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26

SPIDERS IN THE HOUSE OF MEN

CHUKWU, your ears have been patient. You have listened.

You have heard me recount all these things before the

divine council here. You have listened while every tree in

Beigwe wore the enchanting tunes like shiny garments.

Even as I speak the music is pouring out of everywhere in

the luminous halls like sweat from the pores of the skin. And

all around are guardian spirits who must step in and render

their respective accounts. But now I must hasten to fill the

chasm that has opened in my story. And it will not be long,

Gaganaogwu, till I am done with it.

To hasten, I must remind you of what the great fathers,

wise in ways of war and battle, often say: that which must

kill a man does not have to know his name. This was true of

my host. For what he became, in the days and weeks after

Jamike’s discoveries, is painful to describe. But I must tell

you the consequences of this change, because the cause for

which I plead requires it. Egbunu, my host became a djinn, a

man-spirit, a vagabond, a descaled wanderer, a thing

creeping in the bush, a self-exiled outcast, shorn from the

world. He refused to listen to the counsel of his friend, who

begged him not to get in the fight. He vowed that he would,

in fact, fight. He vowed, vehemently, that he would get his

son back. He insisted that it was the only thing he had left in

the world worth fighting for. And nobody, not even I, his

guardian spirit, could persuade him against his [Link] he began again to lurk in the bush around
her house,

and when she drove home, he tried to accost her. She would

not get out of her car but skirted around him and drove

away. When this failed, he went to her pharmacy, shouting

that he wanted his child. But she locked herself in the room

and called on her neighbours from her locked window. Three

men ran up into the pharmacy and dragged him out,

punching him until his lips were swollen and the upper side

of his left eye was split open.

But it did not stop him, Egbunu. He went next to the

school the boy attended and tried to take him by force. And

it was here that I think the seed of that which brought me

here in this most troubling of human nights was sown. For I

have seen it many times, Oseburuwa. I have come to know

that a man who returns to that place where his soul was

once shattered will not lightly forgive those who had

dragged him there. And where am I talking about? It is that

place where a man’s existence stops, where he lives a still

life like that statue of a man with a drum there at the centre

of the street or the figure of a child with the gaping mouth

near the police station.

Although the treatment by the guards this time was

different, merely insults and slaps, he was tormented by the

memory it unleashed in him. He wept in the cell. He cursed

himself. He cursed the world. He cursed his misery. Then,

Chukwu, he cursed her. And when he slept that night, a time

in the past appeared, and he heard her voice say,

‘Nonso,

you have destroyed yourself because of me!’ and from the

bare floor of the dungeon, he sat up frantically, as if those

words had taken years to reach him and he’d just heard

them now for the first time, four years after she’d said them.

EZEUWA, Jamike came to bail him out the morning of the

third day.

‘I have told you, let her alone,

’ Jamike said after

they had left the police station.

‘You cannot force her to

return to you. Get the past behind you and move on. Move

to Aba, or Lagos. Start again. You will find a good [Link] at me, all the years I spent in
Cyprus, did I find

anybody? I found Stella here. And now, she will become my

wife.

Jamike spoke to him, a man who seemed to be without a

mouth, until they arrived at his house, and all Jamike’s

counsel came together with a combination of all the things

he had seen and done. When the taxi pulled up in front of

his flat, he thanked his friend and asked to be alone.

‘No problem,

’ Jamike said.

‘I will come and see you

tomorrow.

‘Tomorrow,

’ he said.

OBASIDINELU, the great fathers in their diplomatic sagacity

say that whichever tune the flautist plays is what the dancer

will dance to. It is madness to dance to one tune while

listening to another. My host had been taught by life itself

these hard truths. But I had counselled him, too, and so had

Jamike, his friend, on whom he now relied. And it was with

these words in his heart that he unlocked the gate and

made his way to his flat. He was greeted by his neighbour’s

wife, who was picking beans on a tray, and he mumbled a

response under his heavy breath. He unlocked the padlock

and opened the door to his room. Once inside, he was hit by

a claustrophobic odour. Looking in the direction from which

the loud droning of flies came, he saw what it was: the moi-

moi he’d bought and half eaten the day he was taken away.

Worms had filled the polythene wrap, and a milky substance

ran down from the rotten food on to the table.

