday 6th August 2012

  Right at the edge of Leke's suburb a new shopping centre had opened. He walked the route to the back of the mall and slipped in through a delivery door. During the day this access was busy, but after 6pm it got quiet. He entered under the bright lights of the mall, squinting but enjoying the glint on the tiled walls. The crowds surprised him but he remembered seeing a flyer announcing that stores were open till 10pm to test out the late-night shopping market.

  After Leke's first visit to the mall he'd returned regularly.

  The Plaza Mall smelled of paint and brass polish. From the high ceilings warm coloured lights hung low, and along the floors elaborate stone clay pots held palm fronds and cacti. The curves of the snake plant.

  Mother-in-law's tongue, Latin name Sansevieria trifasciata, Lek, he heard Jane's voice in his ear.

  All the shoppers in the mall seemed to Leke to be in a dance, an intricate dance that started when they entered the mall and ended as they left. The mall was hypnotic, like an enchanted forest, but instead of trees and bushes there were elevators and escalators, and in place of animals there were sales people. Instead of fruit, clothes sprouted in the shop windows, waiting to be picked.

  Leke wandered into a department store.

  ‘'scuse me, how much for this?’ a shopper asked. Her plum red hair, Leke noticed, was grey at the roots. She had a walking stick which she leaned on with her ring-clad right hand. In her left hand she dangled a shiny red belt, shaking it in the direction of the sales assistant. Leke busied himself to one side of the store, turning the metal stand with silk scarves hanging from the hooks. The assistant walked towards the customer, took the belt and examined it.

  ‘There is no price tag, that's why I asked you.’

  ‘Of course, sorry,’ the assistant handed it back to her and, from his counter, made a phone call.

  While she waited the woman tried on the belt. She tied it around a thickened waist and turned from side to side to examine the effect in front of a full length mirror.

  ‘What do you think?’ she turned and asked Leke with a coy smile.

  He pretended not to hear and, his heart pounding, walked out of the shop. She'd caught him off guard, usually he managed to blend into the background and no one ever noticed him. He regretted not answering back. Scolding himself, he waited down a passageway leading to the toilets and saw the woman walk past with the designer carrier bag, her purchases inside.

  Leke followed her through the mall but he worried she'd recognise him. At the cosmetics store he watched her try three shades of lipstick before he left.

  After half an hour of aimless wandering another woman caught his attention. She was heavy-set but younger than the first woman, teetering on spiky heels. Her ample bust was barely covered beneath a black net of fabric and a torn t-shirt, her brown fleshy arms were adorned in silver bangles. She slipped and fell, made a loud whoop as she landed on her bum. A group of teenagers, gathered nearby, giggled. Leke rushed to assist, helping her collect the scattered belongings.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He smiled a response.

  Later, on his walk back towards the house, he slipped the lone bangle from underneath his sweater. It was slender and delicate and he remembered how she had pushed it up along to the thicker part of her arms so that the silver dug into her flesh. He forced the bangle up his bicep, enjoying the tightness of its hold on his skin.

  The December after Jane's death Leke planted the perennials she'd mused about, but they only blossomed the following year. Every two years he planted a new batch so that when one plant was dying another was blooming. When he moved out he took cuttings from the Four O'Clocks he'd planted in what he still thought of as “Jane's garden”. He'd hoped that the small patch of ground at the back of his studio would be completely his own but Jane still filled the space. He pretended she wasn't there but she stood behind him, while he worked, telling him not to plant the seeds too close and not to overdo it with the mulching.

