Song for Night Read online

  Critical Praise for Becoming Abigail

  • A New York Times Editor’s Choice

  • A Chicago Reader Critic’s Choice

  • A selection of the Essence Magazine Book Club

  • A selection of the Black Expressions Book Club

  “Moody, lyrical prose reminiscent of Toni Morrison’s Beloved … Though the fictional Abigail exists only on the pages of Abani’s novella, her character will seize the imagination of everyone who reads her story.”

  —Essence Magazine

  “Abani is a fiction writer of mature and bounteous gifts … Becoming Abigail is more compressed and interior [than GraceLand], a poetic treatment of terror and loneliness … its sharp focus on the devastation of one young woman, has a deeper kind of resonance … Abani, himself incarcerated and tortured for his writings and activism in Nigeria in the mid-’80s, writes about the body’s capacity for both ecstasy and pain with an honesty and precision rarely encountered in recent fiction … This is a powerful, harrowing work, made more so because, while much of the narrative seems to be a vortex of affliction, Abigail’s destiny is not inevitable. The small canvas suits Chris Abani.”

  —Sam Lipsyte, New York Times Book Review

  “Becoming Abigail, a spare yet voluptuous tale about a young Nigerian girl’s escape from prostitution is so hypnotic that it begs to be read in one sitting … Abigail is sensitive, courageous, and teetering on the brink of madness. Effortlessly gliding between past and present, Chris Abani spins a timeless story of misfortune and triumph.”

  —Entertainment Weekly

  “A darkly poetic investigation into the past’s deceptive hold over the present … Abani writes in dense, gorgeous prose. Abigail is not a creature of pity but inspiration.”

  —The Nation

  “Compelling and gorgeously written, this is a coming-of-age novella like no other. Chris Abani explores the depths of loss and exploitation with what can only be described as a knowing tenderness. An extraordinary, necessary book.”

  —Cristina Garcia, author of Dreaming in Cuban

  “Abani finds his place in a long line of literary refugees, from the Mexican revolutionary Ricardo Flores Magon to Bertolt Brecht and Theodor Adorno … Becoming Abigail is, not surprisingly, about memory, loss, and all the cruel disjunctions of exile. Not for a moment, though, does Abani allow himself that most tempting stupefacient of exile, nostalgia. Abani’s prose is diaphanous and poetic. His lyricism is elliptical, almost evasive … Becoming Abigail is a hard, unsparing book, cruel in its beauty, shocking in its compassion.”

  —Los Angeles Times Book Review

  “A lyrical yet devastating account of a young woman’s relocation to London from Nigeria … Abani’s abundant talent is clearly evident throughout, as is his willingness to be brutally honest without being grotesque. He also refrains from polemics and focuses solely on the artistic presentation of a young, tragic life, leaving interpretation to the reader.”

  —Library Journal

  “Abani’s voice brings perspective to every moment, turning pain into a beautiful painterly meditation on loss and aloneness.”

  —Aimee Bender, author of The Girl in the Flammable Skirt

  “A searing girl’s coming-of-age novella in which a troubled Nigerian teen is threatened with becoming human trade … Recalling Lucas Moodyson’s crushing Lilya4Ever, this portrait of a brutalized girl given no control over her life or body, features Abani’s lyrical prose and deft moves between short chapters.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Spare, haunting vignettes of exquisite delicacy … Never sensationalized, the continual revelations are more shocking for being quietly told, compressed into taut moments that reveal secrets of cruelty—and of love—up to the last page. Abani tells a strong young woman’s story with graphic empathy.”

  —Booklist

  “Abani’s writing never becomes didactic—Becoming Abigail has the elegance and lyricism of a prose poem but doesn’t soft-pedal the abuse it chronicles.”

  —Chicago Reader

  “Abani’s empathy for Abigail’s torn life is matched only by his honesty in portraying it. Nothing at all is held back. A harrowing piece of work.”