He took off his shirt and put the food in it, sending the

flies into a frenzy. He wiped the putrefied substance off the

table and took the shirt to the bin. Then he lay on his bed,

his eyes closed, his hands on his chest, as he tried to think

of nothing. But this, Egbunu, is almost impossible – for the

mind of a man is a field in a wild forest on which something,

no matter how small, must graze. What came he could not

reject: his mother. He saw her, seated on the bench in the

yard, pounding pepper or yam in the mortar, and he besideher, listening to her stories. He saw
her, her head covered in

a calico scarf.

He dwelt in this place, this veranda between

consciousness and unconsciousness, until night fell. Then he

sat up and let the idea flower that he should leave Umuahia

and everything in it behind. He had thought about this in the

police cell, even before Jamike said it again. And I had

ensured that it persisted in his thoughts. The idea had come

and gone out of his mind like a restless visitor those two

days he spent there. Now something in the vision of his

mother settled it, even if he did not know what it was. Was it

that after she died he himself told his father many times

that he should forget her? He had several times fought the

man, told him it was only a child who hung on to what had

been lost. Especially that night when his father, drunk, had
walked into his room. Earlier they had cut up a chicken to

supply to a woman whose daughter was about his sister’s

age and who was getting married. It may have been this

that bothered the man. His father had staggered into my

host’s room in the dead of the night, in tears, saying,

‘Okparam, I am a failure. A big failure. When your mother

was in the maternity room, I failed to protect her. I could not

bring her back. Now your sister, I failed to protect her. What

is my life now? Is it just a record of losses? Is my life now

defined by what I have lost? Who have I wronged? K edu ihe

nmere? ’

In the past iterations of this remembering, he had thought

of his father as weak, as someone who could not withstand

hardship, who did not know how to turn his back. Now it

struck him that he himself was clinging to what had been

lost, what he could never again possess.

He would leave. He would return to Aba, to his uncle, and

leave it all behind. He could not change that which has

remoulded itself to resist change. His world – nay, his old

world – had remoulded itself and could not change. Only

forward momentum was possible. Jamike had left the

province of his shame, made peace with my host, andmoved forward. And so, too, had Ndali.
She had wiped clean

the board of the inscriptions he’d made on her soul and

inscribed new things. There was no longer a remembrance

of things past.

Also, it became clear to him now that it wasn’t he alone

who harboured hatred or a full pitcher of resentment from

which, every step or so in its rough journey on the worn

path of life, a drop or two spilled. It was many people,

perhaps everyone in the land, everyone in Alaigbo, or even

everyone in the country in which its people live, blindfolded,

gagged, terrified. Perhaps every one of them was filled with

some kind of hatred. Certainly. Surely an old grievance, like

an immortal beast, was locked up in an unbreakable

dungeon of their hearts. They must be angry at the lack of

electricity, at the lack of amenities, at the corruption. They,

the MASSOB protesters, for instance, who had been shot in

Owerri, and those wounded the past week in Ariaria,

clamouring for the rebirth of a dead nation – they, too, they

must be angry at that which is dead and cannot return to

life. How about everyone who has lost a loved one or a

friend? Surely, in the depth of their hearts, every man or

woman must harbour some resentment. There is no one

whose peace is complete. No one.

So prolonged was his musing, so sincere his thoughts,

that his heart gave the idea sanction. And I, his chi, affirmed

it. He must leave, and his leaving would be immediate. And

it was this that gave him peace. The following day, he went
about looking for anyone who would buy his store’s contents

and take over the rent. He returned home satisfied. Then he

called his uncle and told him all that had happened to him

and that he must flee Umuahia. The older man was deeply

disturbed.

‘I ttold you no n-not to go back to th-that woman,

he said again and again. Then he ordered my host to come

to Aba at once.

For days he packed the few things he had gathered, trying

hard not to think about Ndali or his son. He would come

back some day, in the future, when he had picked up his lifeagain, and ask for him. That is what
he would do, he thought

as he stood in the emptied room that was once full, now

with only his old mattress lying on the floor.

Agujiegbe, he would leave that evening and not return. He

would leave! He had told Jamike this and once his friend had

come to see him, he would begin his journey. He was waiting

for the preacher to return from his evangelism and pray for

him before he would go with all his things in his car.

