When one morning Dabo, one of Dukana’s most successful fishermen, instead of heading for the creeks, suddenly burst out into song, there was consternation in town. Every man is entitled to his private enjoyment, and anyone who chooses to may entertain his friends. Certain times are apt and proper. Such as when the harvest is over and the hardworking and hardy men of Dukana take time off to enjoy their wealth such as it is, in leisurely and manly pursuits: in song and dance, in chats in the playground, in revels in bedrooms far from the rumour-mongers and gossips. But, when a man of dignity and substance, having arranged his affairs properly, and given orders to his subordinates to meet him early at dawn so they can set out on a trip; when such a man suddenly forgets himself and greets his staff and friends with lewd songs, well, Dukana does not laugh.
That morning, Dukana was not amused. Ripples of worry gradually spread around town and drew everyone to Dabo’s house. It was like Duzia to trivialize matters as soon as he got there. ‘I say the man does have a powerful voice. He’s been in the wrong profession all along,’ laughed he as soon as he found opportunity.
‘Cha, cha, you flabby footed son-of-a-bitch, give your tongue a rest. This is no joking matter,’ Terr Kole chastised him. ‘Who’s joking? I say the man has my type of chest, and I’m not joking,’ Duzia replied. Nor was Dabo joking. Because he soon started dancing and you could not have faulted his nimble feet and the rhythmic swaying of his body. ‘I should say this is something different,’ muttered Duzia, as the import of the event began to register on his mind. ‘Something different, indeed,’ replied Terr Kole, ‘You do hide your brain among your flailing toes some of the time, I should say.’ ‘I believe you, Terr Kole,’ Duzia said. ‘You are certainly right this time. ’
‘So you should learn to shut your trap some of the time.’ ‘I’ll try to, Terr Kole. If only I had the legs and could dance like our friend there, I’m sure I should talk less.’ ‘Oh, you’re quite incorrigible,’ said Terr Kole. And he moved away. Dabo sang and danced. And then he started removing his clothes, peeling them off his body one by one until he was completely naked. Dabo had gone mad. Plain mad.
The news ran through Dukana like fire in a dry wind, leaving everyone who heard it dumbstruck. And the story was told how members of his family did everything in their power to calm him down, but he would not be controlled. Even after the family had him thoroughly bound hand and foot with ropes, he still sang blissfully.
Such an unmitigated disaster was bound to invoke bright ideas in Dukana. And now they poured forth by the score. Some said he should be taken to a church so they could pray for him and cast out the devil that was tormenting him. Not one of the regular churches where they only prayed to God and sang. But a real church where members saw visions and healed the sick. Others said Oyeoku the powerful juju should be consulted. He was the only one who could restore the man to his normal senses. And for all anyone knew, he might be the one who had brought this visitation on Dabo.
Some, in the sanctuary of their living rooms, said they were not surprised. For a man did not make the wealth which was Dabo’s by just working hard. You had to have sold your soul to the devil to earn that much money. It began to be said that Dabo had even murdered a young girl years back and offered her as a sacrifice to Sarogua, the rain- maker and ancestral spirit of Dukana, so that he could be the richest man in town. And when you sell yourself to the devil what do you expect? Dabo had been a living lie. After making his pact with the forces of darkness, he had turned to the church and no man was a better son of the church. But he was going to be caught some day, wasn’t he? The chicken had to return home to roost. Money was a good thing, no doubt, but if in its acquisition you did certain untoward things, why, you had to bear the punishment when it came, as it was such to do.
So the whispers went, until it became the common talk away from the ears of members of Dabo’s family. All the latter heard were words of sympathy, of advice as to where the eminent man could be cured in a matter of days.
The Holy Spiritual Church of Mount Zion was suggested and thence Dabo was taken. After a month, he continued to sing and dance; not all the prayers said and the sacrifice made or the fees paid could cure Dabo.
Then it was said that the Brotherhood of the Cross and Star whose membership extended from Calabar to London and America and God knows where else in the world would be sure to drive away the millions of devils who had conspired to drive Dabo to dance and song. Accordingly, he was taken across the river to the headquarters of the Brotherhood. They poured holy water on him; they anointed him with holy cream; they fed him on holy bread; they manacled him head and foot to the foot of his bamboo bed;
they saw visions on his behalf; they prayed for the salvation of his soul. Yet Dabo continued to sing and dance. And when the Holy Spirit ordered that all his earthly goods be sold and the proceeds given to the church because in one of the visions it had appeared that his great wealth was the scourge of the man, the family duly complied. They dug into the grass mattress on his bed; they dug the floor of his bedroom; they dug the soil in his yam barn, and as was suspected, found a bag of money there. They sent all proceeds to the Brotherhood. Still Dabo sang and danced from morning to night. So the family decided that the Brotherhood was not the right place for him.
Now there was in Ko, a town famous for its powers, a man, a doctor who advertised himself on a painted notice board. He was very famous because even the government had given him a certificate with a long number on it. The notice on the board said so. Those who could read, and there were not very many of them, had said that his number was very long, beginning with several naught; government must have known of his many abilities otherwise they would not have given him such a tremendous and impressive number. It was said that his notice board proclaimed him to be a doctor who owned a herbal healing home, in which Veedee could be cured; madness could be cured; infertility could be cured. This native doctor’s potions were the mortal enemy of witchcraft and necromancy, of snake and dog bites, of bee and scorpion stings. In short, he was the one to whom all could turn when everything else in heaven and earth had failed.
