When Dad got back from work the men converged on him and asked him questions. He didn’t answer them and he brushed them aside and went into the room. He was catatonic with overwork, his eyes dazed, and his silence was like the mood of an ancient grudge. I fetched him water, he bathed. We placed food before him, and he ate his usual huge quantities. And then he slept. He slept through till the evening. The men outside still waited. Then they left. The van stayed parked and occasionally one of the men would keep up a running commentary on who would win the forthcoming elections. They played their music very loudly. It was not the sort of music we liked. It could only have been the awfulness of the music, its loudness, which angered Dad; for, an hour before his usual waking time, we saw him with a towel round his neck, storming towards the van, his chest bare.

WhenDadgot tothevanthemenwhohadbeenwaitingforhimreappeared.They surrounded him. Dad went to the driver’s door and shouted something. The music got louder. Dad shouted again. I saw him reach for the steering wheel. Suddenly the music underwent a vicious scratching transformation, and then went dead.

‘Trouble has arrived!’ someone said in the new silence.

For a long moment nothing happened. One of the men grabbed Dad round the neck and he lashed out. The man stood still, back against the van, eyes frozen. None of the others moved. Dad stormed back to the house. The man he had struck fell down slowly.

The party stalwarts, the bodyguards, and the thugs came pouring down from the back of the van. They were all mighty men, with muscles of solid teak. Their faces were fierce and some of them carried clubs. The last thug to come down was the mightiest of them all. He wore a tracksuit and as he emerged he took off his top. I had never seen anyone so cramped and crowded with muscles. His eyes blazed and he was rugged and handsome and his face twitched as if an implacable agony was lodged in his brain. The others cleared the way for him. He was obviously their leader. The others ran round him in a kind of obeisance and they pointed to our house. The chief thug gave our compound the contemptuous glance it probably deserved and slowly, with the great dignity of one for whom victory has always been certain, he strode towards our housefront. Crowds trailed behind him. Children cheered. The inhabitants of the street hissed and cursed. The music was resumed on the loudspeaker and someone sangproverbialvariations on thethemeof thetroublethat peoplebringupon themselves.

By the time the chief thug reached our housefront the crowd had formed the perimeter of a ringside. The compound people had brought out their chairs and drinks and sat where they had a clear view of the centre. And then from behind the crowd a voice started to chant Dad’s name.

‘Black Tyger! Black Tyger!’

Thechant waspickedupandgrewinmomentum,tilleveryonewascallingforDad, stampingtheir feet rhythmically.

‘SHUT UP!’ thechief thugbarked suddenly.

A hush fell over everyone.

‘Who is this Black Tyger? Is he not afraid of death? Why did he insult my men and spoil our music? Tell him to come out – NOW!’

The crowd resumed chanting.

‘SHUT UP!’ barked the chief thug again.

He strode around the human ringside, baring his chest, inflating his stature.

‘Do you know who I am?’

‘No!’ replied the crowd.

‘They call me..’

‘Yeeeessssss?’ came the crowd.

‘THE GREEN LEOPARD!’

‘Is that so?’ sighed the crowd.

Then there was silence. His name alone was a myth of terror. He was a legendary personage, the most feared fighter and terroriser in many of the ghettos. He used to be an armed robber, was nearly a world champion boxer, and spent years sowing dread in a thousand streets, making the nights horrifying for women and men alike. His name was always spoken in low tones, for fear that he might materialise behind you, and up till that day no one had seen what he looked like; they had only heard the myth of his terror.

Dad didn’t show his face. The world began to think him a coward. The crowd grew restless. The legendary Green Leopard, who had, it was said, given up his days of armed robbery, stalked the human ringside proudly. They said he was now a proper party man, rehabilitated into the mould of bouncer, bodyguard, and canvasser of votes. He was actually the great bully of the ghetto, and he strode about the place, chest pushed out, arms bouncingat his side.

In the meantime they had wheeled out the blind old man. He fretted excitedly in his chair. He had brought his accordion. He wore a red hat and startled us with his green glasses.

‘Ah, so there is going to be a fight?’ he said in his graveyard voice, laughing, and fretting in his chair like a large cockroach.

‘Ah, a fight, eh? Good, Fisticuffs! Excellent. When I was a youngman…‘ and he pressed strains of music from his accordion.

The beer-sellers, the trinket merchants, the stall-owners, the hawkers of dried fish and roast ground-nuts circled amongst the crowd selling things. Drinks were bought in great numbers. Ade found me and we kept close together and waited. Madame Koto, with her swelling foot, and her black walking stick, pushed to the front of the spectators. We heard her servant blasting the car horn up and down the street. The blind old man had fallen into an argument with someone about who would win. They madeabet. Then thefeverofbettingcaughteveryoneandthefatmanwhoownedthe betting-shop up thestreet went roundcollectingoddsonDad.Mostpeoplefavoured Green Leopard. Dad had stayed inside too long and the feelings of the people had turned against him. Sami, the betting-shop owner, realised while collecting the bets that he needed a bucket for all the money. He bought a bucket. Then he sent for his brothers. Six of them came, with machetes and dane guns, and surrounded the bucket. Then Sami went and spoke to the Green Leopard. He gave Sami a terrible stare and then said, very loudly:

‘If I don’t destroy that Black Chicken in two minutes I will give him one hundred pounds!’

The spectators went wild with cheering.

‘GREEN LEOPARD!’ they chanted.

And still Dad didn’t emerge. I got worried. I went into the compound to see what was happening.

ELEVEN

THEROOM WASDARK.MumsatonDad’schairmendinghisshirt.Dad lay on the bed, snoring. I woke him up and told him what was going on outside. ‘Don’t go,’ Mum said. When Dad heard about the hundred pounds his face brightened. ‘So they are ready?’ he asked. I nodded vigorously. ‘And there are a lot of people?’ ‘The whole area. Even Madame Koto is there.’ He smiled. Then, filtering through the walls of the compound, we heard them chant the chief thug’s name.

‘Who is that?’‘The crowd. They are hailing the man.’‘What man?’‘Green Leopard.’Dad got up. His alacrity betrayed the fact that he was clearly aware of his opponent’s reputation. He began to shadow-box. He stretched his muscles. He limbered up. He was soon sweating. The chanting outside grew louder. He went through his pockets, brought out some pound notes, and gave them to me to go and bet on his behalf.

‘Don’t lose it,’ he said. ‘It’s the last money in the house.’Mumhad amiserableand helpless look on her face, asifsheweregoingtobesick for a long time. ‘So you aregoingto fight him?’ I asked. ‘Don’t,’ Mum said. ‘And beat him’, Dad said, ‘in ten minutes.’ ‘That’s what the man said he would do to you,’ I informed him. ‘Wonderful,’ Dad replied, absent-mindedly.

I left the room. At the housefront the spectators had multiplied. There were faces everywhere. Hungry faces. And now they were hungry for spectacle.

It was a bright evening. The heat alone was enough to make everyone feverish. I went and placed Dad’s bet with Sami. The odds against Dad were high and Sami smiled as he took Dad’s money.