NYU Black Renaissance Noire Spring/Summer 2013 | Page 14

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The outdoor bar had for shade an old
beach umbrella, under which stood a
table and a bench. Six men sat on the
bench, three stood around the table.
The men held beer tankards, whisky
glasses, plastic cups. Bottles of different
sizes, shapes and colours, arranged in
no particular order but with a woman’s
eye for beauty, covered the table. The
bar owner sat on the knee of one of her
customers. The man’s hands rested in
her lap, and he tilted back his head to
drink from the glass she held to his lips.
When the woman saw Dimié Abrakasa
approaching her stall, she thrust the
glass into the man’s hand, stood up,
and walked forward.
‘Wetin you want?’ she said, as she
planted herself in front of the boy.
‘Make you no think sey I go serve you
drink o!’
The woman had a spoiled milk
complexion, the reward for a lifetime
regime of bleaching cream. Her
knuckles were the colour of healed
bruises, her arms and legs were
crisscrossed with thick blue veins.
The deep brown of her unpainted lips
made them seem sweet, coated with
treacle, smudged with chocolate.

Madam Glory spun round and pointed
her finger at him. ‘Hear me, and hear
me well—no put your rotten mouth
for this one o! I no dey serve pikin
for here. If this small boy wan’ kill
himself,’—and here she turned to
face Dimié Abrakasa, her forefinger
stabbing—‘make e find another person
shed. No be my business Satan go use
to spoil another woman pikin.’ She
raised her hand, sketched a halo above
her head, and then snapped her thumb
and middle finger at Dimié Abrakasa.
‘I reject it in Jesus name!’
‘Ah ah, Madam Glory, you sef!’
exclaimed the man who had spoken.
‘You know whether somebody send the
boy?’
‘Even still,’ she said in a calmed voice.
She stared at Dimié Abrakasa, her eyes
sparking suspicion. ‘They send you?’
she asked.

‘My God!’
‘What!’ Madam Glory cried. ‘You
dey make joke with me?’ Goaded by
the guffaws that burst from the men
behind her, she bore down on Dimié
Abrakasa. She caught him by the
earlobe just as he turned to flee, and
dragged him forward, cursing under
her breath, her face stained with rage.
She reached the edge of the road,
released his burning ear, and with a
shove to his head she ordered: ‘Get
away from here! Useless child, mumu,
I sorry for your mama! Get away!’
On the trek back to a house that
loomed before him like a Golgotha,
Dimié Abrakasa ransacked even the
most protected corners of his memory
for the missing money. Despair, at
several points on his journey, almost
made him break down in tears, but
each time his will overcame that
foolishness.

‘Yes,’ Dimié Abrakasa said.
‘Who send you?’
Dimié Abrakasa was about to say the
truth, that he had been sent by his
mother, when his right hand, which
was tugging the hem of his t-shirt,
crept into his trouser pocket. He pulled
back the hand, stared at Madam Glory
with horror, then dug both hands into
his pockets, and gasped out:

12

‘Wetin you dey look, you no fit talk?’
the woman asked angrily. She placed
her hands on her hips, harassed Dimié
Abrakasa with her gaze. He dropped
his eyes.

One of the men on the bench gave a
snort of a laugh. He called out: ‘Madam
Glory, leave the small boy abeg.’

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4/8/13 9:38 PM