We heard his insane laughter, lacerating the air. He continued with his cries, in a different voice.

‘WHO CAN DREAM A GOOD ROAD AND THEN LIVE TO TRAVEL ON IT? Who can GIVE BIRTH TO HIMSELF and then BE HIS OWN FATHER AND MOTHER? Who can LIVE IN THE FUTURE and LIVE IN THE PRESENT and not GO MAD? Who can LIVE AMONG SPIRITS AND among MEN WITHOUT DYING? WHO can EAT AND SLEEP WITH HIS OWN DESTINY AND still KNOW THE HAPPINESS OF A BEAUTIFUL THING?’

The same laughter rang out.

‘THOSE ARE RIDDLES FOR THE TREES!’ we heard him shout, from a long way off.

Then we didn’t hear his voice again.

When we got to the barfront Madame Koto sat outside, on a cane chair. Her women surrounded her. We watched them for a while. They sat without moving. They sat in completesilence.They wereallstaringatthecar.

SEVEN

DAD’S PUBLIC PERFORMANCES had to take on spectacular dimensions. During the period in which Madame Koto got electricity, and bought her car, people lost interest in his training. They were more interested in the car. In the evenings peoplewenttoMadameKoto’sbarandhungaroundthevehicle,touchingit, marvelling. One night I even dreamt that she drove the car to the moon and couldn’t come back. When her servant drove up and down our street, bringing supplies of palm-wine and food, people stopped what they were doing to renew their wonder at the machine. Children always ran behind the vehicle, cheering.

Madame Koto graduated from palm-wine to beer. There was more money in beer and breweries had begun to be established in the city. Sometimes, after the evening’s supplies of beer had been delivered, she would invite the children of the area for a ride in the car. It increased her pleasure in her own possession and she considered the free ride as an act of charity. Ade refused to have anything to do with the car. His father had warned him that it was the work of the devil. She gave me a ride once, and I never forgot it. She sat at the back. I sat at the front. I couldn’t see the road. It seemed to me that we were driving on the wind. She stopped to give people lifts. When I was the only one left she told the driver to increase the speed. The driver relishedit anddroveat suchnightmarespeedthat Iwascertainwewereflyingtothe moon. When I begged the driver to slow down, because I felt nauseous, Madame Koto said:

‘Faster! Faster!’

And the driver drove like a madman, pressing on somewhat vengefully at frightening speed. I didn’t understand the source of the vengeance. Madame Koto’s face was radiant, her eyes widened, and her massive frame became luminous from the sheer pleasure and the power of acceleration as much as from my own horror. But then the speed and my fear made me throw up. I threw up on the driver and Madame Koto ordered the car to be stopped and gave the driver the sign to bundle me out. The driver did just that. After he had cleaned my vomit off him, using sand and rags, he gave me savage looks. The looks didn’t do anything to me so he sidled over, pretended to touch my head in a gesture of forgiveness, but gave me such a cracking with his bony knuckles that I was too dazed to notice them drive off. I walked the long distance home and I never accepted a ride in the car again.

When I got home late that evening, Dad was training as if he had gone insane. No one watched him except a boy, two chickens, a goat, and the blind old man. That night, furious at the fickleness of the world’s tastes, angry that people were now bored with his antics, Dad began to rave and storm about the road, issuing challenges to the entire planet. He boasted that he could fight three people at once. No one took up his challenge. Then he insisted that he could beat five men. It was only when he increased the number to ten that people stepped forward from the darkness.

I was exhausted that night. I sat on the cement platform and watched as seven men moved in on Dad. They were load-carriers and part-time bodyguards. I had often seen them among the crowds that studied Dad as he trained. Dad unceremoniously knocked one of them flat out with an upper cut to the jaw. After the man fell he didn’t move. The six other men crowded round him. Dad jumped about, charging himself with recitations of his fighting names, his secret names, the names he had given his spirit. Two of the men rushed in. One of them caught Dad on the head with a roundhouse punch, poorly executed. Dad laughed derisively and executed the very same punch. The man fell brutally. Dad pursued a third man, changed direction, and smashed a fourth man in the solar plexus, then put him out of the fight with a rather cruel-looking left cross. Three men lay on the ground, motionless. The other four fled as with one mind. Dad didn’t follow them. The blind old man clapped for Dad and the boy called out his fighting name. When they came and led the blind old man away we heard the strains of his accordion in the darkness as he went. We were surprised that it sounded rather pleasant.

EIGHT

WE WOKEUP to find theworld staringat us with new respect. It had gone round the globe and even to the world of spirits that Dad had beaten seven men in a fight. Dad, who had become something of an impresario, didn’t train in public for three days. He explained the curious principle to me:

‘When people don’t believe you can do something and you do it, they begin to respect you. That is the time to disappear. The longer they respect you, the better. Then you keep your secret. Their interest grows. Time passes. They get tired of you. They get bored waiting for you. Then they don’t believe in you any more. That’s when you really begin to show them.’

I had no idea what he was talking about. Instead of training at the housefront, he now took to jogging down the street.

‘Black Tyger!’ the people would call.

Hewouldn’t respond. Hewould joginto thedistance, and wouldn’t beseen till nightfall. Hewould jogto thehousefront, shadow-boxfor afew moments in public, and then disappear into our room. The interest in him grew. His name travelled. His legend sprouted into being. Whenever I got back from school there were always some men around making enquiries about Dad. They wanted to know where he trained, who his coach was, and what party he belonged to. In the evenings crowds gathered round our housefront. People who had heard of Dad’s prowess came from the far reachesofdistantghettos,fromremoteplaces.They hungaround,staringatthe house. The neighbours came out early, with their little centre tables and chairs and drinks. Street traders, hawkers, beer-sellers, traders in iced water and snuff, gathered round in anticipation. When Dad got back from work they chanted his name and urgedhimtotrainforalltosee.Herespondedby demonstratingsomepunches,some footwork, and then he would vanish into our room. He didn’t oblige them. He refused to satisfy their fickle dictates. The crowd grew restless, then bored, then disenchanted, then they disbanded. Then the word began to go round that Dad hadn’t beaten seven people at all, that in fact he hadn’t ever fought anybody, and that he was now too scared to train in public.

When Dad heard about these rumours, he smiled mysteriously. He went on jogging off towards the forest, to a place no one knew.