  —Peter Orner, author of Esther Stories

  “Abani writes in a fearless prose … He is able to toe that line between restraint and abundance, unfolding Abigail’s history like the raising of a bandage.”

  —Time Out Chicago

  Critical Praise for GraceLand

  • Winner: 2005 Hemingway/PEN Prize

  • Winner: 2005 Silver Medal, California Book Awards

  • Winner: 2005 Hurston/Wright Legacy Award

  • Finalist: 2005 Los Angeles Times Book Prize

  • Shortlisted for the Best Book Category (Africa Region) of the Commonwealth Writer’s Prize

  • 25 Best Books of 2004: Los Angeles Times

  • Best Books of 2004: San Francisco Chronicle

  • Barnes and Noble Discover Great New Writers selection

  •New York Times Book Review Summer 2004 “Vacation Reading/ Notable Books” selection

  “Extraordinary … This book works brilliantly in two ways. As a convincing and unpatronizing record of life in a poor Nigerian slum, and as a frighteningly honest insight into a world skewed by casual violence, it’s wonderful … And for all the horrors, there are sweet scenes in GraceLand too, and they’re a thousand times better for being entirely unsentimental … Lovely.”

  —New York Times Book Review

  “Chris Abani’s GraceLand is a richly detailed, poignant, and utterly fascinating look into another culture and how it is cross-pollinated by our own. It brings to mind the work of Ha Jin in its power and revelation of the new.”

  —T. Coraghessan Boyle, author of Drop City

  “Abani’s intensely visual style—and his sense of humor— convert the stuff of hopelessness into the stuff of hope.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  “GraceLand amply demonstrates that Abani has the energy, ambition, and compassion to create a novel that delineates and illuminates a complicated, dynamic, deeply fractured society.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “A wonderfully vivid evocation of a youth coming of age in a country unmoored from its old virtues … As for the talented Chris Abani, his imaginary Elvis is as memorable as the original.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “GraceLand teems with incident, from the seedy crime dens of Maroko to the family melodramas of the Oke clan. But throughout the novel’s action, Abani keeps the reader’s gaze fixed firmly on the detailed and contradictory cast of everyday Nigerian life. Energetic and moving … Abani [is] a fluid, closely observant writer.”

  —Washington Post

  “Abani has written an exhilarating novel, all the more astonishing for its hard-won grace and, yes, redemption.”

  —Village Voice

  “Ambitious … a kind of small miracle.”

  —Atlanta Journal-Constitution

  “It is to be hoped that Mr. Abani’s fine book finds its proper place in the world … [Abani’s] perception of the world is beyond or outside the common categories of contemporary fiction and he is able to describe what he perceives compellingly and effectively … [Abani captures] the awful, mysterious refusal of life’s discrete pieces to fit.”

  —New York Sun

  “An intensely vivid portrait of Nigeria that switches deftly between rural and urban life.”

  —Boston Globe

  “Singular … Abani has created a charming and complex character, at once pragmatic and philosophical about his lot in life … [and] observes the chaotic tapestry of life in postcolonial Africa with the unjudging eye of a naïve boy.”

  —
Philadelphia Inquirer

  “Abani masterfully gives us a young man who is simultaneously brave, heartless, bright, foolish, lustful, and sadly resigned to fate. In short, a perfectly drawn adolescent … Abani’s ear for dialogue and eye for observation lend a lyrical air … In depicting how deeply external politics can affect internal thinking, GraceLand announces itself as a worthy heir to Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart. Like that classic of Nigerian literature, it gives a multifaceted, human face to a culture struggling to find its own identity while living with somebody else’s.”

  —Minneapolis Star-Tribune

  “GraceLand is an invaluable document.”

  —San Diego Union-Tribune

  “Remarkable … Chris Abani’s striking new novel, GraceLand, wins the reader with its concept—an Elvis impersonator in Nigeria—and keeps him with strong storytelling and characterization … GraceLand marks the debut of a writer with something important to say.”

