She sat down. Her eyes were bright with a hungry new ferocity. She stared at me in the darkness and I knew she couldn’t see me clearly.

‘You think because I sit here all day long, because I cook peppersoup and wash plates and clean the tables and smile to my customers, you think because I do all these things that I don’t have plans of my own, eh? You think I don’t want to build a house, to drive a car, you think I don’t want servants, you think I don’t want money and power, eh?Iwantrespect.Iamnotgoingtorunabarforever.Asyouseeme-now I am here, tomorrow I am gone. You think I want to live in this dirty area with no electricity, no toilets, no drinkingwater?Ifyouthinksoyouaremad!Youareasmall boy and you don’t know anything. Your people are not serious. You can sit in a corner like a chicken and look at me, but when the time comes you will remember what I am saying.’

I didn’t understand a word of what she said. I understood the expression on her face. When she had finished her speech her mouth was curled in contempt, as if she had profoundly demeaned herself by talking to me at all. She made a noise of derision. She got up, took the lantern with her, and went out to the backyard. The darkness in thebar becamecomplete. I heard somethingmovingneartheearthenware pot. I heard something scurrying up the walls. The wind rustled the curtain and blew through thebar and flapped theedgesofthealmanacs.Thenight,descendingwiththe wind, brought the smells of stale palm-wine, dead flies, cobwebs, wood, kerosine, and old food. And above all these was the smell of the night itself, like the aroma of the earth just before a storm.

In the darkness things merged into one another. The tables were like crouching animals. Benches were like human beings sleeping on air. A solid wind blew the curtains. A more concrete darkness came into the bar. It was a man. He had a cigarette. Before I smelt its smoke, I smelt dried mud, the sweat of exhaustion, and frustration, and heard the creaks distributed over his body as he moved.

‘Father!’ I said.He lit a match. His eyes were not bright and his face was tired.‘What areyou doingthere, sittingin thedarkness?’‘Nothing.’

The match went out and he fumbled along the benches and sat next to me. He smelt of overwork, sadness, and ash. He put an arm round me and the smell of his armpit overwhelmed me.

‘What areyou doinghere?’ hewhispered.‘Nothing,’ I whispered back. We continued in low tones.‘Where is Madame Koto?’‘In the backyard.’‘What is she doing?’‘I don’t know. But shewas countingher money.’‘Countingher money?’‘Yes.’‘How much?’‘I don’t know. A lot. Bundles.’‘Bundles of money?’‘Yes.’‘Did she give you any?’‘No.’‘You think if I try to borrow from her she will give me?’ ‘No.’‘Why not?’

‘She has become wicked.’‘How come?’‘I don’t know.’‘Sowhy areyousittinghere?’‘She’s getting some girls and men to become servants.’ ‘Is that so?’‘Yes.’Outside, the wind sighed. Dad scratched his bristles. Madame Koto came in through the backyard door. ‘Who is there?’ she asked gruffly. ‘Me,’ I said. ‘I know. But who else is there?’ Dad was silent. ‘Don’t you have a voice?’ ‘It’s me,’ Dad said. ‘Who is “me”?’ came Madame Koto, in a louder voice. ‘Azaro’s father.’ There was another silence.

‘Oh, Azaro’s father,’ Madame Koto said eventually, in an unenthusiastic tone. ‘So how are you, eh? Let me go and get a lamp. You want some palm-wine? I will get you some.’

She didn’t move. We were silent. And then suddenly I could see her. I saw her clearly framed in a dull yellow light. The light billowed gently around her as if her skin were on fire. And then I saw her become two. The yellow light remained. But her heavierformwent out ofthebar.Iheardheroutside;but thelight,billowingslowly, changing colour, sometimes gently and sometimes violently, remained where she had been standing.

‘Can you see it, Dad?’‘See what?’‘That light.’‘What light?’‘The yellow light.’‘Where?’Madame Koto came back into the bar bearing a lantern in front of her. The light of the lantern dispersed the yellow billowing light. Madame Koto came over to us. She put the lantern on the table and stared at us as if we were complete strangers.

‘So how is business?’ Dad asked politely.

‘We are managing,’ she replied. ‘Your son will tell you.’

She stared at me suspiciously. Then she put the gourd of wine on the table. The bump formed by the bundle of money in her wrapper was gone. She went out again and returned with two yellow plastic cups. The cups were new to me.

‘Thank you, Madame,’ Dad said somewhat energetically. ‘May God enable you to prosper and give you health and happiness.’

The theatricality of his prayer took us aback.

‘Amen,’ MadameKoto intoned, eyeingus suspiciously.

She went and sat behind her counter, a formidable figure, a solid mass of vigilance.

Dad poured palm-wine for us both. He lit a cigarette and smoked. I drank and Dad fidgeted. I became aware that Dad couldn’t quite bring himself to ask Madame Koto for money. He sat beside me, wracked by dignity. Humiliation showed on his face. He drank the palm-wine as if it were a kind of necessary poison.

We stayed like that till noises sounded from the street. The noises approached: men singing, beating rhythms on glass, chanting drunkenly. Madame Koto’s face brightened. With eager eyes, she got up and hurried out and put lanterns on the tables. Then a man with a scar on his forehead burst into the bar and, arms wide apart, cried:

‘We are here!’

Therest ofthemcamein,noisily chantingMadameKoto’sname.Oneofthemhad a walking stick. Madame Koto came to welcome them and showed them their benches and wiped the long table and generally fussed over them. They sat, singing and chanting, till they saw us in the corner. Then they became silent.

Madame Koto, coming in with drinks and bowls, noticed their silence. She tried to cheer them up and kept looking at us as though wanting us to leave. The men drank silently. Then the man with the scar on his forehead called Madame Koto over and they talkedinwhispers.Hekeptlookingoveratusduringthepauses.Itbecameclear that they were silent because of our presence. Madame Koto, after the whispering between them was over, nodded, started to come over to us, changed her mind, and went and stood by the counter. I suddenly felt I was in the midst of a secret society. Madame Koto, in a gentler voice, said:

‘Azaro, it’s time for you to go and sleep.’

‘Yes,whatisasmallboy doingup atthistimeanyway?’askedoneofthemen.

‘That’s how children are spoilt,’ said another.

‘Then they become thieves and steal from their fathers.’ Dad was steadily getting drunk. I could feel him clenching and unclenching his fists. He worked his jaws, creaked, fidgeted and, after the last of the men had spoken, rising late to the challenge, he said: ‘He’s my son! And he is not a thief!’ There was a long silence. Madame Koto went and sat behind her counter and hid her face in the shadows. One of the men laughed. It was a high-pitched laughter that would have sounded more appropriate if it had come from a horse. His laughter was cut short when the man with the scar said:

‘We don’t want any trouble.’‘Then why abuse my son?’‘All we want is to hold a meeting here and we don’t want the boy around.’‘The boy goes when I go.’Madame Koto came round the counter.‘I want no trouble in my bar,’ she announced.Shebeganputtingthebenchesface-downontheempty tables.Whenshehad finished she went outside.

‘If you don’t want trouble then both of you should go.’ ‘No!’Dadshouted,downingacup ofpalm-wineandslammingitonthetable. The men were silent. ‘Which party do you support?’ one of them asked, in a reasonable tone of voice. ‘None of your business.’ ‘It is our business.’ ‘Well, I don’t support your party.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘Because it is a party of thieves.’ One of the men immediately shouted for Madame Koto. She came in, hands on her hips. ‘What?’