Vagabonds, p.1
Vagabonds!, page 1
RIVERHEAD BOOKS
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Copyright © 2022 by Eloghosa Osunde
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Osunde, Eloghosa, author.
Title: Vagabonds! / Eloghosa Osunde.
Description: New York : Riverhead Books, 2022.
Identifiers: LCCN 2021023940 (print) | LCCN 2021023941 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593330029 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593330043 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Marginality, Social—Nigeria—Fiction. | Nigeria—Social life and customs—Fiction. | LCGFT: Novels.
Classification: LCC PR9387.9.O8663 V34 2022 (print) | LCC PR9387.9.O8663 (ebook) | DDC 823.92—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021023940
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021023941
International edition ISBN: 9780593541517
Cover design: Grace Han
Cover art: Based on original artwork by Khari Turner
Book design by Meighan Cavanaugh, adapted for ebook by Maggie Hunt
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Definitions
A Welcome Note from the City
Tatafo (Genesis)
Thomas
Tatafo (Democrazy!)
Johnny Just Come
Overheard: A Conversation
Tatafo (Manual)
Night Wind
Overheard: Fairygodgirls
Grief Is the Gift That Breaks the Spirit Open
Rain
Tatafo (Half the Sky)
After God, Fear Women
Tatafo (Fallen)
The Only Way Out Is Through
Overheard: Hide Us in God
There Is Love at Home
Tatafo (The Bill)
But if Everybody Is Normal, Is It Then Good?
Gold
Tatafo (Water No Get Enemy!)
Witching Hours/They Will Not Depart from It
Acknowledgments
About the Author
There are simple and good and straightforward and well-behaved people, I’m sure.
But this is not a book about them.
If you find your imagination
cannot stop itself from churning out
the scripts of the Death Machines,
pull its plug. Dismantle it. Reprogram it.
Dream Daylight. Manufacture Daylight.
We are the Magicians.
Make Magic.
krista franklin
• • •
All paradises, all utopias are designed by who is not there, by the people who are not allowed in.
toni morrison
• • •
Definitions belong to the definers, not the defined.
What I think the political correctness debate is really about is the power to be able to define. The definers want the power to name. And the defined are now taking that power away from them.
toni morrison
1. Vagabond (n)
Definition:
A person who wanders from place to place without a home
Synonyms: itinerant, wanderer, nomad, wayfarer, traveler, gypsy, rover, vagrant, drifter, transient, migrant, beachcomber, person of no fixed address/abode, knight of the road, bird of passage, rolling stone;
In other words: an outsider, an unbelonger, many.
2. Vagabond (adj)
Definition:
Having no settled home
Synonyms: itinerant, wandering, nomadic, traveling, ambulatory, mobile, on the move, journeying, roving, vagrant, transient, floating, migrant, migratory, refugee, displaced, homeless, rootless, drifting, unsettled, footloose;
In other words: in the city but not of it; i.e., unforgettably unloved by it. In other words: a giant, dumbfounding bulk of the country. In other words: not always by choice.
3. Vagabond (n)
Definition [Nigerian]:
In the states of Bauchi, Gombe, Jigawa, Kaduna, Kano, Katsina, Kebbi, Sokoto, Yobe, and Zamfara, “any male person who dresses or is attired in the fashion of a woman in a public place or who practices sodomy as a means of livelihood or as a profession” is a vagabond.
In the states of Kano and Katsina, “any female person who dresses or is attired in the fashion of a man in a public place” is a vagabond.
In the states of Bauchi, Gombe, Jigawa, Kaduna, Kano, Katsina, Kebbi, Sokoto, Yobe, and Zamfara, an “incorrigible vagabond” is “any person who after being convicted as a vagabond commits any of the offenses which will render him liable to be convicted as such again.”
Synonyms: [redacted], [redacted], fucking [redacted], [redacted], bloody [redacted] [redacted].
In other words: hunted. In other words: wanted. In other words: kept secret. In other words: invisible, hypervisible, threat, trouble.
There are punishments for this.
People also search for:
Gross Indecency (n)
Definition [Nigerian]:
. . . a person commits an act of gross indecency by “exposure of nakedness in public and other related acts of a similar nature capable of corrupting public morals.”
. . . a person commits an act of gross indecency by way of “kissing in public, exposure of nakedness in public, and other related acts of a similar nature in order to corrupt public morals.”
. . . a person commits an act of gross indecency by “committing any sexual offence against the normal or usual standards of behavior.”
In other words: common. In other words: everyday. In other words: unseen on purpose, for a purpose. In other words: rot at the root, rot in the head, rot in the highest places.
