7 The Fly (1/2)

The shack's posture is that of an old man suffering from severe scoliosis – bent forward and tilting a little to the side. The man in front of it is not old. His t-s.h.i.+rt is. An empty t-s.h.i.+rt, with no words, or colour; just grey. You are not expecting the native medicine man to be a young t-s.h.i.+rt wearer, so when he introduces himself you almost cannot swallow your surprise; you have to clamp your lips together, and avert your eyes by looking down at the toes sitting outside the hole in his sneakers. The sneakers are also anonymous – no name, no logo, no ident.i.ty, nothing; they are just that dusty brown that has come a long way from white, or cream; shoes that have witnessed too many journeys, suffered too much trekking.

How can this be the medicine man, the powerful babalawo Yewi told you about?

'It is Yewande that tell you this place abi,' he says, in English that has deep roots in his native tongue and doesn't sit well on his mouth.

'Yes,' you say, feeling sorry for him, thinking perhaps you should not speak too much English, or you should even switch completely to Yoruba, to make him feel more comfortable. You don't like it when people judge by your appearance that they have an obligation to communicate with you in English; their attempt usually leaves you feeling guilty, as if their grammatical inadequacy is somehow your fault.

'She is my s.h.i.+ld,' he says, with a proud paternal grin.

You know your friend – she would take offence to being

called the child, or anything for that matter, of such a man.

You smile back, and nod in agreement at his 'paternity' claim. That is not your business, it is not why you are here.

'I know why you come, before you come,' he says, confidently, then adds, in Yoruba, 'my mothers have told me.'

His 'mothers'? You can tell that this is another pseudoparental allusion, because a person cannot have more than one mother, not even a powerful native doctor. The reverential inflection his voice takes on at the mention of these his mothers tells you that they must be very important people. He even had to mention them in Yoruba – ”awon iya mi” – as if English would have been too profane to use for them.

He can see the confusion that contorts your brow. He shows

a smile of yellowing teeth. 'Awon iya mi t'o l'aiye ni . . .'

'Oh,' you say, as if they are your relatives too, distant relatives, and you have suddenly remembered them. You give a smile of fond recognition to match.

'Less go inside,' he says.

Inside is his 'consulting room'. It is black, but for a little light in the corner – a timid tongue of flame dozing lazily on an upturned calabash. His stench fills the small room like an evil spirit; it haunts your nose and possesses your lungs, you almost kill yourself trying to hold your breath.

He sits on the floor, and waits, expecting you to join him. You don't want to, because you are wary of this floor; you don't know what is lurking around, lying in ambush, waiting to crawl up your thighs and attack your . . .

'Off your shoe siddon.'

He says it like a spell, with authority. You take your shoes off and sit on them.

You cannot believe you're here, in the middle of the labyrinthine intestines of the most squalid slum in Lagos, swallowed in the darkness of a slouching shack, sitting on the floor before an

incongruously-attired native doctor . . . What would Bioye think? But it is because of him you are here. And the b.i.t.c.h.

'You come because of your husband wife.'

'Yes,' you answer, not surprised – Yewi must have phoned

ahead, or sent a text.

'Yes, sir,' you quickly say, realizing that even though he is not an old man he is in some kind of position of authority, of spiritual power; a position conferred upon him by his 'mothers'.

You expect him to bring out the cowries, the beaded calabash, the feathered gourds, a piece of red cloth, and all those impressive babalawo paraphernalia.

'Your husband wife –'

'He has not married her yet, legally,' you cut him off, 'but he is planning to, soon, and that is why I am here.'

'What her name?'

You don't know. Yewi didn't tell you; she had just said she knew the person and was sure that this person, the b.i.t.c.h, was going to marry your husband. Or your husband was going to marry her.

'The name is not important,' Yewi had said, 'it is what you should do that is most important right now! And that is getting her out of the way – fiam!' (she had swiped at the air violently with the edge of her hand) ' – like a fly in your face! Get rid of the beetch!'

You trust Yewi, the way one would trust a friend they have known forever – since the time you were little girls and didn't like boys, through to falling in love with them and becoming women who wanted men. . . You had got yours first and Yewi had been elated, almost more than you, even though she did not believe in the idea of marriage as a destination, but she knew that was what you wanted, where you wanted to be, and she was happy you had it. This is why she has taken it upon herself to rid your home of this 'fly'.

'The person that will do it for you is Baba Arankunise,' she had a.s.sured you.

The name had sounded impressive. She said he had helped

her get rid of such flies that had been bothering her relations.h.i.+ps.

Yewi's relations.h.i.+ps were, had always been, strictly financial, because men are to be f.u.c.ked, fleeced and flung far; not kept, not loved, definitely not married!

This her philosophy is usually amusing to you, the way she

keeps to it devoutly, as if it is a religion. But despite it, she was a sweet person, one men fell in love with easily, which was a sad irony.

'Sir, I don't know her name o.'

The man smiles, sighs, and pauses for a long while during which you imagine he is communicating, in the spirit, with his unseen mothers, trying to inquire from them the fly's name.

You wait in silence.

'Hmm,' he moans. 'I know it . . . Come, let me tell . . . Come!'

He wants you to draw closer to him; he wants to whisper the name in your ear, as if there are other people in the room. Perhaps there are.

You lean in towards him, close enough to smell the gutter in

his hair, and the latrine on his breath.

When you first feel the hands at your b.r.e.a.s.t.s, just lying there, a weight, unmoving, the first thought that comes to you is why his mothers are interested in your b.r.e.a.s.t.s. (The touch is too gentle, too feeble, to be a man's – you do not imagine it is him.)

It is not until you feel his warm breath of pleasure brush your cheek that the realization drops into the pit of your stomach like a brick, heavy; this brick quickly dissolves into nausea and rises up your chest.

Your initial instinct is to hurl your fist in his face, or your foot in his crotch; then you remember that he is in that position of power, and you don't want to p.i.s.s off the G.o.ds or the mothers or whoever the f.u.c.k is in charge here. So you just move back, withdrawing your b.r.e.a.s.t.s from his touch.

The searing slice of anger that had flashed through you for an instant has trickled into damp disappointment as you rise.

'Where are you going?' he cries, suddenly switching to Yoruba in his alarm.

'Home,' you answer, in English, wearily.

'Ah, you will die!'

You stop. Is he threatening you?

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'I am married,' you say, like a form of excuse.