Dirty Feet - Edem Awumey [25]
28
BLACK NIGHT. The dark sheet of the sky. Askia left the parking lot and went for a drive. Over to the dead end where he would routinely stop for a break. Down a long avenue, three or four turns, a big man in a curbside phone booth yelling at the top of his lungs, a cobblestone lane smelling of urine and blind alleys. Blind alleys and muffled noises. It was hard to see ahead of him. A blurred view of black jackets and shaved heads. Busy making a muffled noise. Busy hitting. Kicking someone in the ribs. The sound grew more distinct. A length of steel chain flashing in the cab’s headlights. Groans. He revved up his engine. The three men turned around, charged towards the cab, cursing loudly as they ran past. The steel chain striking the trunk.
He stopped. In the dead end, the man by the wall tried to stand up. Then he collapsed again on his right side. His head bloody. Opening one eye, he felt obliged to explain:
“Romania.”
“I’ll take you to the hospital.”
“Romania.”
“You’re bleeding. I’ll . . .”
“No. No hospital.”
“It’s not far.”
“No.”
The Rom left him there in the dead end and hobbled away. He was afraid of the hospital, of the questions they might ask there. Or at the police station: “How did you enter the country?”
The Rom, his bloody head. A red ball. As on that maliciously sunny day when he had managed to beat the dog Pontos on the head with a chunk of hard mortar. For weeks it dragged its wound around the garbage dump in Trois-Collines. Askia wanted to give it time to heal before striking again. And Father Lem was never there to protect his dog with the peculiar name, the name of some obscure divinity. An unsettling omen. A sign that the children would soon abandon Trois-Collines for the high seas and adventure. No, it wasn’t the dog — it was the dog’s name he disliked.
He tried to get some rest. His seat would not tilt back properly. A snag in the release mechanism underneath. He forced it. Nothing. Broken. He decided to change positions, leaving his bum in the driver’s seat while dropping his upper body down on the passenger side. He ended up with his face against the glove compartment, his knees against the dashboard, and his feet underneath. An awkward position. Something nagged at his lower back. He tried to think. No use. An idea, just one, hovered in front of his eyes before rooting itself inside him: everything — the city, the blind alley, his cab — was going to blow up. It would start in the belly of the Earth; the pavement would lift up; every component of the street would be reduced to rubble and then propelled into the grey sky. It would be expertly done, with no trace left but the words on the last page: End of Story.
29
BUT THE photographer would not be put off and often repeated, “Who are you, Askia?” As if the answer to that question would somehow affect their relationship, as if a few clarifications would make him more familiar, less distant in the eyes of his friend. As if, in order to take part in the Wedding of the worlds, it was necessary to know who you were. It was necessary to be something or someone. Otherwise the king of the Wedding would reach out his hideous hand into the hall of festivities and banish you from the fete. Like the paws of that big bouncer who had shoved him away from the entrance of the discotheque where he had ventured one night when he was feeling blue. “You won’t get in if you don’t follow the dress code!” the bouncer had bellowed.
“Who are you, Askia?” The question took him back such a long way it was impossible to say for sure whether any of it was real. Back to the country roads and city streets, the foursome advancing through the fog, in the sweltering days and cold nights: he, his father, his mother, and the donkey, which eventually gave up the ghost. From Nioro du Sahel they had gone down to the Atlantic coast, leaving behind the most badly parched lands, but the beast had used up its last ounce of strength. It died as they came out of a muddy ravine. Had it been able to cover a few more roads, it would