He unwrapped the packet with careful hands, and examined it. ‘Not gold!’ he said, folding it back and handing it to her. ‘Ordinary pan. Not gold at all.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Jagua, indignant. ‘Jus’ say you go’ no money to pay.’
‘Who say I got no money. All right, bring let me see.’
Jagua handed back the case. The goldsmith looked at it carelessly, then said: ‘I give you ten poun’.’
‘You think I need money so much? You don’ see de clothes I puttin’ on? If you don’t give me £50 I go with my thin’.’
The goldsmith went outside and consulted with three of his friends. Jagua saw that she had something valuable. She sat tight while the men talked. Then they took the trinkets indoors and were there a long time. Jagua knew that this was the best time to get a good sum for them because the ram festival was nearing and women would be looking for such jewellery. All the smith needed to do was melt them and bring them out in new designs.
She heard a murmur and they came into the shop. ‘All right,’ said the goldsmith. ‘Twenty pounds, last!’
Jagua did not so much as look at him. At one point they shouted abuses at each other. But two hours later when she left the shop, she had thirty-five pounds in her bag.
18
Jagua did not see Dennis till two days afterwards. As soon as he came into the room, Rosa slipped out. There was something terrifying about his looks that evening.
‘Wat happen, Dennis. Your face dark like you loss some big money – or person.’
‘Our taxi driver,’ Dennis said. ‘He go out las’ night. Dem kill him, throw way his body for gutter.’
Jagua held her head in her hands and shrieked. Rosa ran back into the room post-haste. ‘Why you cry so, Ma?’ She walked on tip-toe as if to still the noise she brought along with her. Jagua and Dennis were silent, looking at the carpet.
‘Wa’s wrong, Ma?’ Rosa asked again. She sat down. ‘Wa’s wrong, Ma? Somebody die? You cry like somebody die! …’
Dennis turned to her. ‘Dem kill our taxi driver.’
‘Lord a’ mercy!’ Rosa folded her arms over her bosom.
Dennis talked quietly, telling how it had all started with the taxi driver’s wife, nagging him about money. There was to be an outing for a dead relation, the end of the period of mourning for the widow. Custom demanded that a dress be prescribed for all the women. The widow’s relatives assembled and they chose an outfit costing one hundred pounds each. It consisted of damask and velvet, nylons and gold trinkets. The taxi driver had no money. His wife, who was the most important relation of the widow, would not hear of it. She threatened to leave him if he did not find the money within two days. One hundred pounds within two days. She was always threatening to leave him, anyhow. Always Dennis had to settle their quarrels. Jagua had seen him try to discipline her because the driver himself was so weak where she was concerned. She kept up her nagging the whole of that night and finally the taxi driver pressed Dennis to let them go and raid the shop where he had seen the woman stowing away £1000 in a strongbox; but Dennis did not feel like going, and finally they went without him. They did not know the woman employed armed men who slept inside the shop. The taxi driver was stabbed and thrown into the street-gutter with the open drain. And there they found him in the morning.
That was the story Dennis had to tell. Lagos was ‘hot’ for them now because the police were alert and hungering for an arrest, around Obanla.
‘Wat of de taxi-driver wife?’ Jagua asked.
‘She pack her thin’ and run, quick-quick.’ He smiled. ‘But Sabina tell me she know where de woman’s hiding. De two of dem be proper enemy.’
‘You mean Sabina and de taxi-driver wife? … So she won’ come back?’
‘No, she say she don’ want any trouble.’
Jagua sighed. ‘She born any child for him?’
‘Yes,’ said Dennis. ‘Dat woman born pickin’ like fowl. Every year she mus’ born one child. She already born three pickin’ for him. Before dat, she born anodder three pickin’ for odder men who she marry, or some lover man. But she no care for de pickin’, only to dress herself. She run away now and hide, but my gal kin fin’ her out. Anywhere she see clothes, money, and chop, she don’ mind. She will live there. When she an’ de taxi driver begin, de man use to make about £10 a day. She chop all him money finish and begin talk rot. Das why I vex las’ time and beat her. Am sure she mus’ go dis burial ceremony. She mus’ fin’ some man to give am de £100. Dat gal! She don’ care at all, for anythin’. Only to dress herself, fine! And to look man face.’
Jagua gave Rosa a meaning glance and Rosa left them alone. From under the pillow Jagua took out a bulging envelope and handed it to Dennis. ‘Count de money. Is £35; das all dem give me.’ He took the money from her and as he began counting, she looked at the determined and angry set of his brow.
Dennis, I wan’ to tell you somethin’. Dis kind of life dat you follow, you think is a good life.’
Dennis smiled. ‘What you wan’ me to do? To go an’ be clerk? Awright! I already try to find work. Dem ask me to bring bribe-money. I give one man ten pound, and he chop de money and he no fin’ work for me. How I go do? I mus’ chop. Myself and de taxi man who die, sometime we kin make one hundred pound by Saturday. Sometime, we don’ see anythin’. But we live happy. I got my gal, Sabina, and she love me well. She say dat any day de police catch me, she goin’ to kill herself. Before I meet her she never know man. I disvirgin’ her. She don’ believe any odder man live in dis worl’ only me. She love me. I got dat whole house. Me and de taxi man who die, and de boys, we rent de place and we pay our own rent, regular. We never look money in de face, an’ say “dis money is too much”. We jus’ spen’, to get anythin’ we want. Anythin’. So why I worry? De day dat de policeman catch we, we go. Is all de same, whedder we live in cell or outside de cell.’
Jagua watched his expressive hands. Somehow she felt that this young man’s philosophy was intricately bound up with hers. He lived for the moment, intensely, desperately. He had no use for conventional methods of thinking. ‘What you say is true,’ she told him. With her elderly woman’s heart, she could not bear to see this young boy who could well be her son, sacrificed on the altar of recklessness. For she was sure that he must die – and swifty too – if he kept this life up. ‘Wat you say, is true, Dennis. But I beg of you to stop dis business. Take de taxi driver case as warnin’, you hear me? Stop and go do hones’ work, so you kin live long and help your modder in her ol’ age. Is plenty work in Lagos, though de money not like de kind you use to. But suppose dem kill you one night, take knife open you belly so de breeze rush inside, what your modder goin’ to say?’
‘Is jus’ my bad luck, das all,’ Dennis said.
‘You been in de army before?’