  There was no outside light at the back, but a fat moon
cast down giving the garden a muted glow Leke stood surveying the results of his work. Along one side there was a window into Widow Marais's house, but it was frosted, nothing to be seen. Along the other three sides of the garden were high walls. He'd divided the ground into three beds. One planted with rows of Four O'Clocks, at ruler-height, the bright blossoms were open and oozing a sweet scent. In another were spindly stems, little babies shooting out of the ground. Leke, barefoot, bent down and continued work on the last bed, pulling up a run of dead daisies and tough grass growing in the corner against the wall. He'd put on his gardening shorts so he could kneel on the ground without dirtying his work clothes. Using a fork he began to turn the soil, inhaling the smell of what he'd always thought of as earth-sweat. He mixed in the compost he'd picked up from Elias and started to dig out a small ditch, he could fit in three lines. The garden soil was soft and compliant from the rain. He used his fingers to dig out space for new seeds. He took the packet, tore it open, and poured a few seeds into his palm, walking along the run and placing them in the holes he'd dug. Jane had taught him to collect garden refuse in a specific part of the garden, keep it there, steaming, ready for use when necessary. Leke took the tin bucket the Rhododendron had put out for the garbage collectors. A small hole in the side but it was perfect for moving soil or mulch. Filling it with the garden refuse he'd collected over the months and some extra bark Elias had given for free, he spread it over the bed. The mulch fell with soft thuds and Leke thought of blankets, and Jane kissing him goodnight.

  ‘Sh, Sh,’ he whispered and afterwards wondered who he was talking to.

  Wednesday 19th August 1992

  My dear Elaine

  How are you? Thanks for the photograph in your last letter; I remember the day I took it.

  How is Leke? I can't believe he's almost a month old. Even though I'm tired, when I think of him I notice that I smile. But when I smile there is also a pain in my chest. Life has confused me.

  I've noticed I feel tired a lot. Not when I'm speaking to you on the phone, then I'm most awake! It's this place, I feel as if I'm always holding my breath, clenching my teeth, my fists. I wake up tired.

  Sorry to say these things.

  I'm okay, really. I'm mostly left alone here. I'm grateful, but not everyone shares my fortune. I am now in a cell with forty other men, some of them are just boys, really.

  I'm scared Elaine. I might get lost here. Write to me.

  Elaine didn't intentionally skip a week without writing or phoning but when she came home from work and collected Leke from her neighbour, the time to sit and write seemed to elude her. In the morning she expressed milk and then hurried to drop Leke off. Telkom had cut the phone-line and her landlady installed a pay as you go. Rather than spend the money on the call, Elaine bought bread.

  After this prison, hell will be a holiday. The smell of semen and urine waft through my dreams. I wake up gagging.

  I sleep with my head by the wall. ‘Hey’ someone has written as if they are talking to me. There are also pictures. A vagina with a speech bubble, I cannot make out the words.

  I missed your letter last week, perhaps it got lost in the mail.

  I continue with my letters to Leke, I'll send them with this one to you. I'll put them in a separate envelope.

  My mattress is thinner than a cotton summer shirt and it stinks. Sweat and desperation. Each night, as a distraction, I lie down and pretend you’re beside me. Your lavender smell.

  How is Leke? Kiss him for me. I put a mental picture of him under my pillow, I sleep better now.

  I've spoken to my lawyer about the money the university owes me. I think it will all be sorted out soon. I have asked her to send you something in the meantime. I'm so sorry Elaine, I cannot undo this.

  Love always, Oscar

  What was it about letters from Oscar that had her standing in front of a mirror? Elaine turned sideways, noticing the small bulge still around her waist. She smoothed her shirt down her front, holding her stomach in, and leaned closer, studying first one side of her face and then the other.

  In prison Elaine's letters were more human to Oscar than the men he shared a cell with. The letters kept him sane, a kind of necessary course of medicine that he needed to stay alive. When he missed a letter he could feel his blood slug through his veins, uninterested. He lost his appetite and the environment around him, violence and loneliness, looked normal. Sometimes he panicked and re-read old letters but it was like taking expired medication, useless and even counter productive.

  On nights when he could not fall asleep, remembering helped but rest was not always assured. Often it was the memories that kept him awake.

  ‘Oh excuse me,’ the woman said. ‘They'd said this room was empty. I would've knocked.’

  Oscar had noticed her before, wearing the distinct bright blue and red cleaner's uniform, walking the passageways of his department. She was a small woman, pale with liquid-grey eyes. The reason he'd first noticed her was because she was so short. He'd seen her from behind once, thought she was one of the lecturer's children and wondered if she was lost. Despite lugging around the mop in a heavy steel bucket she looked as though you could scatter her with a puff of wind – what were those things called again? Oscar remembered them from the farm. Just a puff and off they went.

