NYU Black Renaissance Noire Spring/Summer 2013 | Page 15

Number II Sand Field was at the intersection of Yakubu Gowon and Adaka Boro streets. It was one of eleven open spaces—Number IV Grass Field, Number VI Paved Field, Number VII Clay Field, Number X Sand Field, etcetera—set up all over Poteko by a past military administrator. Number II was a football pitch, with white sand instead of turf, and it was enclosed by a low concrete wall. On weekends when football matches between local clubs were staged in this arena, the wall disappeared under a swarm of spectators, but on this afternoon, as Dimié Abrakasa vaulted the wall, the field was deserted. At one end of the field, in the space behind the goalpost, a table tennis board was set up. Three boys stood round the table, and two of them were engaged in a game. The ball flew into the net as Dimié Abrakasa drew up beside the table, and the third boy, who clutched a wad of naira notes in one hand, called out, ‘Park five!’ ‘Who dey win?’ Dimié Abrakasa asked. ‘Shh!’ hissed the player whose turn it was to serve. He cast a furious look at Dimié Abrakasa. They recognized each other at the same instant. ‘You!’ Ériga exclaimed. ‘But how you dey? How you escape that crazewoman?’ The other player spoke. ‘This nah the boy you tell us about? The one wey stone the crazewoman?’ ‘Game up!’ the umpire announced, running to where the ball had fallen. The second player glared at Ériga, and snorted with annoyance. ‘Nah lie Chibuzo, I no agree—I never ready when Ériga serve the ball!’ he said. ‘But you no say let, Krotembo,’ Ériga said. ‘Anybody hear am say let?’ ‘No,’ Chibuzo said. ‘But you rush me! You must replay!’ Ériga threw his bat on the table. ‘I don win,’ he said. He strode to the umpire and held out his hand. ‘Give me my money.’ ‘No give Ériga that money o, Chibuzo,’ Krotembo said. He, too, tossed his bat on the table, and began to unbutton his shirt. ‘You must replay or we go cancel the betting. You no strong enough to cheat me.’ The two boys drew up to each other, stood nose-to-nose, and exchanged glares. Krotembo, who was shorter, had muscles like a blacksmith’s apprentice. He raised a clenched fist, nudged Ériga in the chest. ‘No try me, Ériga,’ he said. Ériga stepped backwards, lowered his gaze, spun round on the ball of his left foot, and ran. Krotembo barked with laughter. He turned to Chibuzo, chuckling in his throat. Then he heard the crash of glass. From the corner of his eye he saw the shadow of death bearing down on him, and he bolted. ‘Why you run?’ Ériga yelled after him. He stopped beside the table, strutted back and forth, panting with anger and brandishing a broken bottle. ‘Come and fight—if you get power!’ Krotembo watched Ériga from a safe distance. His naked chest heaved noisily. Then he touched the tip of his forefinger to his tongue and bent down to scrape the earth with it. He pointed the finger at Ériga and said, in a voice that quavered: ‘I swear, Ériga, anywhere I see you, anywhere I catch you—’ ‘Sharrap there, buffoon!’ Krotembo pressed his fist to his lips. His arm shook, his forehead bulged with veins. Then he turned around and strode off. Ériga watched the receding figure until he was sure the retreat was not a trick. He walked to the table, tossed his weapon under it, then snatched up Krotembo’s shirt from the table, wiped the sweat from his face and neck, and flung the shirt away. It sailed through the air, unfurling. Chibuzo spoke. ‘Make sure you run any time you see Krotembo o—e no go forgive you. Anyhow, two of you bet one-eighty, so after I remove my cut, your money nah three-ten. Correct?’ 13 ‘Yes o!’ ‘Strong man—correct guy!’ Three pairs of eyes gazed at Dimié Abrakasa with approbation. Then Ériga whirled round to face the table, and served the ball. His opponent was taken unawares: he scrambled for the ball: his bat struck it out of play. BLACK RENAISSANCE NOIRE 7 BRN-SPRING-2013.indb 13 4/8/13 9:38 PM