Our Kind of People by Uzodinma Iweala

Author:Uzodinma Iweala
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins

DEATH

On one of my trips to Nigeria, Doc and Samaila introduced me to a man named Ikenna, who ran a bar on the same military base where I happened to meet Elizabeth. He was small, with short arms protruding from the rolled sleeves of a blue, orange, and green dashiki. The fabric engulfed him so completely that his body wandered within it even as he sat perched on the edge of his plastic seat. I wiped my forehead and face repeatedly with a paper napkin that dissolved into bits that stuck to my sideburns and beard. He didn’t sweat, not a drop or even a shine on his forehead in the low lights as he sat across from me. He was extremely attentive, carefully monitoring and measuring the proximity of opportunity (a customer) or the velocity of danger (a drunk customer). He kept a steady watch over his bar girls, ready to berate them into skips and smiles as they suffered the indignities of heat, the buckets heavy with bottles of drink they carried, and the catcalls of intoxicated men. His eyes were pulled down into a tired, wary slant by a persistent frown. He had a potbelly that was visible when he stood momentarily to see what business, if any, needed attending to while we spoke.

That night, clouds intermittently obscured the moon, and in the low light, I watched soldiers milling about; even though drunk, they carefully avoided old divots filled with a collected mess of wash water and carelessly discarded drink. They shouted hearty greetings in the local Hausa language, “Sanu! Sanu!” or pidgin English, “How now!” with handshakes pulled into hugs, then released again into handshakes that ended in snaps. Colored lights played across the open courtyard and bounced to the rhythm of the music blasting through the loudspeakers: 2Face Idibia’s “African Queen”—“You are my African queen, the girl of my dreams”—was the popular song of the moment, and it seemed to play on repeat. Between the beer and Coke bottles, over the wood-smoked suya, peppered meat, which Ikenna and I jealously protected from persistent flies, we tossed some conversation starters back and forth—“Did you see the Super Eagles play? Why can’t our boys just play good football anymore?”—the neutral subjects you speak of when you know a person only so well and talk centers on common subjects: rainy season versus dry season, country calm versus city chaos.

“You’re welcome,” Ikenna said to me softly, without warmth, after the chitchat dissipated. I put my notebook on the table between us and he watched with interest as I leafed through to a blank page.

“So,” I said, bouncing my knees, “tell me about yourself.”

He settled into his seat for a moment, slid his traditional cap off his head into his lap, revealing a closely shaved head, hairline receded into a deep W, and sighed.

Ikenna was much older than he looked. Originally from the east, he was the son of a poor farmer. He was supposed to go to college, to

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