  ‘No problem. You’re actually right I was meant to be giving a tutorial. But you see some of the students complained to the faculty head that they can't understand my accent. Do I sound like I'm speaking English to you?’ Oscar felt bad but why should he not unburden himself.

  The woman shifted her weight then said, ‘I'll come back then.’

  ‘No no no! Come in, please. Don't let me stop you.’

  She heskated then entered the office.

  Oscar's desk was set against the back wall, facing the door. To the left of the desk was an aging wooden cabinet with dusty glass doors holding back a stack of books. Something about the books seemed restless; some of them had pages that, swollen with age, had spilled from their dried out spines. Some pages had fallen and were stuck between the glass doors.

  When Elaine opened the cabinet doors to clean them the pages fell onto the ground, sending the dust into the air.

  Oscar sneezed.

  ‘Bless you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he tried marking scripts but was distracted, he kept looking up.

  ‘What's your name? I'm Oscar.’

  ‘Elaine.’

  ‘Ah, pleased to meet you.’

  She crossed to the right of the desk and began cleaning the heavily wooden-framed windows. She worked quietly but every few minutes let out a low hum, a piece of a song. Each time she did this Oscar looked up. She had her back to him. The red sash of the uniform fit round her small waist and ended in a bow with long ties that fell over the swell of her backside. She was small, but she was definitely a woman.

  Elaine turned around and caught him staring at her, a warm flush rising from the base of her neck to her temples.

  Simply looking away didn't diminish Oscar's embarrassment, and he emitted a series of coughs, hoping the brash sound would do the trick.

  ‘I need to vacuum. Should I come back?’

  ‘Listen. It's fine. I'll go. I can finish this at home,’ he rose and started packing away the papers into his briefcase.

  ‘Sorry for the trouble.’

  ‘No trouble.’

  Elaine stood as he fumbled with the buckle of his worn leather bag. He glanced at her sideways, ‘How's the bicycle? The, uhm, the tyre?’

  She looked confused.

  ‘I saw you the other day pumping it up – did you manage to fix it?’

  ‘For now, yes but… I've already patched it twice.’

  ‘I wouldn't compromise on that if I were you. Just get a new one, they can't be that expensive,’ a few more seconds of silence passed before Oscar guessed that his candour had somehow offended her. ‘I didn't mean to say… what I mean is…I'm sorry,’ he felt unclear about what he was apologisin
g for.

  Elaine's mouth set firm, she looked down. Oscar apologised once more and left the office.

  He drove home, sitting at the green robot until the car behind him hooted. His earlier confrontation with his students was forgotten. Her hands would fit into his palms. He enjoyed remembering as much detail as he'd managed to take in, during their short encounter. A strong scent he couldn't place.

  The following day, walking on University Lane, he realised what the scent was. He veered towards the bush that bordered the paved lane. Lavendar. He picked a sprig and kept it in his pocket.

  The next time Oscar saw Elaine it was six o'clock on a Friday evening. He'd walked into the senior lecturers’ common room and found her paging through one of the fiction novels on the shelf. She didn't hear him enter. He walked quietly and, leaning over her shoulder, said, ‘Most of the book is tedious but there's a great sex scene on page a hundred and twenty.’

  Elaine blushed.

  I'm sorry. I've done it again. I'm an idiot…’

  ‘No. It's fine,’ her hands were shaking as she turned to put the book back.

  Why don't you keep it? Take it for the weekend. Read and…maybe tell me what you think.’

  ‘No. Thanks. I need to get to work,’ she walked around him, picked up her mop and bucket at the entrance to the room and left.

  In bed that night Oscar lay awake. Despite her size, Elaine wore the serious face of an adult, unlined but stiff. Her hair was short and just where the brown strands ended along the base of her neck the skin thickened and had the colour of dried grass – some kind of injury.

  A couple of weeks passed before he saw her again. He went to find her in the locker room assigned to the cleaners.

  ‘I have something for you.’

  ‘What?’

  One other cleaner was in the room, she collected her bags and left. It was the end of the day-shift and Elaine's shift was just beginning. Oscar handed her the book she'd been studying the last time he saw her.

  ‘I was just kidding about the sex, didn't mean to be offensive. Take it.’