THE DAYS DRAG ON. NOTHING HAPPENS BESIDES THE normal rhythm of life in the mansion: Mummy cooking elaborate meals, swimming half naked in the pool, sunbathing on the lawn, dashing out and in again in big cars, and throwing parties for big-bottomed, loud-laughing women to whom we serve food supplied by hired caterers. Once in a while, the thought of abandoning the job springs to the surface of my mind, but the money, the food, and my lust for revenge hold me back. I throw more energy into training for my next fight.
I have been thinking of Beatrice. I have not set eyes on her since the day she left me cold in the mansion and went away with a wad of crisp banknotes and a phony promise to come check up on me. It’s been over two months. I wonder if she knew about the fights all along. Was the money she collected a price on my head? Will she ever come back to see how I am doing?
Less than two weeks after the first fight, Ejiro and I battle again. The match happens unexpectedly, as suddenly as the first time, with Mummy inviting us out to the lawn. I have been waiting for this. I rip off my clothes straightaway. Ejiro is quick to react, to throw off his clothes, too. The fury in me is so strong that I have no time to spar with him, no time to build up energy for the fight or give tactics a thought. I spring at him like a wounded leopard, throwing a wild swinging punch. It is a miscalculated move provoked by my rage and my quest for revenge. Ejiro ducks to avoid the punch and it sends me pirouetting. Using my momentum, he lifts me up effortlessly, then slams me down on the tuft. The impact leaves me stunned. Trapping my head in the crook of his arm and wrapping his legs around my midriff, he tightens his grip until I am gasping for air and the world goes dark.
I wince with pain as I climb out of bed, my body aching all over, as though I have been sledgehammered. I open the window. Sunlight floods the room. I remember stumbling back after the fight. I don’t know for how long I have slept. The wall clock says it is 4:30 p.m. I fought Ejiro around midmorning. I can see Mummy at the pool through the window. She is reclining in the lounge chair in a yellow swimsuit. She watches Ejiro in the gym as he works on his muscles: dark, sweaty muscles looking menacing in the sun. How I dread those wiry muscles now. I am never going to give Ejiro the chance to put them to use against me again. I know he is training for our next fight, because the more we fight for Mummy, the more money she gives us, and he gets the larger pay for winning. When I close my eyes, all I see is Ejiro and myself battering each other: exchanging punches, wrestling and crashing into cushions. I see us locked in a mortal combat, rolling on the grass, scratching and biting, squeezing each other’s balls, and groaning with pain while Mummy watches with a sinister smile, twisting like a python around its prey.
What does she gain from it?
I sit on the bed and consider my options. Ejiro is a monster. Money and fighting are the only two things that seem to matter to him. Again I picture us going at each other, not for sport, but for pride, for vengeance. I see the fight getting violent, even bloody and vindictive, weapons leaping into use, flesh tearing, bones cracking, heads being smashed. I might need money badly to pull my family out of poverty, but my father would say, “Only a tree waits when death looms, but a human being will flee for his life.” My father’s words, ringing in my head, help me to make up my mind. I begin to pack my things. I came to this house because I wanted to work as a houseboy, and to help my family—not to fight. I cannot stand to see myself fighting for money again. My loathing of Ejiro will never lead to anything good. I can feel it gathering intensity so quickly that I can see how it all will end.
I consider taking the red suede shoes I found in the wardrobe with me as I pack to leave; that’s how I discover the diary, small and tucked into one of the shoes. Curious, I open it. Its owner had squiggled in sections in the book. Each section has a date suffixed to it. The word fight recurs. And then I see the word wounded in the section dated July 2. It appears also in the next section, followed by the word sick, dated July 4, and very sick two days after. This is the last entry. I lower myself onto the bed and flip the pages of the diary back to the first section. The first entry is dated September 12, although the year is not indicated. The next entry is dated October 2, with the following entries coming in intervals of two weeks, with slight variations except the last three. I ponder the last three entries, the closeness of the dates, and the recurring words. Even the writing looks pained. My heart stops beating. A sudden feeling of horror stabs me in the chest.
I pick up my bag and peep through the window again. In the sunlight, the pool water is a sparkling blue and the hibiscus blossoms are a startling peach, brighter and more beautiful than my primary school science textbook could ever have depicted them. I hesitate as doubts invade my mind once more. One doesn’t always have the chance to live in such beautiful surroundings, but one needs to be alive to enjoy such things. I have tried my best to make it work. I like it here. That is why I have lingered and endured with the hope that Mummy might see that I am not a fighter like Ejiro and use me as just a houseboy, that she might look for another fight-loving boy to replace me.
I sneak out of the room. Abdul is loitering outside. I completely forgot about him in planning my escape. I duck behind a row of flowers lining the veranda. I watch as he lounges around the gate in that hideous caftan that stops below his knees, exposing his stick legs. A cigarette protrudes from his lips. There is something grim about him. It suddenly occurs to me that since coming to live here I have not seen Abdul leave his post. He never goes out. The farthest he moves from his gate is to the neighbouring gate to buy cigarettes from a fellow Hausa gateman. I wonder what he knows about the fighting houseboys. Is he part of some crazy arrangement?
After hours waiting for him to leave his post with no luck, I return to my room, drop down on my bed, and doze off. I open my eyes to a knock on the door as Ejiro walks in. I sit up quickly, wary and watchful. He stops in the middle of the room, frowning, his eyes lingering on the bag lying at my feet.
“What do you want?” I snarl at him.
“I want to talk to you about something,” he says, coming to sit on the bed.
“You have never wanted a conversation with me.”
“I wanted to say there’s no gain without pain,” he says. “You will get used to it.”
I move away from him, angered even more by the smirk on his face. The fool! Whoever gets used to pain? I ignore him. I will not dignify his idiotic comment with a reply.
“I don’t like Hausa gatemen.” His voice assumes a serious tone. “I hate them because they drink ogogoro like water. And they are fond of fighting when they get drunk. They enjoy sticking their daggers into other men. Their women, too; they will pull at each other’s hair until braids come off the scalp with flesh and blood.”
I am lost.
“I don’t know why Mummy decided to employ Abdul,” he continues. “I don’t like him for anything. He has a ruinous face and rotten teeth. His legs are like stalks of dry grass, and he won’t let you out of that gate unless Mummy says so. But that’s not the main reason why I don’t like him. He hates anyone from the east because of the civil war. Because of Biafra. He cuts them at the slightest provocation. Have you seen him cleaning his dagger? Have you noticed how the blade shines with a luster whenever he cleans it?”
It is beginning to make sense.
Ejiro pats my shoulder and walks towards the door. “I keep out of his way. Because I don’t want to get cut.”
He walks out, his shuffling feet fading into the emphatic silence of the house.
I remember my father speaking about Aguiyi Ironsi: They plotted a countercoup and brutally killed him. They tied him to a Land Rover and callously dragged him along the road until he died. They didn’t stop there, though; they massacred Igbo people living in the north . . .
Hatred, it seems, is our heritage. The message from Ejiro is clear. I undress, kicking my shoes off onto the floor and flinging my shirt to the end of the bed. I lie down and ponder the situation. Ejiro knows I had planned to escape. He will tell Mummy, if he hasn’t already. Mummy will alert Abdul, who will make my escape impossible.
It appears I am trapped here forever. I moan.