Ike made his way up the stairs to his apartment and jiggled the key in the lock. He twisted the cold, oily doorknob and prepared to walk in. A waft of rank air arrested him. It seemed to leap at his nostrils, this stench, fierce as a wounded beast on its second—more ferocious—wind.
He stood pat, unnerved, framed against the door that was still partially ajar. Staggered by the stink, he held his breath for as long as he could manage and then exhaled sharply. Moved by curiosity, he sniffed the air. Immediately, the spiteful smell saturated his lungs. Something like an icy lump tumbled down into the pit of his stomach.
His thoughts ran to disinfectants, one of those things he should have stocked up on but never remembered to—until a pressing, repellent need arose. It would take a powerful disinfectant to dislodge this foe, to shoo off the feculence.
There was nothing to do about the reek for now, he decided, insuperable as it was. It was more urgent to search out some still, refreshing place where his ravaged spirits and fatigued body could start their recuperation.
He collapsed onto the couch. A raw pain seared through him, and his bones creaked with sadness. In his head a swarm of emotions, a mangrove seeded with a riot of thoughts that thrashed this way and that. Idea after idea teased him, flirtatious, each as elusive and capricious as a streaking meteor, incandescent one moment, erased the next. And like the meteor, each idea’s combustion was doomed to peter out.
Amid the buffet of unformed thoughts, Ike felt enveloped by an eerie blankness. His mind was not cluttered but strangely arid. He was on the cusp of abjection.
He fished the check from his pocket. One edge of it pinched between two fingers, he gazed at it. On the subway, riding home, he’d had one hand in the pocket of his pants. The check was clasped in the palm of that hand. He’d clawed, folded, twirled, and rolled the check. His restless fingers had left the check creased and frayed, wrinkled and unsightly. Toward the check was now directed a full measure of his disgust.
In a snap, he recalled the sum of all he’d suffered. The heartbreak he’d inflicted. Osuakwu stirring the morning with his wails. His mother mauled, lying in a hospital unattended, perhaps even breathing her last that very moment. The paltry sum scrawled in Mark Gruels’s oddly feeble hand.
Ike felt an urge to tear up the check. Shred it and throw its pieces up in the air. He gaped at the check until, powerless before a sweeping urge, he broke into laughter. He shook so much that his fingers parted. The check glided to the floor.
He slapped his hands as if to remove some invisible stain. He began to make a hasty sign of the cross, but stopped halfway. Lifting his legs onto the couch, he rested his head on the leathery arm. Then he shut his eyes.
ONCE AGAIN, THE FLOOD came. This time, there was no heraldry. One moment, he was safe; he luxuriated in a bed of plumes. The next instant, he was immersed in a flood. It churned and tugged and tumbled. Underneath the rage, it was airless. Afraid of asphyxiation, he lifted his head for air. Bobbing along the surface was the statue of Ngene. It gazed at him, seemed amused. Disconcerted, he ducked under. The stream’s howl deafened him. The maddening siren belched from a vortex.
He clambered awake, his pounding heart reverberating in his ears. With his left cuff he swiped a streak of saliva that dribbled down one part of his cheek. A sticky substance smeared his cuff. From habit, he brought the cuff to his nostrils, then turned sharply from the rotten, sickening stink. His neck was sweaty, the collar of his shirt sodden. Gripping a fold of his shirt, he used it to dab at his neck. Then he became aware of the phone’s impatient ring. He reached out for it, stretching himself from the couch.
“This is a call from A and M Rental Management. Please hold for the next available agent.”
He banged the phone down. It began to ring almost immediately. Let it ring, he thought. Last night he’d disconnected the voice mail. A sly sinister smile formed on his face.
He placed both hands against his chest and felt every chug of the ferocious beast inside him.
His eyes remained drowsy from interrupted sleep. Yet, the moment he shut his eyes the image of Ngene appeared. Reclining against the wall at the very spot where he’d left it for several days, it looked grotesquely emaciated. There was a terrifying indeterminacy about its visage. It seemed to be weeping and laughing all at once.
