‘Look! I see the river-bank!’

I did not share its exultation. We approached the river-bank. The river was an expanse so smooth, so unruffled, it seemed impossible that it was composed of water. It seemed like nothing, emptiness, air. Near the bank, on what should have been the water, there was a dug-out canoe. Next to the canoe was a figure, head covered in a black hood, whom I assumed to be the ferryman of the dead.

When we got near the bank I saw no birds. No breezes wafted over the river. There was no spray, no mist. Nothingstirredonitsblindingexpanse.Therewerenosounds of any sort, not even the gentlest ripple of water could be heard. As we neared the canoe the figure stood up. Over the expanse of unnatural water, still and frightening, an infinity of silver, the figure’s reflections were multiplied. It was only when I looked at the river properly that I realised it was a vast, undisturbed mirror. The canoe stood on a haze of light, without troubling the mirror’s surface. The lights of that world, converging on its shimmering surface, made me utterly transparent, as if I had disappeared from reality, become a ghost. For a moment my eyes, suffused with light and silver, were blinded. Then Dad came back into the room with the moon in his eyes.

He hovered over me.

‘My son,’ he said, gently, ‘there is a wonderful wind blowing in my mind. I drank the moon tonight. The stars are playing on a flute. The air is sweet with the music of an invisible genius. Love is crying in my flesh, singing strange songs. The rain is full of flowers and their scent makes me tremble as if I am becoming a real man. I see great happinessinourfuture.Iseejoy.Iseeyouwalkingoutofthesun.Iseegoldin your eyes. Your flesh glitters with the dust of diamonds. I see your mother as the most beautiful woman in the world.’

And then he was silent.

I wanted him to carry on speaking. His words offered me water and food and new breathing. But he stayed silent and his quiet breath did not stir the slightest wind on the face of the great mirror.

And then, to my utter astonishment, Dad knelt by the bed. He rested his head on the pillow and the smell of alcohol floated on his quiet breathing. When he moved his head, turning the moon in his eyes away from me, as if he were ashamed of revealing something that would free him, the figure by the canoe turned towards us and lifted off its black hood. Standingthere, crowned in blacklight,wasanakedyoungwoman, with an old woman’s face. Her eyes were harder, and glinted brighter, than diamonds.

‘Where is the ferryman?’ asked the spirit imperiously.

The spirit’s voice reverberated, becoming sharper each time, over the horizon of mirrors. The woman did not reply. She took a step towards us and for the first time I noticed that she had the feet of a lioness. Her eyes were those of a tiger. The spirit went forward, attempted to brush her aside, to reach the canoe. Lightning flashed from their contact. The light was so dazzling that for a while all I saw were two smallmoons revolvingin aglass of clear alcohol. Dad was saying:

‘I see us dancing on lovely beaches. The water-maiden sings for us. I see the days of our misery turn over and become bright. My son, my only son, your mother has never ceased being a young woman rich with hopes, and me a young man. We are poor. We have little to give you, but our love. You came out of our deepest joy. We prayed for you. We wanted you. And when you were born you had a mysterious smile on your face. The years passed and we watched the smile grow smaller, but its mystery remains.Don’t youfeelforus?Everymomentthatmyheadisburstingwith loads at the garage, my soul is brimming with good dreams for you. In this life you have seen how sweet even sorrow can be. Our life appears to be a sad music. So how can you come and then leave us? Do you know our misery? Do you know how you make even that bearable? They say you are an abiku child, that you care nothingfor your parents, that you are cold, and that you have eyes only for that special spirit who is a beautiful young girl with golden bangles and copper anklets. But I do not believe them. You have wept for us and watered the tree of love. We have suffered for you. Suffering is our home. We did not make this strange bed that we have to sleep on. But this world is real. I have bled in it. So have you. Your mother has bled in it even more than we have. There are beautiful young girls here with soft tender voices and eyes that God made with moonlight. Must I sing to you all night, for seven days, and sacrifice two white hens, and two dizzying bottles of ogogoro, before you hear me? And even now your mother is wandering about in the night, crying to the wind and the road and the hidden angels, looking for a way to reach you. Does this life not move you? When you play in the streets and see the children die, and hear the mothers weep, and hear the old ones sing of each miraculous birth, is your heart untouched? We have sorrow here. But we also have celebration. We know the special joys. We have sorrow, but it is the sister of love, and the mother of music. I have seen youdance,my son.Andifyouwillnotlistentomy song,Iwillnotsingany more.’

Again he fell silent.

I tried to move, to indicate to him that I had been listening, that tears flowed in my soul, but he made a sudden movement which alarmed me. I heard a loud noise in advance. I looked for his eyes. I saw only the spirit crouching, swaying violently, a weapon in its hands, attacking the woman. They fought one another through all their reflections. The spirit struck the woman and a great din, steel on steel, crashed all around me. The spirit went on striking her till golden blood flowed from her wounds. She made no attempt to defend herself. The golden blood flowed down her and resolved itself into a dazzling protective shield. Then she drew a weapon from her body, and waved it in the air. Suddenly I saw both of them mirrored to eternity. They were everywhere and each reflection was real. And then, as if behind a glass window illuminated at night, I slowly made out Dad’s face. He watched me with calm eyes, while the spirit fought the woman. They fought on the river of glass, fought on the canoe, fought in the sky. And Dad spoke gently in my ears, as if I were a flower.

‘We are the miracles that God made to taste the bitter fruits of time. We are precious, and one day our suffering will turn into wonders of the earth. The sky is not our enemy. There are things that burn me now which turn golden when I am happy. Doyounot seethemystery ofourpain?That webearpoverty,areabletosingand dream sweet things, and that we never curse the air when it is warm, or the fruit when it tastes so good, or the lights that bounce gently on the waters. We bless things even in our pain. We bless them in silence. That is why our music is sweet. It makes the air remember. There are secret miracles at work, my son, that only time will bring forth. I too have heard the dead singing. They tell me that this life is good. They tell me to live it gently, with fire, and always with hope, my son. There is wonder here and there issurpriseineverythingthatyoucannotsee.Theoceanisfullofsongs.Thesky isnot our enemy. Destiny is our friend.’

Kneeling by the bed, he sang wonderful tunes into my ears. He told me stories in songs about our ancestors who had left their original land and made a strange place their home; about grandfather who fought a great spirit of the forest for seven days and was made the Priest of the Shrine of Roads; about gods who divided the universe between the land of spirits, the land of humans, and the infinite regions of heavenly beings, and who gave in all realms a special homeland for the brave.

Then abruptly he stopped speaking. The lights changed. Time contorted. Weapons created great sparks over my face. Dad held a knife over me. I heard the cry of a white bird. The old woman, waving her weapon, golden in the brightness of mirrors, swung at the spirit, and severed one of its heads. The spirit let out a horrifyingcry, utterly human. The woman slashed off its second head. Feathers fell in frenzy over me. The blood of the spirit spattered my face and momentarily blinded me. And when I looked again I saw Dad tower over me, a white hen in one hand, a knife of menacing sharpness in the other. Mum stood with her back to the window, surrounded by nine blue candles, and a configuration of cowries. Dad held the white hen firmly, wings and feet and head. Blood dripped down his arms. There was another figure in the room, whose shadow expanded the spaces, filled it with the aroma of wild village shrines, and the solemnity of rock-faced priests. He danced about the room with a mighty fan of eagle feathers that threatened to set the room into flight. His dancing, fervent and insane, with red amulets and cowries cackling round his neck, became the whirlingtorment of thetwice-beheaded spirit.