Fire And The Boy

It did not come as a shock that the morning after Grandpa died, people flocked into our house like sheep coming to graze on green grass. They wore their finest clothes -they were not even in black- and gave their condolences, shaking their heads in show of fake pity. The women came first, tying their gele in a very comical manner that made me wonder if they had come to entertain or console. They made their presence felt indeed. They were quick to dash into the kitchen and ransack our food store. Whenever my mother tried to question them, they would sit her down in the bedroom and say, "Haba! Your father-in-law just died. Don't stress yourself. Let us feed you for today". They wasted no time in cooking pots of excess jollof rice which somehow managed to finish. When I saw Mama Sola, one of the neighbours who had rudely made themselves at home in our kitchen, pouring some food into a nylon bag, she smiled awkwardly and said "Son, I am only saving food so that when all the others finish, I can serve this to the guests". It did not matter when I later found her handing it over to her small famished-looking daughter who raced outside our gates towards their house. Then came the old men, most of them from the village. They held their gourds of palmwine and had chewing-sticks caged in their mouth. They gathered around my father in the living room and every minute, one of them would sigh and say, "Your father was a really great man". He would then follow it up with a mawkish proverb which the rest often seemed to understand and find common sense in even if it contradicted what another had just said. They spoke about Grandpa with such air of propinquity that you would be fooled to believe that all of them actually met him while alive.

My father's friends, his kinsmen and my siblings who had moved away all began to arrive in folds. When it seemed the influx of hungry bellies would never end, my mother's colleagues at the church choir, I am almost certain they called themselves the Oral Vessels of Christ, came too. Their voices rang high when they began to greet. They ate the most food and were the noisiest. When I tried avoiding them, their leader, Miss Comfort, a rather tarting-looking woman for a choir mistress called at me with her annoyingly high-pitched voice "Frank, won't you come down to greet us?" When they had eaten their jollof rice and flushed it down with their bottles of Fanta, they rose and began to sing a mournful song with happy faces. It seemed to me that Miss Comfort and her merry band of warblers were only out to impress with their harmonious voices.

Then came the pot-bellied politicians who thrust stacked money envelopes in my father's hand and whispered in his ear. It seemed choreographed as they each came to perform the same ritual - hand money to any father, whisper in his ear briefly, smile and say "Baba was a great man". They referred to Grandpa as "Baba". He had been like a godfather to them, mother later explained. I detached myself from the folly of it all. When Grandpa had been terminally ill for the past four years, everyone had deserted him. Some said there was an evil spirit within him and it was best to avoid him. There were even rumours that he had acquired his wealth in rather clandestine ways. Everything he and his family owned was shunned. No one came to our house anymore to eat our food. Then he died and people were eager to rush into our house, sit on our sofa, massacre our toilets with huge mounds of multi-coloured excrement, munch our food, raid our fridge and empty our Ribena bottles into their throats.

Why was I not surprised? People believe what they want to believe. Grandpa spent most of his fortune battling the ailment and nearly went bankrupt. No one wants to associate with a broke man, so they found a reason to stay way from him. They chose to believe that he was a bad man whose nemesis was catching up with him. They even claimed his later conversion to Islam was as a result of his longing for forgiveness. When he died, they chose to believe that his death had now cleansed eveything he had. I resented all that was happening. Hypocrites who had avoided us were now cozing up to us. I wished they would all leave. Things got heated for me when my father told me that they would all be staying overnight - except the politicians. The thought of giving up my room for some hypocrites was nauseating.

At night, when everyone was fast asleep, the sound of crickets mixed with the whoosh noise of the dancing trees in the compound was drowned by the loud snoring inside the house. As I sat on a rocking chair on the terrace, I listened to people around me -yes, some people did sleep on the terrace with their mats- sleep-talking. I scoffed and walked towards my room. When I opened it, I saw Miss Comfort stretched out on my bed with voluptuous comfort, legs stretched out and arms flung wide apart. A spittle trickled down the right side of her parted lips. Streaks of dried saliva could be seen on the left side. She was not the only one there. Two other people slept on my bed. May more people lost in their subconscious were glued to mats and torn-clothed mattresses which occupied the little space on the floor. I rued that day and wished our guest rooms were more than just four. On my way from my room, through the living room and the kitchen back to the terrace, I tiptoed so as not to match the hundreds of people snoring away on mats in all the rooms. How could I make them all go away instantly? I sat back on my rocking chair and toyed with a thought for a second. I tossed it aside and considered it once more. Before I knew it, I went back into the house, got a match box and went to the small generator room near the dog's house. While I walked, my heart pounded and my steps seemed to multiply because I heard footsteps behind me but I shrugged it off and calmed my nerves. I drained the five-litre keg into the generator and striked a match stick. I threw it into the generator which was soon engulfed in flames.

"Fire! Fire!" I screamed, making sure my thin voice was thickened with terror. It woke everyone up and those who had been lying near the generator jumped up from their mats, ran towards the main house, back to the generator house. I had moved far away from the scene the moment I screamed. People were running helter-skelter, taking up my shout in choral fashion. The women were clutching their breasts, looking for their children. The men were trying to quench the fire which was now spreading towards the main house. The gate, which was directly adjacent to the generator house was also inflammated. All the buckets of water poured on to the fire was impotent. Tiny bubble-like balls of fire levitated in the air and perched on various objects (mats, bags, clothes) turning them into charred ghosts of what they had once been. I had just intended to start a fire to wake everyone up. I had expected someone to wake up quickly and stop the fire from spreading. But it was out of control. In my panic, I had aabsconded and run into the toilet in the third floor of the main house, watching from the window. Buckets of water were splashed on the fire but it could not tame the wild flames. I trembled and mumbled a prayer under my breath. I saw my father running towards the fire and backing away from it. His phone was latched unto his ear. He was calling the firemen. I wished I could just snap my fingers and it would all go away.

Thirty minutes later, twelve people had been wounded and the fire had spread into the main house. It tore down the gold-embroided curtains and burnt our family picture which we had hung on the wall, next to my Grandpa's final "personal" photograph. The firemen had killed it before it went past the first floor. Everyone was now outside our house, sitting on the road of the estate. The fire ambulance was being filled with people with partially-fried body parts. A feeling of guilt loomed over my head as I sat on one of the cars parked in front of our gate, watching people discussing what had happened with shock written all over their faces. My mother kissed my head and said, "I am so happy you're safe. In the commotion, I thought the fire had taken you". I said nothing. I wished I could tell her not to care so much for me. I wished I could say that it was all my fault but my tongue ceased. My father came towards us and handed me a bottle of water.

"Are you completely okay?" he asked, his tone neutral.
"Sir?"
"You're not hurt at all. I hope so".
"Oh, I'm okay. Err...I just feel a little dizzy".
"It will be all right", he patted my back and smiled. "So, do you know what started it?"
"Sir?"
"The fire. What started it? Mama Bee said she heard your voice screaming first".
"I-um..actually, I..."
"Son? Are you all right?"
"I am sir. I--I don't know who did it. I was sleeping on the rocking chair too when the fire suddenly woke me".
"Well, it's no problem. One man said he knew who did it. He siad he followed the person while he walked towards the generator and set it alight".
"Who?" my knees went weak. "Who did he say it is?"
"He hasn't told me yet. He was wheeled away by the ambulance before he could give me a name. By the time he recovers in the hospital, I will go see him". He rose up and was halfway gone when I coughed.
"What will you do to the person?"
"Ho-ho!" he grinned. "You don't want to know, son".