I rushed out and, with Ade, went to fetch Sami. When I got back Dad had taken off his shirt, and was shadow-boxing, working up a sweat. He seemed wide awake now. Methodically, he shook his head, did some press-ups, and practised the most amazing exercises. He creaked his joints, limbered up, stretched his muscles, did his special movements, breathed deeply, swelled up, and let out howls of energy. He was very impressive. The crowd watched him disdainfully. Only the inhabitants of the area, who had now ventured into the tent in the wake of the commotion, called out his fighting name and cheered him on. The blind old man was seated on his wheelchair, his harmonica in one hand, a fried piece of antelope meat in the other. Occasionally he kicked his feet in the air and like an over-excited child would say:

‘A prize fight! Very good. Where is the betting-man?’

The man in white, tall, lean, with an air of extraordinary detachment, a small head and pinpoint eyes, stood on one leg. He was very still. His eyes were positively reptilean.Hewasvery disturbingtolookat.Noonelookedathimforvery long.

Sami arrived with his bucket and his small army of protectors. He went round taking bets. The odds were against Dad. One of the politicians brought out a great wad of pound notes and said:

‘I have heard too much about that Black Tyger. He is a buffoon. From today I rename him the Black Rat.’

There were bursts of laughter and guffaws all around. Celebrants laughed themselves into contortions. The politician made the odds very low against Dad. Everyone was excited about the outcome. Sami, sweating, went from group to group, from person to person, jotting down their names and their odds and collecting their money in the bucket. Soon another bucket was needed. All the women, the prostitutes, the low-life courtesans, the casual onlookers, brought out their money. Sami sent for more protection. His entire compound turned up, armed with clubs and dane guns. When he had finished, he was drenched in sweat. He was drenched in the horror of his utter financial ruin, instant and complete liquidation, total poverty and homelessness. Hewent over to Dad. Pleadingreverently, moppinghis brow, hesaid:

‘If you win this one you can build a university.’

‘A school for beggars,’ Dad said, correcting him.

‘Whatever you like. Just win, you hear? Or I will be a poor man. My children will starve. My wife will go mad. All my money, all the money I could borrow, all the money I don’t even have, is on this, eh. Win!’

Dad pushed him away. The fight began. Dad circled the man in white. Dad rushed him, but the man wasn’t there. The blind old man, chuckling, waving a chicken bone, said:

‘That is what we call magical boxing, eh.’

I loathed him. Dad went on rushing the man, throwing wide swings, wild flurries of punches which only dazed the green moths and confused the midges, but he couldn’t touch the man.

‘Don’t you want to fight?’ he asked in frustration.

The man cracked Dad with a punch so fast that it was only when the women hurled Dad back into the arena that we registered its effect. The man went on striking Dad with electric punches, his fists were so fast that it seemed he was completely still the whole time, while Dad’s head kept snapping backwards, as if the air, or an invisible hand, were responsible. His nose became swollen, the bridge broke, blood spurted out. Dad tried hard not to breathe in his own blood. When he breathed it was in excruciation and fatigue. Suddenly, he seemed terrified of pain. The man would move his shoulder slightly and Dad’s head would jerk backwards. The man jabbed Dad at will, with cold menacing indifference. I couldn’t bear it. The man went on pounding Dad’s nose, extending the territories of his bruises, discolouring and generally realigning Dad’s face, altering his physiognomy, disintegrating his philosophy, dissolving his reality, dislodging his teeth, and sapping the will from his sturdy legs. Every time Dad took a punch a searing light from another planet shot through my skull. Blinded by the beating Dad was taking I went out, found Ade, and asked him to give me the lizard spell his father had made.

‘It doesn’t work when theopponent is wearingwhite,’ hesaid.

‘Get away from here!’ I screamed at him, and went back in.

Dad was absorbing monstrous punishment. The blind old man kept chuckling. Whenever Dad mounted another futile attack the blind old man would make a curious sound, a dissonant croak, distracting and discouraging Dad. He did this many times. Soon the celebrants took up the dissonant croak as a sort of dampening anthem. I decided to get rid of the old man. I went out and begged Ade to come and help me. We stole back in and, very gently, wheeled the old man’s chair out of the tent. In the intense excitement and concentration, no one noticed us. When we got out we wheeled him fast, shouting for people to let us through, saying that the old man was ill. He kept screaming and threatening us with curses. His frenzy only seemed to convince people that they should get out of the way.

‘A wizard is carryingmeoff!’ hehollered.

No one believed him. We wheeled him up the road, along paths, deep into the forest, and when we stopped his glasses fell from his face.

‘What has happened?’ he shouted.

His blind eyes were ugly in the dark. They had a curious light in them.

‘I can’t see!’ he cried, making our flesh crawl.

As we were about to leave he caught Ade’s hand and wouldn’t let go. I banged him on the head with a stick and he relaxed his grip and protected his head and uttered low cries. Me and Ade fled from him, with the noise of his wail amplified by the forest.

When we got back to the tent the fight was turning. Dad had crossed the desert of his exhaustion, had found new springs and oases of energies. He was covered in sweat and bruises. His head was firmly tucked behind his fists and his shoulders hunched. He had become more rock-like, like one who was thoroughly resigned to taking punishment as a condition of survival. There was something strange about the way he accepted his beating. He didn’t seem so afraid of every bone-grinding punch the man threw at him. Dad kept staggering, wobbling, under the man’s methodical, scientific combinations. It was astonishing to see that the man still hadn’t worked up a sweat. Dad went on wobbling, his legs watery, and I was sure he was pretending. I shouted:

‘Black Tyger, dirty his suit!’

All heads turned towards me. The man in white looked in my direction. In the brief moment of his distraction, Dad worked swiftly. He caught the man’s collar and with an insane howl ripped the coat. The man tried to protect the suit, but Dad abandoned allknown rules of fightingand concentrated on extendingtherippage.Hegrabbedthe torn bits of the coat, he spun the man round, and with the help of a foot to the small of the back, tore the coat off the man. Then Dad pursued him and completed the rippage, snatching off bits of white cloth clinging to his arms. Beneath the coat, there was a shirt, and Dad, with terrible persistence, tore off the shirt and tie as well. Beneath the shirt and coat the man was bare-chested and hairy. He had curious tattoos on his stomach and amulets round his neck. He had a hollow chest and a deep hole of a navel. He was so hairy, and his hair was so much like that of a bush animal that the spectators gave a shocked cry when they saw how inhuman he looked. The man began to cower. Dad feinted a punch to his head, the man blocked his face with both hands, and Dad grabbed his trousers, tripped him, and tore the trousers off him. He had long thin legs, the legs of a spiderous animal. His eyes filled with fear and shame at being unmasked. People backed away, gasping in horror. Sami, the betting-shop man, sent the buckets of money home with some of his protectors. The beggar girl began to cheer. Thewomen’s mouths hungopen.