An added note: “[Some states] do not define gross indecency. Their laws instead say: ‘Whoever commits an act of gross indecency upon the person of another or by the use of force or threat compels a person to join with him in the commission of such an act shall be punished.’ ”
In other words: should be taken seriously. In other words:
should be disincentive.
In fine print: sometimes forgivable.*
* Depending on . . .
and especially if the perpetrator is/has . . .
Or the victim is/has . . .
. . .
. . .
[So sorry. Pardon the glitch so early in the story. It’s getting harder to read; this part of the law is written in invisible ink.]
A WELCOME NOTE FROM THE CITY
There is an eye following you and you know. Everywhere you go, e dey look you. The eye is made up of people. The eye does not blink, talk less of sleep. The eye is us, curious. The eye is a city; this eye na Lagos. Èkó. This eye is a gossip, a hypocrite. An eye is naturally unfillable, yes. But this is an overpopulated, opinionated, twenty-one-million-bodied eye. A famished eye. This is an eye full of lies, full of mouths, full of secrets, full of death. And dem no dey take us play, because we plenty inside this eye. So na amebo we be. Busy body. Eye service. Na our spirit be dat. Who wan challenge us? You don see us? Na who born dem?
So, who dey look you? (Na we.)
Who is judging you? (Everyone. Us.)
Who know you pass you? (Na we.)
Who will ask for more even if you give us what we want? (Everyone. Us.)
Who go build your safe house? (Ask us again!)
Who will save your child-heart? (Can’t you see where you are?)
Who knows your real face?
Who can jam the door and make our eye cry? (JAMB question!)
Who fit turn and return our eye? (Na you. Na only you.)
(Are you with me?)
So, if you catch us looking at you, if you’re lucky enough to see our eye on your body, if you gauge cutlass swinging in somebody’s hand, tire on another person’s shoulder, fire on another one’s wood, you better turn your back. Don’t look back, don’t pass go. Turn your back. Have mercy on yourself, straighten your steps. Turn your back. Because if you dey wait for us to turn our own back and start to go, then my dear, na the weight of our eye go surely kill you.
TATAFO
(GENESIS)
Not one
So, in the beginning, there was Èkó. Èkó looked around its own sprawling body—where concrete meets lagoons and beaches and bridges and great great noise—and saw that it was good.
“Let there be lives!” Èkó said, and immediately, there were lives.
But also, Èkó could foresee what was coming; the cityspirit knew that if it were to make its children in its own troubled likeness, spitting out flesh-skinned denizens born with masks fastened to their faces, then they, like Èkó, would be troublesome. (Do you know how much you can get away with with a mask on?) Any force worth its weight needs eyes at its front, eyes at its back, eyes in its sides, eyes for a heart, eyes darting in the streets. To stay on top of all things, one must foresee them first. Èkó knew that it would need more than itself to forestall the wahala its children would bring. So, Èkó created and recruited all of us: monitoring spirits, if you like. Ears to do its hearing, heads to do fast thinking, mouthpieces to deliver any message (blessing or punishment, warning or praise), and eyes everywhere to do its watching—of which I am one.
Èkó was right to make us, of course; the city needs all the hands it can get, with how wildly it spins out of control. So we do what we can to help the many-eyed god, the master and minister of excessive enjoyment; the roiling mass of flesh seated on a gold-plated throne made from the trained backs of its children, agbada pouring down in threaded gold, hallowed by thousands of hands.
Èkó has always known what is best for us. So when the city assigned us to our people, based on our personalities, our weaknesses, how much suffering each life could hold and how much each of us could withstand—we took our assignments as praise and accepted them, no questions asked. But I was Èkó’s favorite; Èkó was my egbon, my mentor, the one who taught me everything, and I was his aburo, his Little, the right-hand angel after Èkó’s heart.
Èkó teased me sometimes for my efficiency—how good I was at gathering facts, at seeing, at executing orders—and that sweet appreciation of my swiftness is where my name was born. One day, he looked at me through one of his eyes after I had completed an assignment with more thoroughness than he had expected of me, and his translator, his speaker, one of his mouths said, “Tatafo! You no go kill person.” Tatafo. Blabbermouth. Minder of all business. Gossip. He said the word, my name, in a teasing voice, but I could hear Èkó’s pleasure ringing there, sweet dip into warm low.
I can mumu ehn, so me I said, “Ahhh Baba wash me again,” and the mouth repeated it, over and over, until I quivered to the floor, cackling with glee.
