NYU Black Renaissance Noire Spring/Summer 2013 | Page 12

5

Dimié Abrakasa was back on Ernest
Ikoli Road, at Railway Junction,
when the rainclouds caught the sun.
The world turned grey, the temperature
plummeted, and gusts of wind sprang
up. The wind grew stronger, and
flung dust into the air. A lightning
flash split the gloom and a rumble
of cascading boulders burst from the
skies. Another flash, sulphuric in its
intensity—the thunderclap was like a
shredding of the heavens.
Birds crawled across the sky with
panicked cries. There was a lull,
everything froze in that instant; and
then, with a sound like burning
grass, rain fell. The raindrops had
not made landfall when a bolt of
blue-white lightning, like a forked
tongue, streaked the sky, and one of
its prongs struck a fleeing swallow.
The bird stalled in midflight, then
began to tumble earthwards as the
rain hit the ground.

Dimié Abrakasa headed for the crowd,
and squeezed through the swarming
bodies till he reached the front, where
there was a large flooded pothole.
The obstructed traffic was caused by a
ramshackle, cattle-hauling lorry that
had tried to charge across the pothole.
The lorry was stuck. The lorry driver
was on his knees in the tea-coloured
water, scooping handfuls of mud from
under the lorry’s tyres. Water lapped
against his chest.
Like wind in the treetops, loud voices
swept through the crowd, arguing.
Some urged that the lorry be pushed
aside, and others recommended a
detour round it. Dimié Abrakasa
watched, fascinated, as the crowd
split into factions and yelled in each
other’s faces. Two traffic wardens and
a policeman stood in the crowd. One
of the wardens gaped at the angry
faces with his hands clasped behind
his head, while the second man glared
at the lorry, his features drawn into a
scowl. The policeman tried to arbitrate
contending views, but he was repaid
for his efforts by getting sucked into a
quarrel that grew so heated he had to
flash his handcuffs to extricate himself.

From the edge of the crowd, someone
yelled: ‘Thank God—the army has
come!’
A column of soldiers approached at a
trot, their boot heels drumming the
road. The crowd parted before them,
scrambling out of their path. When
they arrived at the obstruction, their
leader—a stocky, pot-bellied sergeant
who bore on both cheeks the four
slashes that was the mark of Egba
nobility—bellowed, ‘Qua Shun!’ The
soldiers stood at attention. Each held a
horsewhip in one hand and an assault
rifle in the other. Twirling his whip as
he turned to the crowd, the sergeant
ordered, ‘All civilians clear the area, now!’
The crowd dispersed. There was a flurry
of banging car doors.
The traffic wardens had fled, but the
policeman stood his ground. Thrusting
out his chest, he walked up to the
army sergeant, who turned to face him,
surprise written across his face.
‘Sergeant, sah!’ the policeman said,
saluting, ‘the situation on ground—’
The sergeant interrupted him. ‘What
situation?’
The policeman, who towered over the
sergeant, leaned forward with a wide
smile. ‘The lorry responsible for this
wahala . . .’

10

Through sheets of crashing water,
pedestrians sprinted for cover. Puddles
formed on the sidewalks, then flowed
together and rushed for the drains,
which brimmed over and poured water
onto the road. The road became a river.
Car engines drank water, coughed
out steam, and died. Both sides of the
road—and the sidewalks, too—got
jammed. The horn blares of motorists
became one long, unbroken blast.

Dimié Abrakasa moved off the
sidewalk, onto the road, and wove
through the stalled cars. The bonnet
of the Toyota Sequoia beside him
was warm—the car was empty but the
engine was running. The driver had
alighted and rushed off to join the
crowd that was gathered at the head
of the traffic jam.

BRN-SPRING-2013.indb 10

4/8/13 9:38 PM