A large house has many doors.
1
In life, the Chief had been infamously polygamous and notoriously fertile, but he had also been fair and honourable; every one of his children was bequeathed something useful by the words of his last will and testament: Eze had received the bungalow.
The bungalow was a three-bedroom house, in a fenced and gated half-plot, off the expressway which led from the big city to an ancient kingdom. It stood a considerable distance from urban life, kilometres away from the city centre, but we were grateful for the free accommodation it provided us.
Eze housed everybody. Well, not everybody, everybody. Eze housed the tribe. We were outcasts, in a sense. Vagabonds. Creatives who chased lofty dreams and fantastical goals. Poets. Painters. Photographers. Artists in every form.
Eze’s mom thought we were bad for her son. We were no more than distractions; derailing him from his path, discouraging him from that Masters’ program at Oxford, hindering him from taking a wife. She said as much whenever she visited the house.
She stopped by mostly on weekends. With a basket of foodstuff, or a carton of provisions for her son. She spread out on one of the sofas in the living room and complained aloud during these visits.
Eze chuckled at her accusations, and begged her not to sound so mean. We could hear her from the bedrooms, he mentioned.
She scoffed, kissed her teeth, and told him that she did not care.
We would deplete all she had brought for him, she warned.
On that note, she was right.
2
Eze took us in at different points in our lives.
Some of us had come from small towns to the big city. With nothing but a backpack filled with clothes and a heart filled with hope. The big city was the place to go, we had been told. It was the place where dreams came true. The place we could launch our art, showcase our photographs, recite our poems, tell our stories. We knew someone who knew someone, and that third someone knew Eze.
Some of us had walked away from home. Our families could not bear that we loved differently; saw the world differently; wanted to live differently. The big city was big enough to harbour us, we had been told. Life there was colourful, and diverse, and eccentric. We could find community there; band with kin; make our own family. We knew someone who knew someone, and that third someone knew Eze.
Some of us liked what was happening at Eze’s place. We had seen photographs and heard stories. It was a melting pot of talent and expression. We were impressed by the authenticity. We wanted to join in. We knew someone who knew someone, and that third someone knew Eze.
In each and every case, Eze’s words were, ‘No wahala.’
If you had someone who could vouch for you; if you could pull your weight and feed yourself; if you loved the arts and pursued it with a vehemence, there was a mattress, or at least, a mat at Eze’s place for you. Blankets and wrappers for the cold nights, too.
‘You cannot keep accommodating everybody,’ Eze’s mom said on one of those her visits. ‘You’re not Father Christmas.’
Eze nodded his head but said no words in response.
3
There was some lore about Eze in his place. Everyone who stayed there, even if only for a while, heard an iteration of it.
At the close of his teenage years, during a Christmas holiday, Eze had lost his marbles. He had suffered a bout of acute malaria. The kind which snuck into one’s brain, making them see things which weren’t there. The kind which took away one’s ability to speak. The kind which put one in a coma.
Eze’s mom had not failed her boy; the only good thing which had come out of her five-year marriage with that philandering Chief. She had searched for everyone who could offer help. Doctors with specialty in psychiatry. Pastors who chased out demons.
In the end, Eze’s health had been restored. But he had somewhat changed, as well. He was no longer that shy and obedient kid she had raised and nurtured. He was now something more.
4
We did not have much in Eze’s place. We mostly just had each other. And of course, we had our art.
Eze took photographs. That was his thing.
At first, his photography was undefined. It could be nature on a Tuesday and abstract on a Thursday. An abandoned car to the side of a lonely street on a Wednesday; the clear-blue, cloud-cluttered sky on a Saturday. He sold them online. On a small website which supported independent artists. His collectors paid stipends, but those were enough to buy electricity units for the bungalow and some groceries for the old refrigerator he had in the kitchen.
As our numbers grew in Eze’s place, his art morphed, as well. He took shots of us now. He took shots of us, working. Painter and canvas. Poet and notepad. Writer and laptop. He took shots of us while we played Ludo, while we cheated at Whot, while we dominated in Checkers. He took shots of our small parties, as we held our boyfriends and our girlfriends in our arms and danced to music by Asa, Burnaboy, Cavemen, Davido. He took shots of us when we quarrelled, over cooked food, over dirty dishes, over untouched laundry.
Artists in Creation, he called it. He did not publish these photos online. He affixed them to the western wall of the dining room. Like a giant vision board but of our faces. It made us stop by whenever we walked through the dining room. Stop and stare. Stop and point. Stop and laugh.
5
Every other month, one of us broke some decent news. A small grant had been received. A short story had entered a longlist. An artwork had been purchased. People were streaming a poem.
We shared our little successes with each other. Cooked a huge pot of jollof rice. Got a pack of canned beer. Toasted to the news and asked the universe for more. When darkness fell, we made love to our lovers, our bodies intertwined with theirs in our little corners. Some of us were curious enough to join others. Some of us were generous enough to share.
Eze did not take photographs on these nights. It was unspoken that we were to capture these moments ourselves and place them, with gentle care, in the halls of our eternal memory.
6
Before the fire, a number of weird things happened in Eze’s place. Strange episodes which left room for speculation. Moments of rage which lingered, without close.