Chukwu, at this point, I fear again that I must say that

after Jamike had come, prayed for him, cried for him and

embraced him, the old rage, the terror, the complex feeling

that swallowed all things, came upon him again. He did not

know what it was, but it seized him and plunged him into
the abyss from which he’d been dragged out. It was,

Egbunu, a single memory that did it: that one strike of a

match that sets an entire building on fire. It was the

recollection of the day he first slept with her and the day

she had knelt on the ground of the yard and sucked at his

manhood until he toppled over the bench. How they had

both laughed and talked about how the fowls had watched

them.

Ijango-ijango, listen: a man like my host cannot leave a

fight just like that; his spirit cannot be satisfied. He cannot

stand up, after a great defeat, and say to his people, to all

those who have watched him being turned about in the

sand, to all who have witnessed his humiliation, that he has

made peace. Just lik e that . It is hard, Chukwu. So even

when he said resolutely to himself,

‘Now I will leave and go

away from her for ever,

’ moments later, as night fell, he

gave in to the dark thoughts. And they came crowding in, in

their threatening fellowship, claiming the entire world within

him, until they persuaded him to go into the kitchen and

take a small can of kerosene, half empty, and a matchbox. It

was only then that they left him. But the deal was sealed.

He himself had sealed the can tightly and set it on the floor
of his car, in front of the passenger seat. Then he returnedand waited, waited, for the time to
pass. And it is difficult to

wait when one’s soul is on fire.

EGBUNU, it was almost midnight when he started the car

and drove into the night. He drove slowly, fearing that what

he carried was combustible and that he had all his

possessions packed into the car, ready for him to embark on

his journey afterwards. He drove on the empty roads past a

vigilante checkpoint, where a man flashed a torchlight into

his car and waved him to move on. Then he came to the

pharmacy.

He parked his car and picked up the matchstick and box.

‘I lost everything I had, Ndali, for your sake, only for you

to treat me this way? This way?’ he said. Then he opened

the car, took the can of kerosene and matchbox, and went

out into the dead of the night, dark beyond most nights.

‘You paid me evil for all I did for you,

’ he said now as he

paused to catch his breath.

‘You rejected me. You punished

me. You threw me in prison. You shamed me. You disgraced

me.

He stood now in front of the building, the world around

silent, except for some church singing from somewhere he

could not ascertain.

‘You will know what it means to lose things. You will know,

you will feel what I have felt, Ndali.

In his voice now and in his heart, Egbunu, I saw that which

has – from the beginning of time – always perplexed me

about mankind. That a man could once love another,

embrace her, make love to her, live for her, birth a child

together, and in time, all trace of that is gone. Gone, Ijango-

ijango! What do you have in its stead, you wonder? Is it mild

doubt? Is it slight anger? No. What you have is the

grandchild of hatred itself, its monstrous seed: contempt.

As he spoke, fearing what he was about to do, I came out

of him. And at once I was hit with the deafening clamour of

Ezinmuo. Everywhere, spirits ambled about or hung

precariously from rooftops or on car tops, many of themwatching him as if they had been
pre-informed as to what

he was about to do. I ran back into my host and put the

thought in his mind to return home, or call Jamike, or travel,

or sleep. But he would not hear me, and the voice of his

conscience – that great persuader – was silent. He went

ahead, once he’d made sure there was no human being

around, and began pouring the kerosene around the

building. When the kerosene had finished, he went to the

boot of his car and brought out a small can, this one
containing petrol, and poured it around the place. Then he

lit the match and threw it at the doused building. And once

the fire caught, he ran back to his car, started the engine,

and raced into the gloom. He did not look back.

Gaganaogwu, I knew that no spirit would seek his body

now that there was the food of vagrant spirits: a blazing fire.

So I came out to bear witness, to see what he had done, so

that when you enquired on his last day, I would be able to

give a full account of the actions of my host. In the distance,

as I stood in front of the burning building, my host drove

away. By the time he was out of sight, almost a dozen spirits

had gathered around the fire, floating like naked vibrations.

At first I watched the beauty of the spectacle from the

outside as discarnate bodies moved closer, past me. One of

them, excited to the point of frenzy, ascended above the

building and stood suspended at the point through which a

black spiral of smoke levitated in a straight funnel. Others

cheered as the smoke veiled the spirit intermittently and

then revealed it again.

