The oddity of a pigeon in a bowl

Alaba Danagogo

MY BROTHER was poised cautiously, hidden in the sparse shadows of the gateman’s shed with his catapult close in front of him, eyes trained on his prey. He was stalking a little brown pigeon that had wandered too far from the canopy of the nearby trees. I watched him from the corner of my eye, occupied with my own play. The sun was shining brightly, and every reasonable person was indoors to escape the morning heat. But not us - we were far from reasonable, and Abidemi was the most unreasonable of all. I tried to focus on the carcass of a wall gecko before me. I’d found its body under the flowerpot in the garden and moved it to a corner of the veranda, out of the roasting sun, so that I could examine it properly. My examination so far consisted of ripping it apart with a rusted pair of scissors and marveling at the lack of blood from its gelatinous body. I was having a grand time of it too, at least until I realized what Abidemi was doing. He had the tendency to get himself into odd situations, and a part of me recognized the beginnings of one even before the situation unfolded, so, I watched him. I saw him pull a stone out of one of his pockets and load the catapult. He pulled back on the thickened elastic, one eye squeezing shut to aim correctly. His shoulders slumped when the pigeon took flight, and I noted the half-hearted way he allowed his missile to sail. He screamed when the pigeon fell to the ground, squawking in pain as one wing attempted to do the work of two. I peered into the window before attending to him. Aunty Peace was supposed to be watching us, but she was firmly planted in front of the TV, laughing along with the characters of a childish sitcom. She didn't even budge at Abidemi’s scream. “Demi, what is it?” By the time I looked back at him, his eyes were full of tears. He stood there, brown shoulders shaking as he pointed at the downed pigeon with a pouty lip. “I didn’t mean to!” He sobbed, clutching the catapult to his chest as his eyes followed the erratic movements of the wounded pigeon. I abandoned my carcass with a sigh, braving the fierce sunlight for his sake. There was a light sheen of sweat all over him, making his SpongeBob shirt stick to his back. “Ah, ah you people should stop shouting!” Uncle Alex shouted from his shed. There was the harsh sound of his plastic chair scraping back, followed by heavy footsteps before a bald head emerged from the inside of the shed. Spring 2020 | 61

He was taking a nap before Abidemi decided to act stupid. He had a disgruntled look on his face as he squinted against the sunlight. “Early momo like this and yah shouting!” I did not bother to respond since I was too focused on the injured pigeon in front of me. It was squawking and flapping its working wing, doing its best to get out of the grasp of its attackers. It only succeeded in moving in strange circles, making dust rise up and the acidic scent of bird poo wash over us. It was eye-watering and pungent, but neither of us moved away. I could see where Abidemi hit it clearly. The skin was flayed open, dark blood dribbling from the swollen wing, paths of crimson parting the brown-feathered sea. I almost smiled but all at once, my attention was dragged back to Abidemi by the feel of his chubby fingers tightening around my wrist. “Please na, do something,” he all but begged with tears feverishly running down his cheeks. I had no idea what he expected me to do. Kill it? I looked around for something to finish it off with. Uncle Alex was now standing outside of his shed watching us peer at the pigeon with clear interest. He stepped forward, shielding his eyes from the sunlight with a cracked palm. His yellowing singlet was sticking to his chest and rounded belly. I could see his toenails from where I stood, and it made me annoyed. I could already picture the body odor he would bring with himself if he came any closer. But Abidemi was crying, so Uncle Alex must come to investigate. “Ah, Demi, you shot this? Nawa oo!” His congratulatory tone flew right over Abidemi’s head. At the lack of response from both parties, Uncle Alex positioned himself on the other side of the bird. The three of us stood over it, the sight akin to that of innocent children allowed into a hospice, watching the last moments of an old person they had never seen before. Sweat rolled down Uncle Alex’s neck and back, Abidemi’s fingers dug into my wrist, and the pigeon gradually tired of its mortal terrors. Uncle Alex soon grew bored of the entertainment. It was roasting, so he walked back to his shed, stretching his heavy arms behind him. “You cry too much, Demi. Big men don’t cry,” he tossed over his shoulder as he disappeared back into his shed, no doubt to carry on with his nap. The life of a gateman in the Rotimi household was sedentary and full of long hours waiting for Daddy to arrive or leave. Soon, Daddy would return, and he would be called to the line of duty, so he definitely did not need to waste his nap time on silly children. “Please.” Abidemi hiccupped. To my alarm, I noticed his swelling,

1 Momo - Morning 2 Yah - You’re 62 | Perception

reddened eyes. Panic bloomed to life in my chest, its petals unfurling further as more tears dripped from his face. If my father came home and found out Abidemi had been crying… I lifted the edge of my shirt and wiped his eyes with a sense of urgency. “Oya, stop crying, it’s okay.” “But I’m a killer. Jesus will-” “It’s not dead. Look, see? See how it is looking at us and how it is breathing fast? You’re not a killer since it’s not dead.” It might as well be. A grounded bird was nothing but fresh meat. If Uncle Alex didn’t decide to use it to make soup later on, the guard dogs would finish the job once they were released at night. There was no situation where this pigeon could survive out here. “But it will die because of me!” He insisted, stomping a foot. I felt my lips press into a thin line. Everything died. Things lived, then they died, and we had no control or say in the matter. The words almost left my lips, bitter words, inappropriate - my aunt told me that once. “I won’t let it die,” I said instead. “Go and bring a bailer for me.” I looked over the dirty, smelling bird. “And tissues. Don’t allow Aunty Peace to see you, else she will start talking rubbish.” Once he had a directive, Abidemi rushed into the house, bare feet slapping against the tiles inside. My eyes flicked around the yard, full of green life, yet so empty. Beyond the gates, cars zoomed by, the hustle and bustle of Port-Harcourt evident from the honking cars and the occasional hawkers rushing up and down. Yet, I felt isolated from it all as the wounded pigeon drew my attention back to itself. The world felt stretched, layered with paraffin as the noisy cars dulled from my senses, and all I could hear was the pigeon’s coos and the blood hurtling through my veins. Its eyes were black beads, yet they conveyed its judgmental views on the macabre events that led to its grounding. It stared at me with reproach as I stretched a wary hand towards it, daring me to lay a measly finger on it. I could not bear to look further, so I closed my eyes and began to sing. It was barely a song, just little hums and noises that I imagined would be used to soothe a baby. I was compelled to look again, thus I saw how the pigeon listened to me. I continued my soft song into the still air, till there was nothing between my forefinger and the pigeon’s head. I could feel the delicacy of its cranium through the thin skin, and I wondered how I could ever be scared of such a creature. The same finger stroked along its sandy brown back, feeling the divots of its spine, my eyes staring into a single black eye, utterly stunned by being

3 Nawa oo - Wow 4 Oya - Okay

granted permission like this. As we continued the breathless exchange, a part of me felt certain that I knew this pigeon from somewhere or somehow. The ridiculous thought disintegrated as Abidemi returned, bringing the rest of the world over his shoulders. My eyes moved from my patient to my brother. He had an odd lump under his shirt from which he pulled out the requested items. “Aunty Peace is watching Hannah Montana,” he confided. “Why did you bring the bailer we use to bathe?” “You said -” He looked like he would start crying again, so I shushed him and took the small blue bowl from his hands. I lined it with tissues before setting my gaze back on the pigeon. “What are you doing?” “We have to clean its wounds.” With shaky hands, I reached for the pigeon, making eye contact and attempting the song from before. However, my voice croaked, and I could not communicate with Abidemi breathing over my shoulder. “Why are you singing? What are you doing now?” His breath was too warm, too close. It was suddenly scorching. Everything was hot, and I just wanted to go back to my place on the veranda and finish examining how wall geckos looked on the inside. My hand neither shook nor wavered as I abandoned all pretense of decency. I grabbed the bird and forced it inside the bowl. It squawked and cried, and Abidemi shouted in my ear, but it was done, and I had now acquired a pigeon in a bowl. Once it was settled, the animal was quiet, looking around itself with interest, head bobbing back and forth in a way only birds seemed capable of. I carried the bowl against my belly, feeling its heartbeat through the thin plastic. It was fast and surprisingly heavy, reassuring me in a strange way. Abidemi’s face was clear and full of admiration as we smuggled the pigeon past Aunty Peace and up the stairs, neither of us speaking till we were locked within the confines of my bedroom. It was small and dim since I didn’t like to leave my curtains open beyond a slim crack. Abidemi whispered about our sneakiness, and I didn’t have the heart to explain why it didn’t matter. Aunty Peace would never have noticed us anyways - once she got into her shows, the nanny forgot her duty and abandoned us to our own devices. She only ever seemed to have a sixth sense for when Daddy would return. Then, the TV would go off and she would attach herself to us like she had been taking care of us all day. At least on school days, she was free to stay at home watching TV while everyone else went to work but on weekends like this, she had to cater to us, loud and rambunctious children every step of the way. I dabbed away at the blood that dribbled from the pigeon’s wounded wing, the substance making the tissues swim. Once the dark blood 64 | Perception