  —New Orleans Times-Picayune

  “GraceLand paints an often horrific and sometimes profound portrait … Though a work of fiction, GraceLand also serves as a history far more powerful and fantastic than any official account of Nigeria’s teetering progress toward democracy.”

  —Seattle Weekly

  “The book’s juxtaposition between innocence and bleak survival is heartrending … Sharp, graphic, and impossible to dismiss.”

  —Seattle Times

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Akashic Books

  ©2006 Chris Abani

  ePUB ISBN-13: 978-1-936070-46-6

  ISBN-13: 978-1-933354-31-6

  ISBN-10: 1-933354-31-3

  Library of Congress Control Number: TK

  All rights reserved

  Akashic Books

  PO Box 1456

  New York, NY 10009

  [email protected]

  www.akashicbooks.com

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Silence Is a Steady Hand, Palm Flat

  Night Is a Palm Pulled Down over the Eyes

  Death Is Two Fingers Sliding across the Throat

  Memory Is a Pattern Cut into an Arm

  Imagination Is a Forefinger between the Eyes

  Dawn Is Two Hands Parting before the Face

  A Funnel Is Fingertips Steepled, Palms Apart

  Danger Is a Deeper Silence

  Love Is a Backhanded Stroke to the Cheek

  Listening Is a Hand Cupping an Ear like a Seashell

  Fish Is a Hand Swimming through the Air

  The Soul Has No Sign

  Ghosts Are a Gentle Breath over Moving Fingers

  Truth Is Forefinger to Tongue Raised Skyward

  Mercy Is a Palm Turning Out from the Heart

  Dreaming Is Hands Held in Prayer over the Nose

  Town Is Hands Making Boxes in the Air

  A Thumb in the Air, Clicking an Imaginary Lighter

  Child’s Play

  A Hand Held like a Pistol

  River Is a Flat Snake

  Shelter Is Hands Protecting the Head

  Music Is Any Dance You Can Pull Off

  Roll Call Is Fingers Counting off a Palm

  Fingers Pinching a Nose Is a Bad Smell

  Dirty Is a Scrunched-up Face and a Palm Waving

  Cowardice Is Spitting Once

  A Question Is a Palm Turning Out from an Ear

  Vision Is the Same As Dreaming

  A Train Is Forearms Back and Forth Like Pistons

  Light Is Jazz Hands and a Smile

  Mother Is Crossed Arms Rocking a Baby

  Rest Is a Chin Held in a Palm

  Fear Is an Open Hand Beating over the Heart

  Will Is an Emphatic Finger Pointing

  Home Is a Palm Fisted to the Heart

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Chris Abani

  Novels

  Masters of the Board

  GraceLand

  The Virgin of Flames

  Novellas

  Becoming Abigail

  Poetry

  Kalakuta Republic

  Daphne’s Lot

  Dog Woman

  Hands Washing Water

  Of course, for Sarah

  And my nephews—Ikenna, Obinna,

  Chuks, Craig, Carl, Neven

  We die only once, and for such a long time

  —Molière

  on any path that may have heart. There I travel

  —Carlos Castaneda

  Silence Is a Steady Hand, Palm Flat

  What you hear is not my voice.

  I have not spoken in three years: not since I left boot camp. It has been three years of a senseless war, and though the reasons for it are clear, and though we will continue to fight until we are ordered to stop—and probably for a while after that—none of us can remember the hate that led us here. We are simply fighting to survive the war. It is a strange place to be at fifteen, bereft of hope and very nearly of your humanity. But that is where I am nonetheless. I joined up at twelve. We all wanted to join then: to fight. There was a clear enemy, and having lost loved ones to them, we all wanted revenge.