I was watching this when – I could not believe it – I saw

Ndali’s chi come out of the burning building, wailing. It saw

me at once, and in a rush of words, it cried,

‘You evil

guardian spirit and your host! Look at what you have done. I
warned you to desist long ago but he kept coming after her,

chasing her, until he disrupted her life. And after she read

his stupid letter two days ago, a thing she had been afraid

to read, it disturbed her greatly! She began fighting with herhusband. And this night, this cruel
night, she left the house

again in the heat of an argument and came here …

The chi turned back now, for it had heard a loud, piercing

cry from inside the burning building, and at once it vanished

into the flames. I rushed in after it, and in the great

conflagration, I saw, as a person was attempting to rise from

the floor, a burning piece of wood that had been part of the

ceiling fall on her back and send her out of her senses in

pain. The impact floored her. But she made to rise again,

seeing that a sudden mountain of fire had now erected itself

before her from the other side of the room. A shelf of drugs

had been thrown down and slowly collapsed into its wooden

beams by the shattering fire, and a chunk of flame from it

had caught the rug and was now coming towards the room

where she was. She touched her neck and discovered that

the liquid she could feel dripping down her back was blood.

Only then did it seem that she realised the wood had lodged

its nail-bearing head into her flesh, drilling the fire into her

body. With hellish yelps and with the wood strapped to her

back, she dashed through the yellowy theatre of fire that

was replete with genuflecting tables, clapping windows,

dancing curtains, exploding bottles. A chink of burned brick

knocked her forward as she reached the door, and as she

opened it, what remained of the burning wood fell off. The

searing pain brought her to her knees like a caved priest

lapsed into sudden prayer. It seemed to occur to her then

that it was best she did not stand. So she began crawling

out of the pharmacy like an animal grazing through a hamlet

of flames.

By the time she escaped, people had gathered around the

site of the conflagration – members of the vigilante group,

neighbours and others. They met her with buckets of water,

and as they poured them on her, she fell down and fainted.

I left her there then and ran to find my host. He was on

the highway, speeding through the darkness, weeping as he

drove. He did not know what he had done. Ijango-ijango, I

have spoken many times this night about this peculiar lackin man and his chi: that they are
unable to know that which

they do not see or hear. So indeed, my host could not have

known it. He was not aware. The Ndali that stood in his mind

now as he drove was the Ndali that once loved him but who

rejected him. It was the Ndali he’d lost. He knew nothing

about the Ndali who was engulfed in flames, the one who

now lay on the ground in front of what had once been her

pharmacy. He drove on, imagining her in the hands of her

husband, thinking of how nothing he did could have brought

her back. He drove on, crying and wailing, singing the tune

of the orchestra of minorities.

Egbunu, how could he have thought that a woman who

had a house would choose to sleep at her place of work? No.

Why would she? There was no reason for him to think so.

This is why a man who has just killed a person goes about

his business without knowing what he has done. The august

fathers likened this phenomenon to the spiders in the house

of men by saying that anyone who thinks he is almighty, let

him look around his house to see if he knew the exact time

the spider began to weave its web. This is why a man who

will soon be killed might enter into the house where those

who have come to kill him are lying in wait for him, oblivious

to their designs and not knowing his end has come. He

might dine with these people, as the man in one of the

books my former host Ezike once read. That tale had been

of a man who ruled a land in the country of white people

called Rome. But why look at such far-flung examples when

right here, in the land of the luminous fathers, I myself have

seen it many times?

Such a man walks into that room without any knowledge

that what will kill him will have arrived – the way things

come, the way change and decay encroach upon things with
serendipitous strides and great transformations happen

without the slightest hint that they have happened. But

death will come, unannounced, suddenly, and perch on the

sill of his world. It will have come unexpectedly, noiselessly,

without interrupting the seasons, or even the momentnecessarily. It will have come without
altering the taste of

plum in the mouth. It will have slipped in like a serpent,

unseen, biding its time. A gaze at the wall will reveal

nothing: no crack, no mark, no crevice through which it may

have entered. Nothing he knows will give a hint: not the

pulse of the world that will not alter its rhythm. Not the birds

still singing without the slightest shift in their tune. Not the

constant movement of the clock’s ticking hand. Not time,

which continues, unhindered, the way nature itself is used

to, so that when it happens, and he realises and sees it, it

will shock him. For it will appear like a scar he didn’t know

he had and inscribe itself like something formed from the

inception of time itself. For it will seem to such a one that it

has happened so suddenly, without warning. And he will not

know that it happened long ago, and had merely been

patiently waiting for him to notice