NYU Black Renaissance Noire Spring/Summer 2013 | Page 9

Dimié Abrakasa moved away from the
dresser, and Méneia turned to face him,
but her gaze remained on the screen.
‘What are we eating, Dimié?’ she asked.
Dimié Abrakasa walked to the head of
the bed, rested his shoulders against
the wall, and said: ‘There’s still garri in
the house, abi?’
‘But no soup,’ Méneia replied.
Benaebi looked up, eyes glistening.
‘I’m hungry,’ he said, as he sucked his
thumb.
‘What will we eat?’ Méneia asked again.

Dimié Abrakasa glanced at his mother.
Her face was closed, heavy as stone.
Tendrils of lank brown hair clung to
her cheek, and fluttered each time she
breathed out. Dimié Abrakasa turned
back to Méneia. ‘Like how much do
you think we need to cook enough
soup to last till tomorrow?’
‘Three hundred,’ Méneia said, after a
quick calculation.
‘With fish or meat?’

‘I’ve heard. Where is it?’
‘I said I’m not—’
‘Will you shut up? Where’s the money?’
‘I gave it to Mma this morning.’
All eyes turned to the bed. Méneia
broke the silence. ‘H’m,’ she sniffed,
‘that one is gone. What should we do,
Dimié?’

‘Fish is cheaper.’

‘We have one-eighty,’ Dimié Abrakasa
said. He counted the notes, folded
them into a wad and stuck it in his
right hip pocket. ‘Let me see—’

‘But we used fish for the last two pots
of soup!’

His words were cut off by a sudden,
cataclysmal darkness. A power cut.

Her older brother made no reply, and
Méneia, with a sigh, said, ‘OK, fish.
Two hundred will be enough. Or what
do you think?’

‘Aw, NEPA!’ Benaebi exclaimed,
slapping his thigh. ‘Dog shit!’

‘Meat.’

‘Yes,’ Dimié Abrakasa said. ‘I have—’
he turned out his pockets, producing
clumps of paper and wisps of lint and
some naira notes, ‘—one hundred and
six, seven…I have one hundred and
seventy naira. What of you?’
‘I have only ten naira, Dimié.’
‘Bring it. And you, Benaebi?’
‘I’m hungry,’ Benaebi mumbled at the
TV screen. Méneia swung her head to
look at him. ‘Benaebi!’ she snapped,
‘remove that hand from your mouth
before I slap you! Boo-boo-boo baby!
Do you have any money?’

Dimié Abrakasa edged round the
sound of their voices. The subterranean
dark, the stench of degraded alcohol,
the whispering heat, had turned the
room unbearable for him. He reached
the door, pulled it open, emerged
into the corridor. When he turned
to shut the door, he met his mother’s
gaze. She raised herself on one elbow,
combed back her tousled hair with her
fingers, and said, ‘Don’t even think of
coming back to this house without my
medicine.’

7

‘I have fifty naira but I’m not giving you!’

‘Shut up,’ his sister said, ‘they’ll bring it
back soon.’ Then she added: ‘By God’s
grace.’

BLACK RENAISSANCE NOIRE

Méneia and Benaebi sat cross-legged
in front of the TV. The light that
streamed from the screen played on
their still faces. Méneia was the spitting
image of her mother, except that,
where Daoju Anabraba had a beauty
spot on her right cheek, Méneia, in the
same place, sprouted a mole that was
the size and appearance of a raisin. She
was four years older than Benaebi, who,
at eight years old, was shedding his
milk teeth. He sucked his thumb. His
sister had tried everything in her power
to wean him off this habit—from
soaking his hands in bitterleaf sap to
coating his fingers with chicken shit—
but Benaebi persisted. When he wasn’t
chewing his fingernails, his thumb was
thrust through th