NYU Black Renaissance Noire Spring/Summer 2013 | Page 19

The landlord stared at her. His gaze
moved down, travelling over her body,
chest to foot, and back up again. He
cleared his throat. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘I will
respect you, if you respect yourself.
But before we talk anything, do you
have my money?’
‘No. But if you just give me a few
more days—’
The landlord sniffed with derision.
‘Your rent is already three weeks overdue.
People are lining up for this room. I’ve
heard that you don’t have a job—that
you like to drink. I don’t want any
drunkard in my house, and a jobless
one for that matter.’ He lowered his
voice. ‘So tell me, why should I wait?’
Daoju Anabraba was silent.
‘I’m waiting for your answer, Mama
Dimi.’
Dimié Abrakasa tried to help his
mother. ‘Please, Alhaji—’

The landlord sighed. ‘I am not a wicked
man,’ he said. ‘By Allah’s grace, I have
children too. I don’t want anybody
to say that I threw out a widow and
her children from my house. That is
why,’—he paused for effect—‘that is
why I will give you a chance to pay
the three weeks’ rent that you owe me,
today.’ He held Daoju Anabraba’s gaze,
and licked his lips, then lowered his
hand to adjust his trouser crotch, his
expression pantomimic.
Daoju Anabraba got his meaning.
Her eyes widened. ‘Ah, no, Alhaji …’
The landlord shrugged. ‘We’re both
adults here. The matter is in your
hands.’ He rubbed his palms together
with a washing motion and held them
out. ‘It’s your choice. Pay me my three
weeks’ rent, today, or pack out of my
house, today.’
Daoju Anabraba sank down on the
bed and bent her face to the ground,
her movements slow and heavy.
Her hands lay in her lap; she cracked
her knuckles and tugged her thumbs.
Her shoulders flexed.
When she looked up at her first child
and spoke, her voice was firm. ‘Dimié,
take your brother and sister and wait
outside. Close the door.’

Dimié Abrakasa did not move.
‘You heard me?’
‘Yes, Mma.’
‘Get out!’
The children filed out of the room.
In the gap between door and post,
Dimié Abrakasa saw the landlord cross
to the bed, and he heard him say,
‘Dimi is a good boy. He helped me
push my car today.’
Footsteps padded up the corridor.
Effusive good wishes, this time in
farewell, marked the landlord’s approach.
When he appeared in the doorway,
he halted and blinked at the full moon
that bobbed in the night sky. His face
gleamed in the moonlight. He yawned,
then raised a hand to wipe his brow,
dropped it to rub his belly, and let
it fall to his side. He did not look at
the children as he trudged to his car,
unlocked it, started the engine, and
drove away.
In the void left behind by the car’s
departure, Benaebi said, ‘I’m hungry.’
His stomach churned loudly as he
sucked his thumb.
Méneia put her hand on Dimié
Abrakasa’s knee. ‘You spent a long time,’
she said. ‘We waite ????????????5??)???????]???????????????d((??(+?aM???????????????????????????????d)???????????????????????????????????()???????????????????????)???????????????????????????)??????????????????????????)?????????????????????????????)???????????????????????%?????)????????????????????() 1
,?I9%MM9
?9=%I(+?a ????????????????????????)?????????????d?????????????????)????????????????????????????)?????????????????????????????)????]???????????????????????)??????????????????????????????)??????????M????????????????)??????????????????????????????)???????=????????????????????)????????????????????() I8?MAI%9????????????((??????????A4((0