Dad went on like that through the night. I trembled and my head was shot with heat and hallucinations. Dad’s head became very big, his eyes bulbous, his mouth wide. Mum looked lean, bony, and long. They became giant shadows in my fever. They towered above me on the bed and when they spoke about me it seemed they were talking about a ghost, or about someone who wasn’t there. For I wasn’t there in the room. I was deep in the country of road-fevers.

All the sounds of the compound were magnified through the night. I couldn’t eat, I kept throwing up, and all I could keep down was water. Mum kept vigil over me with a candle, Dad with a cigarette. Shadows wandered around the room. I felt I was retreating from the world of things and people. Late at night Mum made some peppersoup. It was hot and spiced with bitter herbs. It made me feel a little better.

Then she poured me a half-tumbler of ogogoro, which had turned yellow with marinatingroots.

‘Dongoyaro,’ Mumsaid, insistingthat I drink it alldown in onegulp.

‘If you don’t, I flogyou,’ Dad threatened.

I drank it all down in one and was shaken to the foundations of my stomach with its infernal bitterness. Bile rushed to my mouth; it was so bitter that I shook in disgust. Mum gave me a cube of sugar, which didn’t sweeten my mouth one bit. And all through my sleep, all the way to the next morning, my mouth was still bitter.

‘Thebitternessdrivesaway themalaria,’Mumsaid,tuckingmeintobed.

‘Bitterness is what the boy needs,’ Dad said, his voice heavy.

Hewasstillangry withmeforkeepingthemupallnight,formakingthemsufferso much worry; and now he could not forgive me because I was ill and had cheated him of a target for his annoyance. Protected from his rage by my fever, I slept that night wracked with bad dreams and road-spirits.

Saturday morning, three days later, I was still ill. My mouth and eyes were dry and I kept hearing birds twittering in my ears. Mum was clattering among the basins and cleaning up the room. Dad wasn’t in; Mum said he had gone to work at the garage. Towards noon Jeremiah came round with photographs of the party. Mum told him he’d have to come back. He grumbled about how expensive it was taking pictures of poor people, but heleft without creatingascene.

It became very hot in the room. The air coming in from the window brought flies aid gnats,but it didn’t coolanything.IsweatedprofuselyonthebedtillIwaslyingona pool of dampness. My body hurt all over and the soles of my feet itched and a headacheexpandedmy brain.IwatchedMumcleaningtheroominahazeofdustand dryness. She looked the picture of forebearance. She said:

‘You must listen to your father and be careful how you walk on the road.’

‘Yes, Mum.’

‘The road swallows people and sometimes at night you can hear them calling for help, beggingto befreed frominsideits stomach.’

‘Yes, Mum.’

She cleaned out the cupboard and prepared my food. I ate little. She made me get out of bed and bathe. With the daylight hurting my eyes, with the noises of the compoundjanglingmy nerves,andthestaresoftheothertenantsincreasingmysense of multiplication, I went to the backyard. Mum had prepared warm herbal water.

‘Bathe of it properly,’ she said, ‘or I will do it for you.’It was cold when I took off my clothes. But the water was hot and the soap smelt good. I was led back to theroomfeelingnew. Mumrubbed meover with herbaloil. ‘Time for your dongoyaro,’ she said. I could have fainted at the anticipation of its bitterness. ‘If you don’t drink it all down I won’t allow you go out today.’ I drank it all down. Later I marvelled that my urine was the deep yellow colour of its bitterness. Theafternoonbrought thebustlingnoisesofthecompoundpeoplescrubbingtheir roomfronts. I heard them chattering, either going out on Saturday outings or being visited by friends or relations. Mum got me to dress up in my fine clothes which I wore only at Christmas. She parted my hair and touched my face with powder, which I sweated off. And then Madame Koto came to see us. She looked very dignified in her white magic beads and her elaborate wrappers and her massive blouse. She was dressed as if she were going to see wealthy relations. ‘Azaro, what happened to you?’ ‘I was lost.’ ‘You just disappeared.’ ‘We should tie up his feet,’ Mum said. ‘He walks too much.’ Madame Koto laughed and brought out a bowl steaming with goat-meat peppersoup.

