construction of roads.
The harder the wind blew, the harder dad worked. He seemed to be punishing himself, filling with suffering the empty spaces where the demon-girl once resided. He starved. He didn’t drink any alcohol and didn’t smoke any cigarettes. He didn’t get into any fights and when provoked he allowedhimself to be beaten. He came back a strange man every evening. He would rest a bit, pace the room, and tell stories about people who were dying and who went around helping others who were also dying and the mosquito said different things to the hero on the dawn of his transformation. Sometimes it was a lion that licked the good man’s feet. Sometimes it was a tiger. Sometimes an elephant bore his body deep into the forest and to the land of spirits. Other times it was a giraffe that bore him on its cushioned hump into the kingdom of pure spirits on the great dawn of his coronation.
For three days I followed my father in spirit as he worked to earn mum’s forgiveness. I never knew that dad also had many people inside him. He grew taller. His eyes became sunken, but they shone brighter. His unshaven look and the broken expression on his face kept making me want to cry. But a moment before I might have started to weep, he would begin a story. And when he left the house, staggering from his loss of weight, I realised that as he grew thinner his other form in the chair became so vast and powerful that it was soon bigger than the whole compound. It was a mystery. The other tenants, for no apparent reason, became kinder to me. They brought me food and kept touching my head fondly. Then one day a most curious thing happened. I was alone, playing in the street, when an old man with reddish teeth came to me. He stared into my eyes, smiled, and made a prayer over me, and went away.
My father carried loads with a vengeful determination. His neck shrank. His boots looked sad. He took to clearing the accumulations of rubbish in our street. He gave the money he had suffered so much to earn to families and total strangers who were poorer than we were. His penance became a new kind of demon. He offered to wash clothes for over-burdened women. He fetched water from our well for everyone. He dug gutters, he helped to build wooden bridges over marshlands near us, he worked on building sites, he visited our poor relations and took them medicines and fruits during their illnesses, and he came back everynight with his head bowed, his eyes raw, unable to forgive himself.
On the third night he came home sadder than usual. He said:
‘My son, I have been unable to gatecrash your mother’s forgiveness.’
I stayed silent. Dad was disappearing. He hadn’t eaten and his body was growing hollow.
‘There is a red wind in my head,’ he continued. ‘When I was carrying loads today a fly sat on top of the load and I fell down and couldn’t get up. No one in the wide world came to help me. I stayed on the ground the whole afternoon. The owners of the load came and kicked me and called me a dog. I didn’t retaliate. Then an old woman came to me and said, “You can’t hide your head from life. If you succeed you will lose your head. You must also learn how to fail.” Then she left. She was a messenger from my father, the priest of Roads. But, Azaro, my son, I don’t understand the message.’
He stared right through me. The door creaked open gently, as if the wind wanted to come in and listen to a story. I didn’t like the wind any more. It had chilled me, and it had not stopped waging war on my father’s secret form. But something made me want to turn round.
‘Don’t speak,’ dad said in a low voice that made me think he was dying.
His face hung down, his jaws were slack, but he stared at something behind me with a glittering intensity in his eyes. When I turned right round the sight of the black cat sitting on its tail, its eyes alight, frightened me. When I screamed, the cat disappeared.
‘You have driven our visitor
The harder the wind blew, the harder dad worked. He seemed to be punishing himself, filling with suffering the empty spaces where the demon-girl once resided. He starved. He didn’t drink any alcohol and didn’t smoke any cigarettes. He didn’t get into any fights and when provoked he allowedhimself to be beaten. He came back a strange man every evening. He would rest a bit, pace the room, and tell stories about people who were dying and who went around helping others who were also dying and the mosquito said different things to the hero on the dawn of his transformation. Sometimes it was a lion that licked the good man’s feet. Sometimes it was a tiger. Sometimes an elephant bore his body deep into the forest and to the land of spirits. Other times it was a giraffe that bore him on its cushioned hump into the kingdom of pure spirits on the great dawn of his coronation.
For three days I followed my father in spirit as he worked to earn mum’s forgiveness. I never knew that dad also had many people inside him. He grew taller. His eyes became sunken, but they shone brighter. His unshaven look and the broken expression on his face kept making me want to cry. But a moment before I might have started to weep, he would begin a story. And when he left the house, staggering from his loss of weight, I realised that as he grew thinner his other form in the chair became so vast and powerful that it was soon bigger than the whole compound. It was a mystery. The other tenants, for no apparent reason, became kinder to me. They brought me food and kept touching my head fondly. Then one day a most curious thing happened. I was alone, playing in the street, when an old man with reddish teeth came to me. He stared into my eyes, smiled, and made a prayer over me, and went away.
My father carried loads with a vengeful determination. His neck shrank. His boots looked sad. He took to clearing the accumulations of rubbish in our street. He gave the money he had suffered so much to earn to families and total strangers who were poorer than we were. His penance became a new kind of demon. He offered to wash clothes for over-burdened women. He fetched water from our well for everyone. He dug gutters, he helped to build wooden bridges over marshlands near us, he worked on building sites, he visited our poor relations and took them medicines and fruits during their illnesses, and he came back everynight with his head bowed, his eyes raw, unable to forgive himself.
On the third night he came home sadder than usual. He said:
‘My son, I have been unable to gatecrash your mother’s forgiveness.’
I stayed silent. Dad was disappearing. He hadn’t eaten and his body was growing hollow.
‘There is a red wind in my head,’ he continued. ‘When I was carrying loads today a fly sat on top of the load and I fell down and couldn’t get up. No one in the wide world came to help me. I stayed on the ground the whole afternoon. The owners of the load came and kicked me and called me a dog. I didn’t retaliate. Then an old woman came to me and said, “You can’t hide your head from life. If you succeed you will lose your head. You must also learn how to fail.” Then she left. She was a messenger from my father, the priest of Roads. But, Azaro, my son, I don’t understand the message.’
He stared right through me. The door creaked open gently, as if the wind wanted to come in and listen to a story. I didn’t like the wind any more. It had chilled me, and it had not stopped waging war on my father’s secret form. But something made me want to turn round.
‘Don’t speak,’ dad said in a low voice that made me think he was dying.
His face hung down, his jaws were slack, but he stared at something behind me with a glittering intensity in his eyes. When I turned right round the sight of the black cat sitting on its tail, its eyes alight, frightened me. When I screamed, the cat disappeared.
‘You have driven our visitor
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