EXCERPT FROM NONSO UZOZIE'S "I WILL GIVE MY SON A NAME (COLLECTION OF SHORT STORIES)"

THE THINGS THAT HURT

 

My piano sends sweet melodies into the darkness, the darkness I see in daylight, the darkness that comes after the cloudy figure of the old woman. The demons are dancing to it. They always dance to it. But I am scared today. I see images on the walls. They are the emissaries of my spell; emissaries of the incessant torment of my spell. I leave the piano and walk slowly to the window. There is a woman standing by the window. And soon, Max is with her. They are talking in low voices, I cannot understand them. I watch them, wondering if she is the woman who will save me from my spell of drunkenness.

Soon Max comes into the sitting room and asks me to follow him outside to meet the woman. I obey. Outside the woman is leaning on the wall, her eyes are wet and red, sign of her own spell, I think. She seems to have a spell greater than mine. Her face is over-painted with make-ups, and she is the woman to save me.

“Oh daughter of Zion,” she says. “I have come to save you, that you may be cleansed from this shame and shackles of the devil.”

I look at her; she is nervous.

And she smells of alcohol. I walk back into the house. Max comes into the parlor, shouting, “She has to hypnotize you! She must! You have to stop drinking.”

I stare at him. He looks like a bottle of brandy and I feel like drinking him up. No, I’m not addicted to brandy anymore, I just love it. Now I drink anything, anything alcohol, anything that will calm the demons in me and the demons I see. And what is wrong with that? Does that make anyone a drunk?

“I’m tired of pretending that I’m not ashamed of you getting drunk and embarrassing me all the time,” Max says. “You have to let her hypnotize you. It helps.”

Is that what it is called, hypnotism? I wonder. “I’m not a drunk,” I say. “I don’t want to be hypnotized.”

“You are a damn drunk, Jay. And I’m ashamed of you. And you must be hypnotized!”

I will not speak again. I hate it when he calls me a drunk. I’m not a drunk. I’m a musician, and that makes me a star, a super star, who takes solace in few bottles of beer to buy peace. You see, I’m not a drunk. I don’t mind those who call me a drunken artiste. My fiancé, Max, is one of them. But it’s just a name. He says I’m addicted to alcohol. He is not sure. I love alcohol. I don’t drink it because I love it. I drink it for the demons that refuse to give me my freedom. I drink it to appease them. There is nothing wrong in drinking to appease demons that hold your freedom. You get them drunk too, trying to fight your way out. That is what I do. You see, I’m not a drunken artiste. I drink so that I can free from the demons.

Now Max says. “If you don’t let her come in here and hypnotize you, today will be the end of our relationship!’ He is serious. I see it in his face. I see those veins that appear on his forehead when he is angered.

“Max, don’t say that” I say. ‘It hasn’t come to that. Alright, I quit alcohol.”

“No. You have to be hypnotized.”

“But I don’t trust that woman outside.”

“She is strong.”

I shrug my shoulders. Max goes outside. I hear him talking with the woman outside.

I wait.

Soon, Max enters with this woman who he says is strong in hypnotism. A fat woman she is, really fat. It is great to see her, great to see the woman who has the power to whisper into my ears and I will be made whole, the woman who has the power to cast out the demons of drunkenness from my head and soul. I am seated in the sofa, a humble me.

She comes close and walks round the sofa, her hands spread in ostentatious genuineness, her face glowing as if a light is illuminating from behind her.

And this woman smells strongly of alcohol. It is Brandy, I’m very sure. It used to be my favorite.

There is really going to be a testimony soon or when she is gone. True! I wish she can see it in my eyes. I’m obsessed with the smell of brandy in her body. It is in her sweat. I wish she is an ocean of brandy and I’m swimming in her, drowning.

“Now close your eyes,’” the woman orders me in a whisper and the smell of the brandy is assuring.

“Why?” I ask. I only want her to speak so that the smell of the brandy can waft out from her mouth.

“Do as I said.”

I half-close my eyes and flare my nose. She whispers something I do not understand to my ear. It tickles me and I laugh.

“We are not here for jokes!” she barks. “Do as I said!”

“I heard nothing.”

Now she lays her cold hands on my head, and there is a sudden fire running in my vein. It is terrible. It is as if the demons in my body are riled. I quickly grab the woman’s hand and inhale it. It is satisfying. I hold it like a honey vest, I don’t want to let go. She is screaming, “Let go of my hand,” and I’m now holding it with two hands, that hand with the smell that silences the demons. I will not let it go. I want to suck it and suck the smell of the alcohol and, if possible the smell of the true demons into my head, into my soul. I’m now sure there will be a testimony when this woman is gone. True! The testimony is right now in my hands, and I’m inhaling it, wanting to suck it. It is a wonder testimony.