The first was with Sheila.
Sheila wrote poems. Meditations on emotions. Thoughts on feelings. Opinions on beliefs. Her process involved seclusion and celebration. To write, she stayed away from all the rest of us. For hours on end. Sometimes, for a day or two. When she was done, she asked everyone to the living room and rendered a recital. She read from her notepad most times. Other times, she shut her eyes and relayed her words directly from memory.
When we heard a noteworthy line, something that stirred up our spirits, something that fired up our souls, we whooped and snapped our fingers repeatedly. We swung our heads from side to side. We scrunched up our faces. At the end of her readings, we applauded, whistled and cheered.
Sheila loved Eze. The rest of us liked Eze, but Sheila loved Eze. We saw it in the way she looked at him, how she catered to him, how she infused anecdotes about him into her poetry.
But Eze did not love Sheila, nor did he do love like Sheila did. So, the day his new lover visited and they laughed in each other’s faces and laid on the sofa together, Sheila kinda lost it.
She had been slicing veggies, prepping to make stir fry pasta in the kitchen and someone else wanted to make eba. All they did was ask her if they could borrow some boiling water from the pot she had set over the burner. Sheila turned red!
‘You people can’t let someone do something in this house! What is all this nonsense? I will burn down everywhere right now!’
Those were her words. They were hot like atarodo, splashed into a sous chef’s eye. Eze sprang up from the sofa in that instant, leaving his lover and running into the kitchen to intervene. Sheila did not wish to listen to him. She stormed out of the kitchen, and then, out of the house, and she did not return until three days later.
The second episode was with Tobechukwu.
Like many of us, Tobechukwu did not care for religion. But religion cared about Tobechukwu. Religion visited the house, sometimes. On Saturday or Sunday mornings. Missionaries in short-sleeved shirts and long ties, in turbans and long skirts, holding big Bibles, and multi-coloured umbrellas, and slim briefcases. They preached their good news and advertised their missions. They asked us to consider believing in what they believed in. They invited us to come worship with them.
Like many of us, Tobechukwu listened when they talked. He was both polite and courteous. But on that particular Saturday, a missionary made an utterance that provoked him. The youth, as he flipped through a pamphlet, called us a sin; said God forbade our existence. Tobechukwu did not take that lightly. He sprung up and swung his fist at the missionary’s face. A well-aimed blow. A scuffle followed.
The missionary cursed and swore, with his nose bleeding pepper-red blood onto his angel-white shirt.
‘If I be a man of God,’ he shouted. ‘The Lord will burn down this house! Like he burned down Sodom and Gomorrah!’
Those were his words, as his brethren peeled him from the scuffle and led him towards the gate, while we restrained Tobechukwu the best we could.
The third episode was with Eze’s mother.
Now, it sounds like a reach, to insinuate that Eze’s mother had something to do with the fire at her son’s place. Yet, you should have seen her on her last visit to the house before the fire.
For the first time ever, she had not arrived with a basket of foodstuff, or a carton of provisions. Her pitch was raised from her first step into the living room, and continued to increase as she voiced her concerns about us and repeatedly asked Eze to send us all away.
This time, Eze did not attempt to calm her down.
‘If this house was not here, you won’t be doing this thing to me,’ she cried.
Her wail rang out throughout the length and breadth of the bungalow, and we sighed in dejection from the bedrooms, wondering why her hate for us was so fierce and so powerful that it made her cry.
7
None of us were home on the afternoon of the fire.
A gallery had taken interest in Bunmi’s works and was showcasing them in their biennial exhibition. Bunmi painted women’s bodies. Faces in thought and contemplation. Shoulders which carried invisible weights. Bosoms in delight. Bellies carrying life. Hips swaying to music. Legs flaunting jewellery.
We had all been excited for Bunmi. This was her grand introduction to the world. We had ironed our gowns and shirts, and filed away to the gallery. Of course, we did not have money to buy her works, but we had social media, so, we tweeted about the event, instagrammed photos of our outfits, made videos on TikTok, promoted the show with hashtags.
When Eze rushed out of the hall, after receiving a brief phone call, we were all but oblivious about what had been happening.
8
The fire ate everything.
It licked the curtains off the walls, munched the furniture into bits, gnawed at the ceramic-tiled floors.
A fire is a powerful thing. It takes what it likes, without care or consideration.
This one took with it photographs, paintings, manuscripts, gadgets, clothing and travel documents. It took with it our community, our camaraderie, and our kinship and the kindness of our host.
The flames had shattered most windows, deformed the metal doors, and caved in the aluminium roofing, long before the Fire Service arrived on the scene in their old, red truck.
The firemen said they believed the fire had been triggered by an electrical fault from the change-over box. If any one of us had been home, it wouldn’t have grown to the extent that it did, they opined.
But their assessment did not quell our suspicions. Our frowns carried accusations. Our eyes said the names our lips were too modest to voice.
Our tribe dispersed after the fire; scattered into duos and trios of hopelessness. Eze shunned everyone who reached out to him. He returned to the waiting arms of his mother. We would later learn that he eventually plied that road to Oxford. The end of our dreams, had funnily, birthed the realization of hers.
THE END