“How many times did I call you?” the mouth asked, endearment packed into its question like teeth. But I’d lost count of all things. The city had taken my lust for praise and used it to tickle me down to the soul.
Of all Èkó’s messengers and host of spirits, I was the youngest but also the most talented; my talent shone like twenty-one million suns. It’s true that me I don’t know how to mind my own business, but is that not why he made me? Is that not why they hired me? Is that not why you have these stories in the first place? I still carry that name with me now.
What you need to know is this: my name was not a mistake. Whatever Èkó sent me to do, I did. He knew I would do anything for him. And from the moment I was chosen to the moment I was released, I did not answer to another name. My job was one thing, and that thing was to obey; so in those days, there was nowhere in this life that Èkó could have sent me that me I’d say I wouldn’t go.
And my god, did I go dark places.
THOMAS
“Blessed are they that have not seen and yet have believed.”
—JESUS, IN JOHN 20:29
There’s a story Nigerians know and pass on with the conviction reserved for Holy Communion bread. Here, a slice of our history: we don’t lose unless something happens; unless there’s foul play. Here: an extra source to cite when defending our collective arrogance. It’s the story of that football match where Nigeria played against India and India scored 99 goals against Nigeria’s 1. Most Nigerians remember this match, whether they were born at the time or not; know the story like they know God—with a fervent, fastidious faith. No need to question it, or search for it, or relive it. It’s a story that happens to you once and then lives with you forever.
Throughout the full ninety minutes of the match, Nigeria’s players did their best, as Nigerians do; sprightly on their feet and quick to react, just as their coach had taught them. But something kept happening: Every time one of the players went near the ball, it morphed into something else. Some say it was a lion that came roaring into the air, all hungry-mouthed and thirsty-eyed; some say it was a snake uncoiling itself from the dead leather; others say it was both interchangeably. The rest claim that the match was only confusing because the ball kept on doubling, or tripling, and Nigeria’s goalkeeper found it impossible to know which one to focus on. The latter was what Thomas’s uncle claimed.
“That day? Ha! The whole Nigeria went haywire! The country was vibrating with shock. A whole us? Lose to India? India? One of our players even died. I forget his name now. One Samuel, abi Simon something, dropped dead on the field from a heart attack. People had so much anger in them that they poured into the streets and started to fight each other. Strangers who’d never met before in their lives o, lunging at each other, trying to draw blood. But in the end, many people made friends that day.”
Thomas could see the streets as his Uncle Anjos spoke, people grappling mercilessly, butting heads like rams, like they had nothing to lose: women on the sidelines picking fights with each other, children following suit. None of it was done with malice, or directionlessly. It was for a purpose. Everybody outside was trying to prove the same thing to themselves and everyone else: We’re a strong and talented people; it’s not that we were not ready, they insisted, it’s just that India used juju to confuse our players. They would never have won if they didn’t use juju. If one of us beats the other here, we can show each other we’re still strong. They fought to exhaustion, then hugged and shook hands before heading off together, asking: “So what was that your name again?” Some joked about it: “My name is Yusuf. But guy, you beat the hell out of me wallahi,” and got placating replies: “Sorry, my brother, you know we did what we had to do.” And they did.
After that match, India was banned from playing international football. It’s hard to know the year, but it’s a fact. It really happened. Everybody saw it. After all, what’s the alternative: That an entire country had a choreographed hallucination? A nationwide delusion?
Exactly.
Thomas knew animal stories too. He knew that tortoises had cracked shells as punishment for their unrepentant greed, from when they were dropped from heaven on their backs by a tired God. For all their haste, God had decided to delay them as a lesson. Hyenas sounded the way they did because they were found gossiping among themselves during a meeting in heaven which ended with God turning to them and saying in a bitter voice: Oh, you want to laugh? You will keep laughing forever. To Thomas, all this was believable because he had read Genesis, which made it clear how God felt about disobedience. A moment in time could lead to punishments forever. God seemed to love forevers.
But the stories Thomas loved the most were the ones about humans; stories that could still be happening right right now in the world as his uncle spoke. Still just a young teenager in secondary school, there was little else to do, so apart from serving God, Thomas had made it his life’s purpose to stack stories, to hunt and squash the fear that came with them.
Every evening, his uncle told him tales by moonlight. A genius with four degrees under his belt, Uncle Anjos wore his belt tightly. Thomas enjoyed horror because it added speed to his breathing and a sheen to his heart. Sometimes he dissolved into the words as Uncle Anjos was talking, fading off in the middle of a sentence, going somewhere new on the wing of a detail with his mouth ajar.