Max is watching from the doorway. He looks scared. He watches with a look of confusion and puzzlement; I’m having my fun.

“Let go of my hand!” the woman is shouting.

But I know I will not let go, at least, not now that the finger is almost into my mouth, not now that the smell of brandy from her is siphoning into me. I will not be defeated.

“You daughter of the devil, leave my hand!”

“Jay let her go,” Max says.

“She is possessed!” the woman cries out. “She is possessed, and I don’t want to be possessed too.”

She pulls her finger from my mouth and moves back, her eyes weary; she is absolutely whitewashed. She is palpitating. She looks at me in pity and in shame. I pity her. Of course I have to, because she is a failure to herself. She is a failure to Max, too. I can imagine the shame and disappointment. I am mocking them. I know the demons of alcoholism are mocking them too. What do they know? Poor things! I can hear the demons murmuring and laughing over our triumph again. It is a good thing.

“She is also under a strong spell,” the woman says.

“I know,” Max says. But he doesn’t know.

“I have a friend who is in strong in exorcism,” the woman whispers to Max. “She has come from Haiti. She can help her. She casts out demons and reverses spells.”

“Really?” Max asks, hopefully.

“Yes. I will send her across.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

She breezes out of the room as easily as she had breezed in, before Max can ask. “When are you sending her?” When he does not hear from the woman, he turns to me and gives me a pathetic look.

“Max, I’m fine. I’m not possessed,” I say.

He looks at me and says, “You will not deceive me again. If you can’t quit alcohol then you are possessed.”

“Possessed by what?”

“I don’t know,” he says.

“You see,” I say. “You are the one possessed, possessed by fear and confusion.”

“You are possessed, Jay,” he says again.

“That woman is a drunk.”

“You are possessed.”

“I’m not!”

He is silent. There is this subcutaneous feeling throbbing within me. I walk to the bar and take a bottle of brandy. He is watching me, the way a free man will watch a woman who is insane, waiting for me to prove I actually was mad. I don’t care. I pour some wine into my glass and drink it at once. I’m not satisfied. I drink from the bottle. I will not be drunk again, I assure myself. I will just be more possessed. What else? I drink again, some more. I drink more platoons of demons. And they go down so harshly in their restless gay.

“Jay, you’re taking too much,” Max says.

“I’m thirsty,” I reply

“That is not water,” Max says.

“It doesn’t look like it,” I quip. “You talk too much, Max.”

“You will get drunk again,” Max says, coming close. His voice irritates me.

“Don’t come near me!” I bark, raising the bottle.

He startles and stops.

“Let me have some freedom, Max. Am I asking for too much?”

“This is not freedom, Jay. This is bondage.”

“What is bondage?”

He cannot answer. He stares forlornly.

“That sorcerer will not touch me. So don’t even let her come.”

“She is not a sorcerer. She exorcises.”

“She exorcises what?”

“Look, Jay you are pushing me,” he says.

“Fear is pushing you, not me,” I reply him, gulping one glass down.

My head is swirling now. I can hear voices. They want me to scream. I will not scream, Max will laugh at me. I quietly keep the bottle and shuffle to the couch to lie down. The ceiling is swirling. This will not end. Maybe I will end one day. My end is the only thing that seems possible.

¤

THE NEXT DAY, Max wakes me up. A woman with a long white robe is with him. She is the exorcist. She has a bead dangling on her wrist. I sit on a stool and shut my eyes. The exorcist walks around my seat. There is a bottle of wine on the table. The woman bends to whisper something into my ear, I shake my head. The woman takes my hand.          

“You are in a tug of war with an empty basket. But you let this empty basket drag you around because you think you cannot win. Now, I want you to stand and fight. Can you see the basket?”

There is truly a basket in my mind’s picture. “Yes.”

“What color is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Take a closer look at it.”

“It’s red,” I reply.

“Can you see a rope?”

“Yes,” I reply.

“What color of rope are you seeing?” she asks.

“Black.”

“Pull it with all your strength. Are you there?”

“Yes.”

My hands are vibrating. I now see myself between two planets. I pull.

“Done?”

“Yeah.”

“Now move to your left. There is another basket there,” she tells me.

“Yes.”

“What is inside it?”

Tilting my head I say, “A big glass of wine.”