was mostly gone, I cleaned the wound with more water and tissues, all under the watchful eyes of Abidemi. He sat and watched me work in silence, obediently bringing whatever I requested and letting me handle the creature. Before long, the wounded region was wrapped in more tissues, and I leaned back to assess my patient. The pigeon had been quiet throughout the entire ordeal, so I thought it deserved something for its trouble. “Demi, go and bring small bread from the kitchen. And a little rice.” I allowed him to feed the bird to his delight. We sat together and played with the pigeon, petting it and feeding it till the gate rumbled and all the joy dissolved from my pores. Daddy was home. It was easy to hide the bird and all evidence of its presence. By the time we washed our hands and managed to look innocent, Aunty Peace was upstairs, ready to attach herself to us. “How far? Ona don chop?” she asked, taking Abidemi’s hand in hers while looking at me. “I’m not hungry.” I already knew what we would have for lunch - the same thing we had the day before and the day before that and the same thing we have had every day for as far as my memory stretched. “You’re too selective,” she told me, rolling her eyes. Despite being more than 20 years older than me, Aunty Peace was only slightly taller than I was. She was childish and loved to monopolize the television while leaving me to handle Abidemi. Once, I overheard one of my aunties say that Aunty Peace would never get married if she continued to take care of us. I told her this and she’d snapped, “your busybody is too much.” I thought I’d been looking out for her - after all, even I knew what it meant for a woman her age in this society to remain unmarried. Ever since, our relationship retained a level of strain that was difficult for me to comprehend entirely. “I’m not hungry too!” Abidemi declared. “Your own is just to follow your sister,” she smiled at him, rubbing his dark tight curls. “When your daddy asks, tell him you already ate.” We nodded and went downstairs to greet our father. “You people should come and greet Aunty Lolia,” Daddy said with a flourish. Aunty Peace dragged us forward, and we mumbled our greetings. “Good afternoon sah, ma,” Aunty Peace said with a bowed head before scurrying away to her room. My father did not acknowledge her greeting or ours for that matter. He was too occupied with his new girlfriend, showing off the main parlor, then the private parlor, then the dining room and every fancy place that we were not allowed to play in. A while ago, I finally learned that not

everyone I called “aunty” was actually my aunty. “Aunty” was an umbrella term because, for some reason, Nigerians baulk at the idea of Miss, Mister or Mrs. He made us follow them on the tour of our own house. Aunty Lolia was nice enough. She was light-skinned and spoke with a fake British accent. I knew it was fake because my cousin, Temi, actually lived in London and did not talk like this at all. Daddy seemed to prefer women who spoke like that since all our “aunties” had that quality in common. “So, your daddy tells me you’re very smart for your age. He’s very proud of you, you know?” Aunty Lolia said to me as Daddy wandered off to smoke and for some one-on-one time with his son. Her makeup was impeccable, dark brown braids flowing over her shoulders. We sat together stiffly in the main parlor, and I imagined I could be anywhere else but there. “Thank you, ma.” “He told me you won a spelling bee. So, you must like reading a lot?” “Yes.” I felt pleased by the perplexed expression on her face, but at the same time, a part of me worried that she would tell Daddy that I had a bad attitude. So, I hurried to fill the silence with words. “What kind of books do you like to read?” “Ah, I’m not one of those girls,” she said, laughing. I couldn’t quite see what was so funny, so I walked away under the guise of bringing her a bottle of water. Whilst escaping, I ran into Daddy and Abidemi coming back into the house. “Oya, Demi said he wants bole, so you people should go and get dressed. We are going out.” Daddy smelled like the expensive cigars he was fond of, eyes slightly reddened from the smoke. He walked past me to find Aunty Lolia still seated in the parlor. “You didn’t even offer her something to drink?” Daddy turned to me. “Don’t you have manners?” “I was going to bring -” “Lolia, did she offer you anything?” “Yes, Rotimi, she was just getting me some water.” He frowned down at me for a few seconds, his forehead wrinkled in the familiar pattern, wavy creases on his brown forehead, as we just stared at each other. “Go and dress up. Dress Demi too.” I was dismissed. Abidemi let me pick out his outfit since he was a lazy prince and usually liked to wear pajamas around all day anyways. I put in him a