‘Are there demons in it?’ I asked. She gave me a severe stare, smiled at Mum, and said: ‘It’s full of meat and fish.’ It tasted better than the soup she served her customers. I drank it all down and ate all the meat and fish and my stomach bulged. ‘You didn’t finish the one I made you,’ Mum said. ‘I did.’ Madame Koto packed the bowl back into her bag. ‘Get strong quick, and come and sit in the bar, eh,’ she said, heading for the door.

Mum escorted her out. I could hear them talking. They left the roomfront and I couldn’t hear them any more.

Mum was gone for a long time. The soles of my feet began to itch. Then as I lay there, moving in and out of sleep, in and out of dreams, loud new voices crackled from the street. The voices were so magnified that I wondered what sort of human beings produced them. I couldn’t hear what they said. I felt I was imaginingthem, that they were another manifestation of the spirits. The compound children ran up and down the passage, talking excitedly. I heard the men and women talking in animated tones as if some fantastic new spectacle had appeared in our street, a bazaar, a public masquerade, a troupe of magicians, with contortionists and fire-eaters. The crackling voices drew closer and sounded from the rooftops of all the houses. The compound appeared empty, everyone had gone out to see what was goingon, and I could hear a baby cryingin its temporary abandonment.

Overcome with curiosity, I got out of bed. The crack of an iron ruler shot through my headandendedbetweenmy eyes.Theroomswayed.Thecracklingvoiceoutside spoke from an elevated stationary position. Darkness formed round my eyes and then cleared. I made for the door. The passage was empty. All the compound people were gathered at the housefront. All the housefronts of the street were crowded with people. And everyone was staring at the spectacle of an open-backed van with a megaphone. A man in resplendent white agbada was talking with great gestures. It was the first time I had heard such amplification of voice.

The inhabitants of the street crowded round the van, hunger on their faces. Their children were in tattered clothes, had big stomachs, and were barefoot.

‘What is it?’ someone asked.

‘Politicians.’

‘They want votes.’

‘They want our money.’

‘They have come to tax us.’

‘I saw them when I went hawking. They keep giving reasons why we should vote for them.’

‘They only remember us when they want our votes.’ The man in the van spoke for himself.

‘VOTE FOR US. WE ARE THE PARTY OF THE RICH, FRIENDS OF THE POOR…’

‘The poor have no friends,’ someone in the crowd said.

‘Only rats.’

‘IF YOU VOTE FOR US…’‘…we are finished,’ someone added.‘…WE WILL FEED YOUR CHILDREN…’‘… lies.’‘…AND WE WILL BRING YOU GOOD ROADS…’‘… which the rain will turn into gutters!’‘…AND WE WILL BRING ELECTRICITY…’‘… so you can seebetter how to rob us!’‘…AND WE WILL BUILD SCHOOLS…’ to teach illiteracy!’

‘… AND HOSPITALS. WE WILL MAKE YOU RICH LIKE US. THERE IS PLENTY FOR EVERYBODY. PLENTY OF FOOD. PLENTY OF POWER. VOTE FOR UNITY AND POWER!’

By this time the mocking voices were silent.

‘AND TO PROVE TO YOU THAT WE ARE NOT EMPTY WORDS BRING YOUR CHILDREN TO US. WE ARE GIVING AWAY FREE MILK! YES, FREE MILK FROM US, COURTESY OF OUR GREAT PARTY!’ On and on they went,cracklingabundantpromisesontheair,launchingfuturevisions of extravagant prosperity, till they broke down the walls of our scepticism. The compound people abandoned their doubts and poured over to the van. Feeling the road sway, with the magnified voice quivering in my ears, I went with them. I was surprised to see our landlord on the back of the van. His face glistened with the smile of the powerful and he had on a lace agbada. There were stacks of powdered milk on the back of the van and men with bristling muscles, bare-chested, ripped open the sacks and dished out the milk with yellow bowls to the women who had rushed over with containers. The landlord, like a magician in a triumphant moment, handed out bowls of milk to the great surging mass of people. All around me the throng had become rowdy; the crowd converged round the van, arms outstretched, and the rush for free milk broke into a frenetic cacophony. The crowd shook the van, voices clashed in the air, children cried out under the crush, hands clawed at the sacks, and thefrenzy becamesoalarmingthatthemanatthemegaphonebeganshouting: