NYU Black Renaissance Noire Spring/Summer 2013 | Page 20

Dimié Abrakasa looked away.
‘What did you buy?’ she asked again.
The smells and sounds of cooking
floated out of the corridor. A rat moved
in creeps and bounds along the front
wall of the house, heading for the open
door, then sensed Dimié Abrakasa’s
stare, and scuttled back into shadows.
‘Dimié!’ Méneia cried, her voice
trembling with alarm. ‘You got the
thing for Mma, at least, didn’t you?’
‘I lost the money,’ Dimié Abrakasa said.
He did not turn his head to see the
expression on his sister’s face. He knew
it by heart.
Méneia stared at her older brother
without speaking. Benaebi, with a wet
moan, jumped to his feet and ran
into the house. His complaints,
high-pitched and teary, floated through
the open door. At the scrape of
approaching footsteps Méneia’s grip on
her brother’s knee tightened. Then she
removed her hand and drew away.
‘You lost what?’

The blow came out of the dark. It hurled
him off balance. Then she was on
him—
slapping, scratching, kicking. Dimié
Abrakasa fell to his knees and buried
his head in his arms. He received a mule
kick in the belly that tore a gasp from
his throat. When she lifted a concrete
slab and rushed forward, the neighbours
caught hold of her. She fought against
their restraint, spewing curses.
A phalanx of neighbours bore Daoju
Anabraba into the house. Another
group of neighbours gathered round
the hunkered down form of Dimié
Abrakasa. Méneia knelt beside him,
her shoulders shaking with sobs.
Benaebi, awestruck at the ferocity
of his mother’s attack, was standing
behind his brother, his hands clasped
in his armpits. Mama Malachi, whose
apartment was two doors down from
theirs, touched Dimié Abrakasa’s
shoulder. ‘You have done something
very bad to make your ma react like so,’
she said. Then she bent down, held his
arms, pulled them away from his head.
Someone switched on a torch and
turned the light on him. His eyes were
hare-caught-in-the headlights bright.
There was a speckle of blood on his lips
and four flesh-white scratches on one
side of his neck. As if in reaction to the
light, blood welled from the wounds.
Méneia caught her breath. Mama
Malachi released his arms. They fell
into his lap.

The neighbours drew to one side and
consulted. A few words, repeated
often, reached the children’s hearing:
words like ‘mother’ and ‘landlord’ and
‘drink’. Then Mr Mogaji of apartment
one—the first door on the right—
approached them.
‘Do you kids have somewhere you can
spend the night?’
Méneia blew her nose. Dimié Abrakasa
did not stir.
Mama Malachi shouted across to them.
‘Talk! Do you?’
Méneia coughed to clear her throat.
‘My Granma’s,’ she said.
‘Go there with your brother tonight,’
Mr Mogaji said. His torchlight played
on Méneia’s face. ‘Don’t cry again,
Mene, clean your eyes. We’ll talk to
your mother in the morning. I have
some spirit and cotton wool. Come and
take, so you can clean Dima’s wound.’

18

Dimié Abrakasa scrambled upright.
His mother stood in the doorway.
Where the moonlight touched her bare
shoulders, they gleamed with sweat.
Her movement, as she advanced on him,
was brisk, vigorous, oiled with intent.

Her shadow swept over him as she
pulled up, and her foot stubbed his
right big toe. Bringing her face level
with his, she repeated, ‘You lost what?’
Her breath stank of old alcohol.

BRN-SPRING-2013.indb 18

4/8/13 9:38 PM