“Take it. Drink it”

“What?” I hear Max ask.

“Drink it,” she tells me, ignoring Max.

I begin to tremble. I cannot drink it

“Drink it!” her voice is louder than normal.

“I can’t,” I tell her.

“Why not?” she asks

“There are things inside,” I reply.

“What are you seeing inside?”

“I can see spiders, cockroaches and a scorpion,” I reply.

“You may take a sip.”

“I can’t…please.”

“Go ahead; try it,” she compels me to, her voice begging me surprisingly.

“No!” I shriek.

 I open my eyes immediately, not wanting to close them again, not wanting to see the big spider, and cockroaches, and giant ants. I am sweating; the woman is sweating too. The woman moves away from me, and stands aside to watch me. Something lifts my legs and I fall on the floor and a cold hand descends on me.

“Come out of her, you unclean spirit!” she shouts.

There are no changes; I still have the urge to drink some brandy; I still see things on the wall. They are now many.

“Bring her up,” she says to Max.

Max obeys her. She brings a bottle of wine and a glass, and gives the glass to me. Then he pours some wine into it.

“Drink it.”

I smirk and push the glass away.

“Drink!” she commands.

“I can’t. I can see things inside. The smell is horrible!” I scream. “Please I don’t want to drink any alcohol!”

The woman grins. “It’s done; the spell has been cast out. She will never have the urge for alcohol again,” she says, turning to Max.

“Thank you ma’am,” Max says.

“You are welcome. You may go and enjoy your freedom.”

Max counts some money and gives her. Then he carries me up.

¤

IN THE EVENING when I am on my piano, I feel a cold hand on my neck. Then something melts into me. My chest begins to burn. It is as if something is tearing it apart.

“My chest!’ I scream. “Max, I’m dying.”

“What is wrong with you?” Max asks.

“My chest is on fire!” I reply.

It is the last thing I say when he lifts me. I cannot speak again. My tongue is heavy. I feel a stream running in my chest. The world is turning around. Max is turning too. Everything in the parlor is dancing to the music playing in my head. Suddenly there is darkness everywhere. It is threatening. I finally succumb to the call of the darkness, fading away to the blackness of obscurity. 

I wake up on a hospital bed. Everywhere is fluttery. There is serenity and tranquility in my head, a lousing solitary. It’s as if I have myself back. I want more of it. I’m thirsty. I need to drink something, and I’m sure what it is.

Now Max and the doctor come in. I shut my eyes. I hear the doctor telling Max the angina is very a dangerous heart disease. He says I have it: angina!

“Does it kill?” Max asks the doctor.

“It can be controlled,” the doctor says, “if only she can stop the excessive intakes of alcohol.”

He sounds funny. Let him tell that to the demons, I tell myself. I know I have no disease called angina.

I hear the bed creak; Max sits beside me, sighing helplessly. I feel sorry for him. This is his third effort to get rid of the demons demanding alcohol in my system, his third effort to make sure his fiancé stop drinking to stupor. But nothing will change; nothing can stop me from serving the demons. I will never tell him that it is a spell cast on me by an old woman ten years ago for calling her a drunk.

¤

THAT MORNING in the street of Liasu flashes into my head. I was going to Iya Basiru shop to buy akara when I saw an old woman weeping, a dying bunch of flower in her hand.

“Have you seen my son?” she asked me.

“No, I have not seen your son. I don’t know your son.”

“You must have seen him last night. I have not seen him after the riot.”

“Are you drunk?” I asked the old woman.

“I’m not drunk. I’m looking for my son. He has been missing after the riot. Today is his birthday. I have these flowers for him,” she replied.

I took the bunch of flower from her, pressed and crushed the petals with my hands, inhaled it and threw it back at her, laughing at her. I told her it smelt of alcohol, that she had been drunk to the extent that her flower was drunk too. The old woman was weeping.

“I bought that with all my savings.” She is pointing her crooked finger at me. “And you’ve spoilt it. I curse you. I curse all your happiness.”

“You can’t curse me. You are drunk.”

“I curse you. You shall be a drunk all your life. You will have no peace. I curse you by the seven demons of drunkenness! I curse you! I curse you! And I curse you!”

I was laughing and skipping my rope down the street, while the old woman was crying and still pointing her finger at me. How would I know it was going to come to pass; I was barely ten years old, very naughty and stubborn. My parents had warned me my impishness was going to land me into wahala one day but I didn’t believe.

