NYU Black Renaissance Noire Spring/Summer 2013 | Page 17

‘Are you crying?’ the girl said, as she
bent over him and clasped his shoulder
in playacted sympathy. ‘Stand up—,’
her words were interrupted by a snigger,
‘if you can.’
Gritting his teeth, Ériga straightened.
The girls watched him and waited.
He stood, undecided. Dimié Abrakasa
stood up. ‘I know you,’ he said,
addressing the girl who’d struck Ériga,
‘we used to go to the same school—you
remember?—St. Ignatius.’

‘Dimi! Yes, Dimi.’ She beamed at him.
‘I’ve come to your house before,’ her
tone dropped, took on some hue, a bit
of blue, ‘when your father died.’ Then
her face brightened. ‘What school are
you attending now?’
‘GCSS Boys,’ Dimié Abrakasa said.
‘I’m in Holy Rosary.’
‘I know.’
‘How?’
‘You’re wearing the uniform.’
Adafor laughed, tugging at his hand
as she swayed. Then she caught
the smirk on Ériga’s face, and her
laughter stopped. She released
Dimié Abrakasa’s hand.

The girl stared at him. ‘You are
Méneia’s elder brother?’

‘This dude is your friend?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Yes,’ Dimié Abrakasa said.

‘Ehen—so it is you! I was telling myself
that I know your face.’ She stepped
forward, bumping Ériga with her
shoulder, and thrust out her hand for
a handshake. Dimié Abrakasa took it.
Her grip was firm. She kept hold of his
hand. ‘Adafor is my name. Your own
is … ah, I’ve forgotten.’

Her nostrils flared with disapproval.
She opened her mouth, but shut it
without a sound, then looked at Ériga.
‘You will fall inside my trap another
day.’ She turned back to Dimié
Abrakasa. ‘Greet your sis for me.’

‘Dimié.’

As the girls’ voices receded round the
corner, Dimié Abrakasa asked, ‘How
your stomach?’

‘Forget them abeg. Hunger dey waya
me—I wan’ go find food.’
At the mention of food, Dimié
Abrakasa glanced over his shoulder in
the direction of his street. ‘I have to go,’
he said.
‘Oh, alright,’ Ériga said, and reached
his hand into the waistline of his
trousers. His hand emerged with a flash
of blue, a Chelsea FC wristband.
He slipped it around his wrist and
admired the fit, then looked up
and caught Dimié Abrakasa staring.
He dropped his arm to his side and
edged away.
‘Hey!’ Dimié Abrakasa called. Ériga halted.
Dimié Abrakasa recalled the moments
of his meetings with Ériga: the request
in the alley, the amount of the bet
with Krotembo, the scuffle with Adafor.
The disappearance of his money.
Now it made sense. Random pieces fell
together and a picture rose in his
mind. Just like table tennis had served
as bait for Krotembo, the baiting
of the madwoman was the game that
lured him into Ériga’s trap. But of
course. And the dare to stone her was
the bet, the gambler’s opening, the
pickpocket’s ploy. For Ériga, he was
sure, was a pickpocket, a master thief.

15

‘OK,’ Ériga said. He took a step
forward, then pulled up sharply, and
burst out: ‘Girls!’

Dimié Abrakasa laughed. ‘I agree
with you, troublemakers. I get one
for house.’

BLACK RENAISSANCE NOIRE

The girls fanned out, encircling him,
buzzing like disturbed bees. He felt
the movement of his hostage, but
thought nothing of it, until her fist
sank into his belly. He released
her arm and doubled over, mewling
with agony.

BRN-SPRING-2013.indb 15

4/8/13 9:38 PM