Dabo’s family heard of the doctor in Ko rather late in the day. But they went to him as soon as they heard of him and placed Dabo in his powerful hands. And he beat Dabo night and day with a leather belt, leaving wicked marks on the man’s back and bottom. The devil had to be beaten out of the madman. It was the only way of curing madness. And now instead of singing and dancing, Dabo let out frightful and horrendous howls as of a beast in pain. With a shaven head, cicatrices around his wrists and ankles and now deep lacerations on his back, Dabo was a terrible sight. One day, he bolted from the doctor’s famed herbal healing home and found his way, nobody knows how, back to Dukana. And to his empty house.
He no longer danced and sang. He went around in the nude begging for food and water. Once each day, precisely at noon, he would yell out the words ‘You are all liars, all.’ He was the town’s only beggar. And he was a shame to his family. A walking scandal. They discussed him often in subdued tones far from the prying eyes, the sniffing noses and the flapping ears of the lights of Dukana. And came to an unspoken and menacing agreement; ‘One day shall be one day. ’
As the days passed into months and months grew into years, Dabo became a familiar sight in Dukana. Strange to say, he would sometimes recognize a relation or an old friend and greet them normally as in the old days. Such occasions, though rare, went to show that there was somewhere in his madness, a lucidity which could break through his brain as the sun sometimes breaks through rain-bearing clouds.
In Dukana, there is a proverb which states that it’s an unfortunate man who feels like easing himself on a rainy day. For, among us, the bush does not only hold the terrors and beauties of nature, it has been designated a toilet. A rainy day is a terrible day therefore on which to answer the call of nature. Even if one can find a banana leaf to give protection from the falling rain, even if one can wade through the muddy, running water and arrive in the bush, the wet branches, the wet undergrowth, the wet leaves hold further discomforts. Therefore a rainy day is a day to stay indoors, and refuse to answer the call of nature.
On one particularly rainy day, when the roofs of the skies were open and the gods were pouring the waters by the bucketful into Dukana, the beggar could not do his usual rounds. Nor did he feel the urge of nature. Or did he? Because he felt asleep in his empty house. There is another saying which everyone in Dukana knows well. ‘If you don’t know death, look upon sleep.’ So the beggar slept. His relatives, however, believed him to be dead. An ululating female carried the news through the length and breadth of Dukana.
When a mad beggar dies, it is not much news, and nobody really cares. Some even have a sigh of relief. For it is a well-known fact that should a pregnant woman see a mad beggar first thing in the morning, or should she hate the beggar and refuse to feed him or give him money, she is likely to give birth to a child who will look like the beggar or grow up to be an imbecile. But it being criminal not to mourn a departed one and a relative at that, the family raised a loud cry for the benefit of the listening public of Dukana. In the midst of the noise and fuss the beggar woke up from sleep.
The beggar was confounded to find himself the centre of attention. Never since he could remember had so many of his relatives taken an interest in him. He threw them a weak greeting. No one answered him. He repeated the greeting. Again, no one answered him. He repeated the greeting a second time. ‘You are dead, so shut up,’ one of the relatives whispered hoarsely.
‘I’m not dead,’ the beggar replied. ‘I was only sleeping.’ ‘Sleeping. Huh! What’s the difference between sleep and death? You are dead. ’
‘You are dead. Brothers, help me carry him away.’ ‘But I’m not dead yet.’ ‘You will die today. You died this afternoon.’ ‘God, I’m not dead. I’m not dead yet. I don’t want to die,’ the beggar whined like a dog. The brothers joined hands and heaved Dabo from his seat. They wrapped him in a raffia mat and picking up machetes, hoes and an axe, moved in the direction of the bush.
Rain poured down heavily. From time to time lightning streaked through the dark sky. The relatives waded resolutely through the running stream of rain, firmly holding their precious bundle. And Dukana, fearful as ever of the numbing rain, sat indoors oblivious of everything.
Eventually, the party arrived in the depths of the forest. The silence was deep. The thick foliage of the trees shut out the rain. The dead leaves dampened by rain lay soggy and silent underfoot. The birds had all, it seemed, gone to sleep. In the eerie, weird silence the party set down their miserable bundle. The relatives dug a hasty grave, not deep, very narrow. From within the bundle, a voice could be heard. ‘I am not yet dead, oh God.’ ‘Then you must die today, you eyesore, you disgrace of the family. You must die today. ’
‘I’m not dead yet, oh God, I’m not dead yet.’ The relatives were surprised at the amazing clarity of the man. Was he not mad? How was he able to distinguish between life and death? Could even madness know the difference between these two? Each asked himself the question. Each resolved within himself to bury the answer with the mad beggar.
The grave was dug. From the confines of the enveloping dirty mat, the voice could still be heard. They picked up the bundle roughly and tying it firmly with cord cut from the forest, lowered it into the shallow grave. The voice persisted ever so faintly, ever so insistently, even as they covered the grave with the wet earth and huge logs of wood.
Then when they heard no more sounds, when they felt sure their troubles had been buried deep in the bowels of the earth, they looked at each other, turned upon their heels and picked their silent way through the secretive forest back to Dukana.
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