That night I saw the old woman in my dream giving me a jar of wine. That was how I started drinking mentholated spirit until dad sent me to Spain, where I chose brandy as my favorite, where I chose brandy to chill the demons. I later left brandy when it caused the death of my first boyfriend. I had drunk it and didn’t know when I pushed him from the balcony. That is why I don’t take brandy again.

¤

I AM SCARED of telling Max. I don’t want to lose him.

When I summon myself and tell him the next day he says he is not surprised. A prophetess has already told him the same. But he will never leave me, no matter what, he tells me.

I’m grateful. “Thank you,” I say.

He does not reply. He walks out of the sitting room, as if he will never come back. In the bedroom I see the note on the bed cabinet. He is tired of me. It is better we stay away from each other so he can have some peace. His “PEACE” is written in capital letters with an exclamation mark at the end. I refuse to cry. There is no need to cry over a man who you want to give some freedom and some peace, some capital-lettered PEACE.

In the night when I sit by the piano to scribble the capital-lettered “ALLOW ME BE” I am going to give to Max, I see a cloudy shadow of a woman walking past the corridor. I peer out from my room door that has been ajar since Max left, and I cannot see anything.

“Who is there? Who is there?” I ask and there is no response.

On turning to the room, I come face to face with the cloudy figure and immediately I feel my legs being lifted from the ground and in a twinkling of an eye I am off the ground. Suddenly the lights go off. There is a whisper; I cannot understand it is saying. I cannot move because I am scared to death.

Later the lights come on. I quickly close the door. That moment I see the cloudy figure on the mirror.

“I want my flower back,” it says and vanishes.

I sit on the bed and stare on the mirror. I cannot sleep.

Tomorrow I will go to the mall to buy some camellias and pink lady, if possible, some passion flowers. Now the itching on my neck begins. It is a sign that the demons need so liquid to calm them. I go the cupboard, draw a bottle of brandy, no not brandy again. I drop it and take a glass of Red-Label, and lift it to my mouth. My phone is ringing and I will not pick it.

I later decide to pick it when the demons have been pacified. Max voice comes from the other end.

“I am now in London,” he says.

I look at the screen of my phone; it is true. It’s a foreign number.

“She was here again,” I say, stammering and gasping for my breath, “the old woman.”

“And I can swear you are holding a bottle of hard liquor in your hand right now.”

“I can’t help it,” I say, almost in tears. “I just can’t, Max.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I just call to tell you that I’m not coming back.”

“Okay,” I say calmly, not wanting to beg, not wanting to apologize for all the harsh times I’ve put him through with my curse.

“Good night.” His voice dies before I can say a word.

I go to the mall very early in the morning and get some flowers, some which I don’t know their names, or care to know. I carry them carefully in my arm as I walk down the street, inhaling the sweet vanilla fragrance. A girl is standing down the road, holding a skip rope. I approach her. She is staring at me, a familiar beam in her eyes.

“How do you do?” I ask her.

‘I want the flowers,” she says.

“What?”

“I want them back!”

I cannot move. I watch as she takes the bunch of flowers from my arms. And immediately something lifts itself from me. Prolonged sneezing follows. Lifting my head she is nowhere to be found. I begin to run home.

In the sitting room the smell of alcohol is terribly in air. It makes me want to throw up. I take the remaining bottles of brandy into the toilet, uncork them, and watch it all go down, as I flush it. I begin to clean my house, a certain joy and freedom surrounding me, choking me, making me want to scream to the hearing of the neighbors.

¤

MAX IS CALLING. It’s been since five days since I regained my freedom. I have been expecting him to call since; I didn’t want to call. Call it shakara or anything; yes, I am a proud lady.

He is saying something I cannot understand, his voice so emollient.

“I returned her flowers today, and I think I’m fine now,” I am telling him on the phone, excited.

“I said I’m at the door,” he is telling me. I am guessing he didn’t hear what I just said.

“You are kidding me,” I am saying.

“Come and open the door for me,” he is insisting.

I am walking to the door. I am opening it. He is standing at the door with a meek look on his face. He is studying my face, as if doing so will let him know I’m now truly free. Then he moving closer to kiss me, I am turning my face away. I am not going to allow him. It is my turn to be doing my own shakara.

“Let’s get married, Jay,” he is saying.

“Why should we get married now?”

He is saying nothing. He is staring at me, helplessly.

“I’m going to London to rest,” I am saying and I am walking inside, leaving the door open, of course, not for him. I want to start tormenting him some more. It is my turn, maybe, to start seeking some exile, to be giving him the freedom he is desires.