He paused.

‘It’s simple. All you have to do is press ink next to his name. A simple matter. My party will bring good roads and electricity and water supply. And remember this: we havepeopleat thepollingstationwhowillbewatchingyou.Wewillknowwhoyou vote for. Whether you vote for our man or not we will win anyway. But if you don’t vote for him there will be trouble. You might as well begin to look for another place now and see if you can find another landlord as good as me. Tell this to your husband. I don’t have time to come back. And send me my rent latest tomorrow morning. That’s all.’

Hewas nowstandingbehindDad’schair.Hehadfinishedhisspeech.Hisbackwasto us and he seemed to be waiting for a response. There was only silence. And the spitting candle. The three men looked like statues. They looked like dead men. I could barely see the whites of their eyes.

‘God knows,’ the landlord continued, ‘that I want the best for my tenants. But the tenant that doesn’t want a good thing should go. There’s power and there’s power: anyone who looks for my trouble will get enough trouble for life. I am a peaceful man but the person who spoils my peace will find that I am a LION. I am an ELEPHANT. My THUNDER will strike them. And on top of that I will send my boys to beat them up!’

He was now at the window. He put the kola-nut back into his pocket. He brought out a white handkerchief and wiped his face. Then he turned to face Mum directly. Wewereallconcentratingonhim.Except Mum.Shewent onstaringintothecandleflame as if she saw in it a new kind of destiny.

The landlord opened his mouth to speak when a gentle wind came into the room and turned into a dark figure, towering but bowed. And with the figure came a reminder of the nightsoil van. The figure was Dad and the landlord slowly shut his mouth.

The three men crowded away from Dad, away from the wall, and regrouped in stances of half-fight next to the cupboard. Suddenly the room seemed cramped and Dad made it worse by shutting the door. The upward illumination of the candle-light caught his face as well, and made him look like a man undergoing a terrible martyrdom. His cheekbones were highlighted, his eyes sunken, and his head was stark. He looked baffled. He stood in front of the door and stared at every one of us, turning to face each one of us directly. His neck seemed stiff. He somehow gave the feeling that he had lost the connection between what he saw and what he understood. He gave the impression that he had been bashed on the head and that his centre had been dislocated. He looked confused, as if he had entered the wrong room and had no idea how to get out again.

‘Dad!’ I cried.

He looked at me without comprehension. It was only after a while that we became aware of the stench in the room.

Suddenly one of the three men made a noise, as of holding back bile. Then he rushed to the window and spat out. The landlord spat on the floor, stepped on it, and twisted his foot as though he were crushing out a cigarette. Another of the men went behind Dad and opened the door. Moths, midges, and flying ants came in, and mosquitoes whined in the silence. The moth circled the candle and I felt that time had moved backwards and was trapped there.

Dad went towards Mum and sat heavily on the bed. There was shame on his face. Shame, humiliation, and defiance. The landlord, unable to come out with what he had been about to say, moved towards the door. His sense of drama had deserted him. He seemed to have sensed a new kind of menace in Dad. I sensed it too. He said:

‘Your wife will tell you what I had to say.’

He hurried out of the room without repeating his demand for the rent. His henchmen ran out behind him, casting their last looks at Dad.

We sat in the room suffused by the bewildering odour. It was as though an unpleasant vent had burst under our floor. We sat without moving, without speaking, till one of the moths got its wings burnt and extinguished the candle. In the darkness I felt for the matches on the table. Then I heard Mum say, with great unhappy tenderness:

‘My husband, what has happened to you?’

When I lit the candle Mum’s arms were around Dad’s neck. She held him tight, her face in his hair. Then, becoming aware of the light, she disentangled herself from him, and unloosened his shoes. Dad did not move. She pulled off his shoes and gave them to me, saying:

‘Your father has stepped on something. Go and wash the shoes inside the bathroom. Don’t do it by the well.’

I took theshoes andwentout.Thewindblewthroughthepassage,liftingdustinto my eyes. The wind was cool; it smelt of trees and the night, of bushes and aromatic herbs scenting the air. It also smelt of kerosine and candle-smoke, but it did not have the curious odour in our room. At the backyard I borrowed one of the tenants’ lamps, fetched some water, got some useless newspaper and bits of wood. I looked at Dad’s shoes and there was nothing unusual on them. They did not smell badly, except of sweat and hard-working feet. But I washed the shoes anyway and washed my hands and went back

Dad was now sittingon his chair. Mumwas askinghimif everythingwas allright. I was certain he hadn’t said a word all the time I had been out. Mum looked distressed, asifhissecretanguishwaseatingaway ather.WhenIputtheshoesdowninthe corner, Dad brought an envelope from his pocket and gave it to Mum. She opened it, brought out some pound notes, and looked at him in astonishment. He said:

‘It’s the rent.’

Mum was so overcome with emotion that she knelt at his feet and held his thighs and said over and over again:

‘Thank you, thank you, my brave husband.’

She said it with such proud sadness she made me feel that those who suffer are strangers to this world. Dad did not acknowledge her, nor did he show any sign of emotion, but his face was so strange I was sure he was feeling much more than he was able to express.

After awhileMummadeDad somefood. Hewent and had alongbath. Hecame back with only his towel round his waist. He sent me to go and buy him a small bottle of Hausa perfume.

Iwalkedalongway up ourstreet,towardsthemainroad,beforeIcameupona cluster of Hausa night traders who sold Indian incense, beads, perfumes, and charms. I bought a cheap bottle of perfume and ran back. Dad had changed clothes. He applied great quantities of the perfume to himself and thoroughly stank out the room with its crude ingredients. We washed our hands and ate in silence.

After we ate Mum went and soaked Dad’s clothes in disinfectant and hid the bucketdeep inthebackyard.Dadstayedup,sittinginhischair.Hedidnotdrinkand did not smoke. He was very sober. He looked like he would never recover from the shock of a certain kind of self-knowledge. Mum sat up with him. They were silent for alongtime.ThenasIfellasleep IheardMumask,asthoughshewerepreparedto accept the possibility:

‘You didn’t kill someone, did you?’

I opened my eyes. Dad shook his head. They were both silent. Mum lit a mosquito coil. I shut my eyes again.

Later that night there was a knock on the door. It was the photographer. He sneaked in hurriedly. Dad opened his eyes and said:

‘Ah, photographer, it’s you.’‘Yes, it’s me.’‘Sleep well.’‘And you, sir.’The photographer lay down with me on the mat. He showed me a little round, transparent bottle. It had a yellow powder inside. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is the most powerful rat poison in the world. Tomorrow, if I return early, we will finish off those rats once and for all.’ He kept it among his things. I blew out the candle. We floated in the darkness and the dreadful perfume of the heated room.