pair of beige shorts, sneakers, and a dark blue Polo shirt that Daddy got for him last time he went to Dubai. Once Abidemi was ready, I reached into my closet and changed into outing clothes. The pigeon in the bowl looked at me as I dithered between clothes. It was nestled in the darkest corner of the wardrobe, surrounded by untouched bread that Abidemi enthusiastically put down and a tiny cup of water. I felt bad for hiding it like this. It deserved to at least sit at the table and look out the window slit, at the world outside, drenched in sunshine and hints of soot from factory pollution. When I got downstairs, Daddy frowned again, and I wilted. “How will you dress like this and expect to go out with me? That shirt is too clumsy. Don’t you know, you need to dress like a decent Nigerian girl?” He said it like it was a joke, but his face remained serious in a way joking faces never could be. The back of my throat was bitter as I walked back upstairs and met the pigeon in the bowl once more. I was not sure what it meant for a shirt to be clumsy - what was wrong with a simple Harry Potter shirt? Was the wand too akin to witchcraft? I raided my clothes with sharp movements, forcing every semblance of hurt to the very back of my throat, an obsidian stone cast away from myself. The stone remained lodged in there as I went back downstairs, and Daddy nodded in approval at my change - a plain red t-shirt. Hawkers ran alongside the Jeep. With my cheek pressed against the cold, tinted windows, I watched them whilst listening to Abidemi babble about a boy that broke his leg while doing a front flip in his class. Abidemi was fond of adding salt and pepper to his stories, leaving them so thoroughly garnished, it was difficult to take anything he said seriously. Aunty Lolia indulged him though, responding and asking mundane questions. She told me more about herself, but her words did not register. I was too busy telling myself to stop being dramatic for wanting to hide my face and cry. The stone had not dissolved. If anything, it pulsed and ached, a mini earthquake ravaging inside of me as my father drummed his fingers against the steering wheel and sang along to Fela Kuti’s ancient lyrics, and Abidemi continued to lie, and Aunty Lolia kept trying to insert herself into the picture when she was not the first “aunty” and would definitely not be the last. Lunch was salty. Bole was one of my favorite meals, but I could not eat it today. The soft, roasted plantain was usually well complemented by the peppery sauce and roasted fish. Daddy shouted at me for wasting food, so I ate it. Abidemi cleaned his plate and asked for more. The waiters stumbled over themselves to obey Daddy’s orders. Ever since we entered the restaurant, they were on us like black ants on spilled guava juice, except they could speak and all they said was “Yes sah” or “Thank you, sah”. I could tell that Daddy loved that. He preened and adjusted his beige agbada every few minutes. Spring 2020 | 67

Daddy took us back home and went out with Aunty Lolia. As I walked into the house, I peered at the corner of the veranda: the wall gecko was gone. It began to rain heavily so the rest of the day was spent indoors. I placed the pigeon in the bowl on my desk table and teased the curtains open so that it could watch the grey skies. Abidemi came to hide from the thundering heavens with me. We turned off all the lights, and I told him scary stories under my heavy blankets with a single torch pointed against the far wall. Abidemi was a scaredy-cat so every time I moved sharply, he would squeal and threaten to cry. By the time night fell, Abidemi was snoring on my pillow while I read a Nancy Drew book to the music of rain droplets barraging the aluminum roof overhead. I could taste the excitement of the chase, a true member of the crew, helping to root out the inconsistencies in the stories with sure-fire skill. I was fairly certain of the culprit at this point. “Ona no go sleep?” Aunty Peace’s soft voice jolted me from the world in its pages. She was at my door, dressed in her sleep wear. “Not yet. But Demi is already sleeping.” I pointed at him. She lifted the filmy white mosquito netting that shrouded my bed, carrying Abidemi in her arms. Abidemi barely stirred from his slumber. As they left, Aunty Peace wished me a good night, switching off my lights and I responded. Only after she left did I realize that she had not noticed the pigeon in a bowl on my table. The night drew on. I heard the gate rumble through the storm and Daddy’s footsteps climbing the stairs. I listened to him go into Abidemi’s room to check on him. I heard him walk back into his own room, shutting and locking the door for the night. The rain continued to fall, the air a chilly blanket around my shoulders, and I realized the stone in my throat never left. It was choking me the longer I lay there. My eyes found the pigeon in the bowl. It was still where I had left it. I wondered if it was awake like me, if it struggled and lost against stones like I did. The pigeon turned its head to look at me, and I noticed its eye had a bloody sheen from this angle, through the netting. The longer it stared, the more fearful I grew, until I could not sleep for the feeling of its omniscient eye upon my head. I got out of bed and picked it up. The roar of the rain heightened as I pried my windows open. Cool air blasted against my skin, my nostrils filling with the scent of damp earth and petroleum. Through the protective bars, the compound seemed like a silver creek, rivulets of rainfall only visible thanks to the white night lights attached to the fence. The pigeon’s wings were moonlit against the darkness, its delicate neck swiveling back and forth from the flood to my stricken expression. I released the pigeon from its bowl, and it felt so light in my grip now. I didn’t know if the pigeon flew or fell, for it disappeared into

the blackness of the night. All I knew was the relief that settled over my shameful spirit and the assurance that even someone like me would find rest that night.