Th e string-bed

CHAPTER NINETEEN

amen.

Back to my own illness. Mama said there was a spirit that snuck behind the door every time she entered the room. She said she could feel its presence. She whispered in my ear that the smell of her husband’s sweat was unmistakable, so she called the medicine man to come and banish it.

“Do not let him take my son from me,” she pleaded. “Make him return to his resting place.” She knew the dangers of calling a spirit by its name.

The old medicine man whispered to the cowries and threw them in the center of the cloth they came wrapped in. “Hmm. This spirit has come for revenge.”

“But what have I done to anger it?”

“It is not you; it is the boy.”

“What has the boy done?”

“He walks on his grave like the chief who strides the palace and neglects to pay his respects to the king.”

“But the boy does not even know where he was buried. The men refused to take even me there!”

“It is not your place or mine to question the spirits. Tell your son to abandon the forests or he will leave the land of the living. And as soon as he is of age, send him away from here to protect his own unborn sons.”

“I have heard your words and they are full of wisdom. Take these yards of cloth for your wives.” My mother handed him a pile of beautifully embroidered tie-dyed fabric.

As soon as he stooped through the threshold, Mama knelt beside me and held my right hand in both of hers. “Son, did you hear the words of the wise man?”

“Only some,” I said, but I’d heard everything.

“Then listen. Soon, you must go far from here. Go to Ibadan, where forests are few and palaces are plentiful. Go far from these roots that threaten to knot themselves round your feet and drag you into their tombs.”

The swelling around my neck went down within weeks. I swore to my mother that I would never go to the forests again, not to fetch firewood, nor even to hunt. But they say a hunter’s child is not trained but born. Though I resisted, the leaves of the forests beckoned to me. The roots formed a path and branches begged me to perch upon them. Before I knew it, I was pressing my ears against solemn trees, listening to the hoot of guinea fowls I would never set eyes on. My disappearances did not go unnoticed. My mother heard my feet stomping on the doorsill and she knew straightaway that I was disobeying her. One day, she tied a wad of notes in a handkerchief, placed it in my pocket and sent me off to Ibadan with journey mercies. I was to work as an apprentice in a store where they sold

plumbing materials.

I worked for many years not knowing the scent of women until the spirit of Ayikara found me and sucked me into its belly. That is how I met Teacher—the noble one whose rays of wisdom have

guided me through darkness. If the gods took the form of men, they would fight for Teacher’s body. It was he who told me that I should return home and marry the woman my mother had found for me, lest the women of Ayikara bitter my blood with their bile. It was Teacher who pointed me in the direction of the medicine man when it seemed Iya Segi’s back would be permanently gummed to our

matrimonial mat. Within months, she was forced on her side, her belly bulbous like the back end of an earthen pot drunk on rainwater. Segi, my daughter, was named by my mother. My mother looked into her face and died a contented death.

Lust points its finger at every man and soon after I married, the women of Ayikara began to look like princesses and goddesses. I was happy to have these women on the side, but Teacher said, “Two

women at home are better than ten in a bush. They are Jezebels. A man whose house is full of birth will never want for mirth.” And this from a man whose penis they say has never known the moistness of a woman! You see, the gods are always merciful: what they took away from the bottom they added to the top. The man is full of wisdom. I took a second wife, a peace offering from a desperate farmer.

I took the third because she offered herself with humility. What kind of human being rejects the fullness of a woman? Would the gods themselves not have been angered if I had forgone the opportunity to show mercy upon another human being?

I chose Bolanle, I cannot lie; I set my mind on her, the way a thirsty child sets his eyes on a cup filling from a spout. Teacher said I was right to possess her. He bought me two shots of whiskey and patted me on the shoulder. Not a fleck of jealousy, not a speck of envy. I tell you, the man is to be admired.

CHAPTER TWENTY