A Beer Called Life - Short Fiction

This short story from writer and doctor Dami Ajayi captures life in a Nigerian village where people drink beer to while away the time. Are you a writer? Send your fiction, poetry, book reviews, and opinion pieces to editorial@zodml.org to be featured on the ZODML blog.
 
In Anambra state, there is a beer called Life. Now, I do not mean this figuratively. Life is a brand of lager that comes in a green bottle, like other brands, but at a remarkably cheaper price. It is preferred by artisans and stacked in crates in the country homes of Igbo merchants. Life is also available on the street, in bars worthy to be so called. Life is a beer.
People start drinking Life as early as daybreak. In bars, as breakfast, in country homes with garden eggs dipped in a mash of peanut butter — a snack that has become a surrogate for kola nut. The use of alcohol is not diurnal in Anambra; not like in the state of Osun, where beer parlours open at noon. Life is preferably served cold in Anambra but is often drunk lukewarm, straight out of a crate. Teeth serve as openers for the impatient; gaseous whorls swirl upwards as a calloused palm rubs over the bottle top, a neck tilt and a gulp is delivered down the throat. Life.
~
During the festive season, the East is jam-packed, filled with illustrious daughters and sons. The desolate country home suddenly wears a lively grin with clatters of laughter resonating through the huge compound recently cleared of weeds, fumigated, and freshly endowed with a coat of paint. The generator has been serviced in preparedness and kegs of diesel purchased with money sent to the caretaker (not necessarily kin, but close enough to be – usually a native of the town who can be trusted with money not in excess of a hundred thousand naira). This caretaker must be married with children and own a house in the village, preferably a small one about the size of a kitchenette — better if uncompleted. He must either be a farmer or have farm experience, and own some farming implements. He might have found wealth at some point, preferably in the distant past, but must now be scratching the earth’s surface for his daily bread. He must own a motorcycle, preferably a run-down one which spends as much time in his care as it does with its mechanic. The caretaker administers the country house in his master’s absence and the things he can claim direct ownership over are the leftover spoils of Xmas: crates of Life.
~
I shared a boys’ quarters in Amaokpala with one such caretaker during my service year. Let’s call him Nnamdi. Nnamdi was once a councilor at the local government but that was eight years ago, before the governors devised the Transition Committee, a way of centralizing executive powers in the state and alienating people from governance. Nnamdi was unlucky with his choice of political parties (he was a fickle politician whose loyalties peeled off faster than a prostitute’s underpants). He sustained himself by selling oil palm which he harvested from his master’s huge compound, a sprawling hectare of land dotted with palm trees and cassava saplings. Every so often, after harvesting some oil palm, he would rush into his room to retrieve another lukewarm bottle of Life. He would seat bare-chested outside the boys’ quarters, under the canopy of a tree where the landlord’s great grandfather was buried and sip easy.
~
Sometimes, in the absence of the landlord, Nnamdi hosted clandestine meetings for his political party. The haggard and starved looking members often arrived in rickety vehicles and left numerous garden egg stalks for Alhaji, our guard and gardener, to sweep up alongside the dry leaves and twigs from the tree that had fallen overnight. Apparently, Nnamdi’s meetings were not as clandestine as he thought. The landlord, who was never around, had everyone in the house monitored. Alhaji monitored the house. Nnamdi monitored Alhaji. Everyone else monitored Nnamdi. Sometimes, if Nnamdi he needed to go into town, he would shed his only piece of village clothing – a brown kaftan – park his motorcycle in the compound, shower and wait to dry under the tree, drinking lukewarm Life and asking me questions if I happened to be in sight. He would then go into his room and emerge in a blue polo shirt neatly tucked into brown jeans. Chocks, usually made in Aba, shod his feet. A beige face-cap crowned his head. “Doc, how do I look?” he would ask. “You look like a guy,” I would answer. He would laugh and saunter off to Onitsha, Nnewi, Umunze or Akokwa, abandoning his half-finished bottle of beer for good.  Alhaji, in the soft phonemes of an alien tongue, would empty the contents over the landlord’s ancestor before sweeping the fallen dry leaves with a palm frond.
~
Sometimes, I would return from an evening of booze to hear the roar of the landlord’s generator. Nnamdi would pace up and down, as if he was up to some mischief. That usually meant the landlord was coming to town or was already around. The landlord would call once he was at Ekwulobia to ensure the generator was powered and the halogens stuck on bamboo poles were on so that he could look at his properly illuminated compound as he drove in majestically. The landlord had so many needs that I sometimes wondered if it would be any different than if he was bedridden. Often, his hoarse voice would call Nnamdi, who was usually drinking his Life. Nnamdi would grumble and find his composure as he entered the box–shaped country home. He would return with some more bottles of Life to update his supplies. The landlord was benevolent enough to have let me, the corps doctor attached to their village, stay in one of the rooms in his boys’ quarters. The place had been in a state of disrepair but was swiftly put in order so that I could be comfortable. Of course, the community bore the cost, but still, I insist my landlord was benevolent. “Doc,” he once called out to me, “How are you finding our place?” “Fine, sir. The village is quite…” “Village? Please don’t call it a village; it is a town. Are you aware that this town has produced twenty-eight doctors, seven lawyers and two wives of a Vice-President?” “I am not, sir.” “It is a town, my brother. So how are you enjoying our town? I hope you will take one of our daughters.” “Not now, sir. I have to save for the bride-price.” He guffawed. “I hear you camp ladies in my absence.” I shot him a bewildered look. “My friends visit occasionally, sir, but I am very discreet about it and make their visits as far between as possible.” “Make it as far as you can, eh, even farther when I am around. I am really trying hard to maintain a low profile in this town. I hear Nnamdi does all sorts of political meetings in my absence. Are you aware?” “No,” I managed to blurt out, “I am not aware, sir.”
~
One day at noon, I rushed back home from the hospital, pressed. I drove into the compound with frightening speed. I thought I was going to shit all over myself; I even left the engine running as I leaped for the toilet. Coming out of the bathroom after a refreshing bath, I found Nnamdi naked save his shorts and a frown on his face. “Doc, are you back?” “Yes, but very briefly.” I went into my room and emerged soon afterwards, heading for my car. From the car, I saw that a woman come out of Nnamdi’s room. She was not his wife – that I was very sure of. She had a gown worn rather awkwardly. She turned her back to Nnamdi who maneuvered her zipper upwards. I felt terribly sorry that I had ruined a magical moment. A tasteful interlude of village adultery might be the only kind of thrill in Nnamdi’s life, except, of course, for his communion with his favourite beer. I never apologised.
~
It was one of those long stretches of prodigal tenancy and whilst I was hosting my girlfriend that the landlord’s Land Cruiser’s headlights pierced the night. Nnamdi ran after the car; he must have opened the gate. The landlord was tight-lipped when he replied my greetings. I asked my girlfriend to go into the room. I waited outside, heard the generator roar into life and saw Nnamdi return, panting. I asked him what the matter was. He said he did not know but that this was unusual. The landlord never came to town without informing him at least three days prior. He asked me if I told the landlord anything. I shook my head. The next morning, Nnamdi rushed out of the landlord’s apartment and went straight into his room. He threw out his few clothes and wrapped them in a dirty bedspread. “Doc, your landlord has sent me packing.” “Why? What happened?” “You should know why now. You should know now.” I stood dumbfounded. “I am going. He is a foolish man anyway. He wants to be served but can’t pay. How much do I make from his oil palm anyway?  Rubbish. Nonsense!” He went back into his room and came out with a bottle of Life. Then he smiled. “I will go, but before I go, I will drink this one.”