away,’ dad said sadly.
‘It was another messenger,’ I said.
‘What was the message?’
‘Go and beg mum,’ I replied.
Dad was silent. He shut his eyes. He didn’t move for a long time. I blew out the candle. For the first time in sevendays, dad slept. He slept in his chair. That night, as dad slept precariously in his three-legged chair, I saw his other form gradually grow smaller. The gentle haze of gold diminished and settled in him and I never saw it again. I knew then that dad had found a secret way back into the immeasurable invisible happiness that is mixed like air into the long days of suffering, into the nights of agonised sleep. I knew then that he had somehow rediscovered the magic substance which the great God sprinkled in us and which sings with the flow of blood through all the journeys of our lives. And I dreamt that a large handful of that wonderful substance was sprinkled on us as we slept in the truce of the nightwind.
I woke to find that dad had bathed, shaved, combed his hair and put on his French suit. He was also singing. When I sat up the first thing he said was:
‘My son, today is Madame Koto’s day. Get ready. We are going on an interesting journey.’
11
T HE Q UEST FOR M ADAME K OTO
N O ONE HAD seen Madame Koto for a long time. She existed only in rumours and in our dreams. Her absence had increased the force of her legend. The road was asleep when we set out to find her.
We made enquiries at the bar and the women gave us directions to one of her great stalls in the marketplace. When we got there her shed was shut. A woman directed us to another market. The same thing happened. Dad was not discouraged. We received many directions which sent us up and down the city. At one of her shops, where jewelry and lace materials were sold, a little girl told us she had just left. It was late in the afternoon before we arrived at a shop which Madame Koto rarely visited. It was a small shop, with a few tables of trinkets outside. We went into the shop and met a lean woman with a bandage over one eye.
‘We have come to see Madame Koto,’ dad said.
‘Which Madame Koto?’ the woman asked.
Dad was confused.
‘How many Madame Kotos are there?’
‘It depends,’ the woman said.
We looked around the shop. It was bare except for a few chairs. The place stank of sweat and urine and human misery. The woman stared at me with her one eye. She seemed rather intent on me. It made me uncomfortable. Dad said:
‘Maybe we have come to the wrong place.’
The woman didn’t say anything. A child began crying in a room at the back of the shop. The woman went out and my eyes cleared a little and I suddenly noticed the political posters in the deep shadows of the walls.
‘Let’s go,’ dad said. ‘This is the wrong shop.’
He started to leave when I heard other voices at the back, the voices of women whispering in a corridor. While I was straining to hear what they were saying, a goat wandered into the empty shop from the front door. It stared at us. Then the goat moved towards me, and edged me to the wall. It had big eyes, unfathomable and curiously human. I pushed the goat away, but it came back at me, its head lowered, its green eyes glittering.
‘Leave that goat alone,’ dad said.
The goat turned to dad and subjected him to a long intense scrutiny. Then it went out through the front door and soon afterwards the woman with the bandaged eye came in and said:
‘Wait.’
Then she was gone. I listened to the bustle of the main road outside the shop, the voices calling, the hawkers drawing attention to their goods, car horns blasting, news vendors rattling out the sensational headlines of the day, music playing all over the distances. While I listened dad touched me on the head and I suddenly had the distinct impression that Madame Koto was in the shop. I could feel the awesomeness of her body. She was breathing in the air. Her legend surrounded us, watching our every movement.
Dad sat
‘It was another messenger,’ I said.
‘What was the message?’
‘Go and beg mum,’ I replied.
Dad was silent. He shut his eyes. He didn’t move for a long time. I blew out the candle. For the first time in sevendays, dad slept. He slept in his chair. That night, as dad slept precariously in his three-legged chair, I saw his other form gradually grow smaller. The gentle haze of gold diminished and settled in him and I never saw it again. I knew then that dad had found a secret way back into the immeasurable invisible happiness that is mixed like air into the long days of suffering, into the nights of agonised sleep. I knew then that he had somehow rediscovered the magic substance which the great God sprinkled in us and which sings with the flow of blood through all the journeys of our lives. And I dreamt that a large handful of that wonderful substance was sprinkled on us as we slept in the truce of the nightwind.
I woke to find that dad had bathed, shaved, combed his hair and put on his French suit. He was also singing. When I sat up the first thing he said was:
‘My son, today is Madame Koto’s day. Get ready. We are going on an interesting journey.’
11
T HE Q UEST FOR M ADAME K OTO
N O ONE HAD seen Madame Koto for a long time. She existed only in rumours and in our dreams. Her absence had increased the force of her legend. The road was asleep when we set out to find her.
We made enquiries at the bar and the women gave us directions to one of her great stalls in the marketplace. When we got there her shed was shut. A woman directed us to another market. The same thing happened. Dad was not discouraged. We received many directions which sent us up and down the city. At one of her shops, where jewelry and lace materials were sold, a little girl told us she had just left. It was late in the afternoon before we arrived at a shop which Madame Koto rarely visited. It was a small shop, with a few tables of trinkets outside. We went into the shop and met a lean woman with a bandage over one eye.
‘We have come to see Madame Koto,’ dad said.
‘Which Madame Koto?’ the woman asked.
Dad was confused.
‘How many Madame Kotos are there?’
‘It depends,’ the woman said.
We looked around the shop. It was bare except for a few chairs. The place stank of sweat and urine and human misery. The woman stared at me with her one eye. She seemed rather intent on me. It made me uncomfortable. Dad said:
‘Maybe we have come to the wrong place.’
The woman didn’t say anything. A child began crying in a room at the back of the shop. The woman went out and my eyes cleared a little and I suddenly noticed the political posters in the deep shadows of the walls.
‘Let’s go,’ dad said. ‘This is the wrong shop.’
He started to leave when I heard other voices at the back, the voices of women whispering in a corridor. While I was straining to hear what they were saying, a goat wandered into the empty shop from the front door. It stared at us. Then the goat moved towards me, and edged me to the wall. It had big eyes, unfathomable and curiously human. I pushed the goat away, but it came back at me, its head lowered, its green eyes glittering.
‘Leave that goat alone,’ dad said.
The goat turned to dad and subjected him to a long intense scrutiny. Then it went out through the front door and soon afterwards the woman with the bandaged eye came in and said:
‘Wait.’
Then she was gone. I listened to the bustle of the main road outside the shop, the voices calling, the hawkers drawing attention to their goods, car horns blasting, news vendors rattling out the sensational headlines of the day, music playing all over the distances. While I listened dad touched me on the head and I suddenly had the distinct impression that Madame Koto was in the shop. I could feel the awesomeness of her body. She was breathing in the air. Her legend surrounded us, watching our every movement.
Dad sat
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