IKE UZONDU NO LONGER counted time in days, only in the swarm of maggots, the buzz of flies, and depth of the stench. What went on in the streets no longer touched him. The clamor from Cadilla’s had taken on a muted, faraway quality. He sat and stared at the spot where he had stood the statue before he took it away to Foreign Gods, Inc. He stared at the decayed chicken and cuts of beef he had left on the floor to feed the deity that was no longer there, even though its stink remained. He gaped at the maggots that crawled in and out of the decayed food, at their soft, squiggly bodies that seemed drunk from the beer and gin he had spattered on the floor as well.
His phone had rung innumerable times—Usman Wai, his sister, the rental office, Jonathan, strangers—but he had not picked up.
Today, whatever the day was, he knew there were more maggots than ever, more flies flying their egg-laying sorties, a stronger stench infusing the air in the room. He knew that tomorrow, whenever it arrived, there would be even more maggots, a greater clatter of flies, a deeper reach of the smell.
He couldn’t tell what would come next, then next. There was the business of feeding the maggots, hosting the flies, inhaling what the air gave. The maggots and flies were not enough. He was now chief priest to Ngene. And a chief priest should know what he had to do. He was going to buy another ticket and take Ngene back to Utonki.
He picked up his phone and dialed.
Mark Gruels’s unmistakable voice answered.
“I sold you a god recently,” he said, unsure how many days or weeks or months ago because he now counted time in the swarm of maggots.
“Yes, Ngene,” Gruels said, his pronunciation perfect. “You were here about two weeks ago. I can’t forget that accent, buddy.”
“I haven’t cashed your check. I need my deity back.”
There was a burst of laughter, then a pause. “That’s ridiculous. The thing’s sold.”
“I want it back,” Ike said. “I’ll bring back the check.”
“It’s gone,” Gruels said. “Gone two days after I bought it. A Japanese guy snatched it up.”
“We have to get it back. It must return to its shrine—or trouble continues.”
“What do you mean trouble continues? Are you threatening me?”
“No, but I—we—need to take it back.”
Gruels fell silent for a moment, as if to think. Ike’s hope rose.
“Listen, this is an odd call. A buyer sometimes decides to return stuff—for any number of reasons. But you don’t sell stuff and then ask the buyer to return it. I bought that deity. You can’t ask me to hand it back to you—any more than I can ask the man who bought from me. Besides, the guy who took it wasn’t really a collector, just happened to stroll in. And he was flying out that night, I believe. Back to Japan.”
“You must have his address. I have to have it back.”
“No, I don’t. No, you don’t. You don’t sell stuff and then ask for it back. That’s not business; that’s some crazy children’s game. Even if I knew the buyer’s address—which I don’t—I don’t play that game.”
Ike saw three flies land atop a mound of maggots that wiggled over a greenish, rotted piece of chicken. He winced. “Please,” he said in a choked voice, “check for the man’s address.”
“Are you for real?” Gruels said. “I don’t keep a bank of my customers’ addresses.”
“He must have left credit card records,” Ike said.
“As a matter of fact, he didn’t. He paid cash.” After a pause, his tone impatient, Gruels asked, “Why are we even holding this conversation? Where’s this leading?”
“I need the deity back. Maggots are crawling all over here.”
“Maggots? This is crazy. What have maggots got to do with anything?”
“It has to go back to Utonki.”
“No, it doesn’t. Its new home is somewhere in Japan. You should be proud that a deity that once lived in your village has traveled to Asia.”
“Please,” Ike said, like a child asking for candy.
“Listen,” Gruels said. “I’m going to make you a deal because the deity you sold me happened to be a class act—as far as my African inventory goes. By the way, did you know that Ngene farted storms from its rump? We sprayed perfume on it every day—and it still stank up the store. It has character, an audacious personality—I grant you that. So, here’s the deal. I paid you what, fifteen hundred dollars, right.”
“I haven’t cashed it,” Ike said.
“I’ve never done this, but you brought me a great god—and I like your accent and all. So let’s say I throw in another thousand bucks.”
“I want Ngene back,” Ike said. A clump of maggots toppled from the edge of a stripped chicken bone. He gasped. “I don’t want the—” He swallowed the rest of his words, startled by the sound of voices outside his door, followed by four sharp knocks. The phone clicked and then died in his hand.