  If you are anything like Ijeoma you will say that I sound too old for my age. She always said that: said, because although her name in Igbo means Good Life, she died young, a year ago, aged fourteen, her wiry frame torn apart by an explosion. Since she couldn’t speak either, it might be misleading to say she said, but we have developed a crude way of talking, a sort of sign language that we have become fluent in. For instance, silence is a steady hand, palm flat, facing down. The word silencio, which we also like, involves the same sign with the addition of wiggling fingers, and though this seems like a playful touch, it actually means a deeper silence, or danger, and as in any language, context is everything. Our form of speech is nothing like the kind of sign language my deaf cousin studied in a special school before the war. But it serves us well. Our job is too intense for idle chatter.

  I am part of a platoon of mine diffusers. Our job is to clear roads and access routes of mines. Though it sounds simple, our job is complicated because the term access routes could be anything from a bush track to a swath cut through a rice paddy. Our equipment is basic: rifles to protect against enemy troops, wide-blade machetes for clearing brush and digging up the mines, and crucifixes, scapulars, and other religious paraphernalia to keep us safe.

  We were not chosen for our manual dexterity or because of our advanced intelligence, though most of us are very intelligent. We were chosen simply because we were small, slight even, and looked like we wouldn’t grow much in the nutrition-lacking environment of a battlefield. We were chosen because our light weight would protect us from setting off the deadly mines even when we stepped on them. Well, they were right about the former, even now at fifteen I can pass for an average twelve-year-old. But they were so wrong about the latter. Even guinea fowl set off the mines. But they must have known: that is why they imposed the silence. I finger the scar on my throat that marks the cut that ended my days of speech.

  There is a lot to be said for silence, especially when it comes to you young. The interiority of the head, which is a misnomer—misnomer being one of those words silence brings you—but there is something about the mind’s interiority no less that opens up your view of the world. It is a curious place to live and makes you deep beyond your years and familiar with death. But that is what this war has done. I am not a genius, though I would like to be, I am just better versed at the interior monologue that is really the measure of age, of the passage of time. Why do I say this? Because when we say the passage of time we mean awareness of the passage of time, and when we say old, we really mean experienced. I know all this because my job requires me to concentrate on every second of my life as though it were the last. Of course if you
are hearing any of this at all it’s because you have gained access to my head. You would also know then that my inner-speech is not in English, because there is something atavistic about war that rejects all but the primal language of the genes to comprehend it, so you are in fact hearing my thoughts in Igbo. But we shan’t waste time on trying to figure all that out because as I said before, time here is precious and not to be wasted on peculiarities, only on what is essential.

  I have become separated from my unit. I don’t know for how long since I have only just regained consciousness. I am having no luck finding them yet, which is ironic given that my mother named me My Luck. But as Grandfather said, one should never stop searching for the thing we desire most. And right now, finding my unit is what I desire most. We were all together, when one of us, Nebuchadnezzar I think it was, stepped on a mine. We all ducked when we heard it arming—that ominous clicking that sounds like the mechanism of a child’s toy. The rule of thumb is that if you hear the explosion, you survived the blast. Like lightning and thunder. I heard the click and I heard the explosion even though I was lifted into the air. But the aftershock can do that. Drop you a few feet from where you began. When I came to, everyone was gone. They must have thought I was dead and so set off without me: that is annoying and not just because I have been left but because protocol demands that we count the dead and tally the wounded after each explosion or sweep. Stupid fools. Wait until I catch up with them, I will chew them out; protocol is all that’s kept us alive. Counting is not just a way to keep track of numbers, ours and the enemy’s, but also a way to make sure the dead are really dead. In training they told us to maximize opportunities such as these to up our kill ratio; for which we would be rewarded with extra food and money we can’t spend. I like to pretend that I do it to ease the suffering of the mutilated but still undead foes, that my bullet to their brain or knife across their throat is mercy; but the truth is, deep down somewhere I enjoy it, revel in it almost. Not without cause of course: they did kill my mother in front of me, but still, it is for me, not her, this feeling, these acts. The downside of silence is that it makes self-delusion hard. I rub my eyes and spit dirt from my mouth along with a silent curse aimed at my absent comrades. If they’d checked they would have noticed that I wasn’t dead.