‘Tell him to run far. Because when I catch him I will..

Suddenly Dad reappeared. He stepped out from the spectators, a ghastly, horrifying sight, an apparition covered in rubbish. From the waist downwards he was pouring with mud and slime. For some reason he had gone into the swamp. He was an ugly sight. He was beyond caring, his eyes were not afraid of dying, he was no longer a defensive animal, and his eyes burned as if he had the sun in them. He had gone back to someprimevalcondition. Hestepped into theringand said:

‘What will you do?’

‘Kill you,’ Green Leopard said.

‘First you have to find me.’

‘That’s easy.’

‘Then promise me that your followers will not interfere.’

Green Leopard looked confident and puzzled at the same time. Then he spoke to his followers rapidly in the only language they would thoroughly understand. His followersprotested,buthespokeangrily,beratingthem,andthey noddedreluctantly.

Madame Koto kissed her teeth and said:

‘Men aremad! I amnot goingto stand hereand watch peoplekillthemselves.’

Shepushedherway outofthecrowd.Iheardhercallingherdriver.

‘Women!’ the blind old man said.

Dad went into the ring. He didn’t dance, or do anything fanciful. He stood, fists guarding his face, ready. Green Leopard danced towards him, swaggering almost, confident, arms at his side. His followers began to chant his name.

‘Green Leopard!’

‘Master boxer!’

‘Destroy the Tyger!’

‘Eat up his fame!’

The music started again from the loudspeaker. The blind old man squeezed additional discord from his accordion. I found a hardened lump of eba on the floor and threw it and this time I didn’t miss. I caught him flush on the mouth. He looked blindly around.Hestoppedplayinghisinstrument.ThenIheardhimsay:

‘Takemeaway fromhere.Thespiritshavestartedattackingmeinbroaddaylight.’

The woman who had brought him wheeled him off. When he had gone the mood of the fight swung into a new hemisphere. The Green Leopard lunged in, wading, arms swinging in a curious half-hearted attack on Dad. He was half-hearted, it seemed, because Dad looked finished anyway, he looked wobbly on his feet, a defeated man whom a few ordinary punches would destroy. And that’s why we were all so surprised. Suddenly, from seeming so weak, Dad became rock-like, and charged. He let out a manic scream. Energy, concentrated, glowed from him in an instant. His fists, released from their immobility, shot out in a series of fast, short punches, raining down from a hundred different angles. The punches were blistering, mud from Dad’s fists flew everywhere, and the entire action lasted a short time but the speed of the attack seemed to elongate the moment. It was mesmerising. Dad didn’t rush into an attack. He didn’t move forward. He punched from the spot where he stood, as if he were in an invisible, invulnerable circle of power. A short burst of this close-range fighting ended with an upper cut that travelled from Dad’s solidly planted feet and all the mud of his rage. It connected with Green Leopard’s jaw, drawing a great sigh from the crowd. The day darkened. A cloud passed over the face of the sun. Birds wheeled overhead. The music from the loudspeaker was full of victory and celebration. Green Leopard stood, arms out, as if he had gone deaf, or as if he had been shot from behind. His eyes were blank, his mouth open. A cloud of dust flew up as the great boxer collapsed slowly to the floor. It was like a dream. Dad was on one knee, within his invisible circle. The crowd was silent, stunned by its unbelief.

I let out a cry of joy. Green Leopard’s followers rushed to pick up their man. But he was out cold and didn’t so much as twitch. His mouth flopped open and his body was limp as if he had totally given up on reality. The crowd, profoundly disappointed, spat abuses at Green Leopard and his followers. They showered curses on his reputation. They damned his fame and booed his reputation and they began to leave in utter disgust at the money they had lost betting on a man who was much weaker than his legend had suggested. Green Leopard’s followers lifted up the prostrate form of their chief protector, master boxer, terroriser of ghettos, the orchestrator of their myths of invincibility. They looked overcome with shame. The music died Out and a funereal silence reigned. They carried the horizontal form of their legend, they lifted him high as if he were dead, as if he were a corpse, and they took him to the van. Hurriedly, they bundled him in. Hurriedly, they drove away. Green Leopard did not honour his bet. They left with their philosophy in disgrace. The pamphlets they had distributed, which were scattered about the street, flew all about as the van sped off over them.

No one rushed to congratulate Dad except me and Ade. The crowd were curiously unforgiving of his surprising victory. We jumped around Dad and he lifted us up and carried us in the air and our thin voices rang out his name and sang out his achievement so that the earth and the wind and the sky would bear witness to it even when thespectators didn’t. Thecrowdscatteredinshameathavingbackedthewrong man, in shame for having judged things by appearances, and in bad temper because they didn’t know how to achieve the swift turnaround in appreciation. We were not bothered. Dad’s victory was all the world we needed. And beaten, mashed up, his face broken, he carried us, cheering, towards the room. Then Ade remembered our bets.

‘Sami has run away with our money!’ I cried.

Dad immediately put us down and stormed to the betting-shop. We strode, proudly, behind him.

When we arrived, Sami was counting the money he had collected in his bucket. His hefty brothers sat around him in the shop, their faces glowing with money and the light from the kerosine lamp. Sami sat on a stool, his face covered with sweat, his eyes glittering. When he looked up and saw us his face darkened. Then he broke into a smile.

‘Black Tyger,’ he said, ‘you surprised everybody. Sit down. Have a drink. We were just counting the money. Then we were coming to give you your share. So, what will you drink? This fight of yours has made me more money in one day than I have made in months.’

‘So I see,’ Dad said, refusing to sit.

Westood on either sideof him, his minutebodyguards. Therewas alongsilence.

‘Are you going to give me my money or not?’ Dad asked finally. ‘Or do I have to fight everybody here as well?’

Sami smiled. There was silence. The flame crackled. Then Sami got up, went to the back room, and eventually came back with a thick bundle of notes. He gave them to Dad, who gave them to me. I counted the money. Dad nodded his satisfaction. As we turned to leave, Sami said:

‘Send one of your boys the next time you are fighting.’

‘Why?’

‘We could make more money together.’

Dad said nothing. We left. On the way Ade said he had to go home. Dad gave him a pound noteand Adewent on home, dancingdown thestreet, singingof our triumph.

It was only when we got home that a monstrous exhaustion seized hold of Dad. As weopened thedoor Mumwassittingonastool,withacandleonthetableinfrontof her. She was in an attitude of prayer. She looked up, saw Dad, and rose. Her mouth opened wide when she saw the devastation of Dad’s features. She rushed to Dad and embraced him. She began weeping. Then Dad collapsed on her. It took us an hour to carry him to the bed. He did not stir.