Gods and Soldiers by Rob Spillman Page B

open the gates to democracy, and to liberty for the political detainees, Lomba was in the ranks of those released.
    This might have been how it happened: Lomba was seated in a dingy cell in Gashuwa, his eyes closed, his mind soaring above the glass-studded prison walls, mingling with the stars and the rain in elemental union of freedom; then the door clanked open, and when he opened his eyes Liberty was standing over him, smiling kindly, extending an arm.
    And Liberty said softly, “Come. It is time to go.”
    And they left, arm in arm.

MOHAMMED NASEEHU ALI
    â€¢ Ghana •
    THE MANHOOD TEST
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    ON THE DAY of Mr. Rafique’s manhood test, he woke up at half past three in the morning. He had barely slept, haunted in a dream by images of a market scene, where a group of old women hawked phalluses of every size, shape, and color. He remained lying on the hard-foamed couch in the sitting room, where he had slept for the past week. He pressed his limp penis gently—the way doctors press blood pressure bulbs—hoping it would become fully erect, something he had not seen for three whole weeks.
    Mr. Rafique came alert on hearing the loud crows of roosters in the courtyard, and was suddenly overpowered by the crippling fear that had tormented him since the day, about a week ago, when his wife accused him of unmanliness at the chief’s palace on Zongo Street. To verify the wife’s allegations, the chief’s alkali, or judge, had ordered Mr. Rafique to take the manhood test, a process that required Mr. Rafique to sleep with his wife before an appointed invigilator.
    The test was scheduled for half past four this afternoon, and the mere thought of being naked with his wife and in the presence of a third person made Mr. Rafique’s body numb. He brushed the fingers of his left hand around the edge of his penis. “Why are you treating me so?” he whispered to himself. “Eh, tell me! Why are you treating me so?” He lifted his head from the pillow to look at his crotch, as though he had expected the penis to answer. “What am I going to do, yá Allah!” he said, his voice now just above a whisper. “What am I going to do if I fail?”
    Mr. Rafique lifted his arms and silently began to pray in the most distant region of his heart, where no one—not even the two angels said to be guarding each mortal day and night—could hear him. He prayed for a miracle to transform his limp phallus into a bouncing, fully erect one; he begged Allah to steer his destiny clear of the imminent humiliation that threatened to put him and his family to shame.
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    Mr. Rafique had been married for a little over eight months to a young but worldly woman named Zulaikha. Zulai, as she was called affectionately, was the last of four daughters of Baba Mina, a rich transportation business owner who used to live on Zongo Street. Like other once-very-poor-and-suddenly-turned-rich types, Baba Mina had moved to Nhyiaso, an expensive suburb of Kumasi, as soon as he became wealthy enough. He and his family visited their Zongo Street clan-house only on weekends or whenever there was an important social function.
    Zulaikha had been raised a spoiled child. Her parents—her mother especially—never denied her things she desired. She wore expensive blouses and skirts instead of the traditional wrapper and danchiki worn by girls her age. And while some of her schoolmates drank water to quench both hunger and thirst during lunch break, Zulai ate boiled eggs and drank Fanta instead. At twelve, she had stood as the tallest girl among her age mates. She was slender, with a curvaceous figure that sent the eyes of men darting wherever she walked. Her thighs were muscular, supported by her long, athletic calves. Zulai also had deep, sensuous lips and eyes that were as clear as the moon at its brightest. Her cheeks were lean and dimpled, her eyebrows dark and silky. Her hair was always