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
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