By ANTHONY HOWELL.
◊
ANTHONY HOWELL writes: My own romantic notion of myself has encouraged me to attempt an epic. It will have 24 books and be the same length as the Odyssey. Each book will be approximately 24 pages long, with three seven-line verses per page. I have completed a clean draft of books 1 to 10, which I publish with Heyzine here, and to this file I will add each new book as it is completed.
◊
from Book 10
Arab slavers prey upon the tribes. Leopold’s ghost will never sleep,
Pinched and prodded everywhere by amputated hands.
Allah and Jehovah have both behaved like vultures over Africa,
Imagining a carcass there, where actually the spirit is alive.
Africa, the white man’s unconscious, unacknowledged origin
Of Pharoahs, and of all of us. Which of us now knows the name
Of his song-bull? Which have us has sung his praise song to his kine?
Kin, kind, cattle, taking the name of your bull at initiation,
Training his horns to your own configuration. Man is but the
Mistletoe relying on the oak-strength of his herd. A symbiosis
Understood in the north only by types such as Capability Brown;
Your cattle grazing pastorally up to the foot of your ha-ha.
William Chambers, however, protested that if the Brownian trend
Went on, we would not retain three trees in a straight line
Between Land’s End and Berwick-upon-Tweed; poet Owen
Cambridge hoped to die before Brown so that he could see
Heaven before the improvements. As my veterinary mum might feel
Before the improvements to the magnificent horns of a song-bull.
Susan talked about improving dreams, turning a falling dream
Into a flying one. So you might turn a “lost my way” dream into a
“Choose my destiny” one by turning away from the search.
Recently I was dreaming of us all relaxing, passing
Round a joint made from some fairly innocuous Class B drug.
Suddenly two police cars sped into the living room
And the officers started turning the place upside down.
As this ransacking of our squat got worse and worse,
I decided to act. I expressed outrage at an officer
Pulling apart my mother’s certificate of matriculation.
I called other officers to bear witness that this brute
Had torn apart a carefully framed document which had been kept
Inside this frame since the early 1920s. I demanded
Whether the officer had any qualification whatsoever
To handle precious documents or art work. And just like that,
A dream of fear and guilt became a dream of justified revolt.
So I think Susan was right. You can turn a fall into flight.
Afaafa’s warrior husband had met his death in a spear fight
When she was three months pregnant. She gave birth to twins;
One of them as black as anyone else in the village while his brother
Was white. Only her mother had been present when she
Went into labour. The white one’s birth would have to be kept a secret.
Witch doctors will hunt albinos for their vital organs there,
And he would be dismembered if ever they should leak it out.
The black went by the name of Zayn, the white they named
Kweli. As soon as they could, the women built
A new hut on the outskirts of the village, right on the edge
Of the bush, away from curious eyes. And once the boys
Could speak their mother spoke to them about the dangers
Of revealing the existence of Kweli. Zayn
Was warned never to speak to anyone about his twin.
His grandma added that powerful Juju ghouls might
Come and seek him out if he ever broke his silence about
His brother. Kweli was told never to venture outside the hut,
Unless it was at night, when his ma might take him
Into the bush to bathe in a pool in the moonlight, but even this
Was dangerous, because of the crocodiles and the other predators
Active in the bush at night. Zayn was soon at home
With all the villagers; Kewli obliged to remain out of sight.
Zayn however flourished in the sunlight. He was strong and quick
And got on well with the other boys of his age. Kweli was unable
To enjoy the benefit of the sun, which would anyway have caused
Lesions leading to the cancer of his skin. He lived like an imprisoned ghost
In the hut close to the bush. Afaafa had received compensation
For the death of her husband from the clan of her husband’s killer,
Who were anxious to avoid a feud, so she was not without wealth,
But she only left the hut when her mother could care for Kweli.
She wove colourful fabrics on a loom, and once a week
She would take these to sell in the bazaar on market days,
But otherwise was careful to keep contact discreet,
And thus for years, the secret twin existed, undiscovered.
His protective mother though was a strong, good-looking
Woman still, so naturally the brother of her slain husband
Felt that it was proper to make her his ghost-wife, so as to ensure
The lineage of his brother by placing his widow under his wing,
Gaining all her property thereby, and taking Zayn
As his own child held in the legal name of his departed
Father, thus enabling his line to continue into the future,
Strengthening their clan. Afaafa agreed to none of this however.
Mwamba, her dead husband’s brother kept insisting that it
Was the custom. His side should share in the wealth
That had accrued to Afaafa when the compensation had been paid
In order to avoid a feud. Afaafa argued though
That rigorous adherence to custom was a thing of the past.
Since the time of the white man’s administration,
Money had been introduced into the region, and now
She got paid in cash for her marvellous fabrics.
To keep on good terms with the clan, she was willing
To part with four of the cows she had been given
By the murderer of her man, to be distributed among
Her husband’s family, but two she would keep for her own
Subsistence and for Zayn’s and for her mother’s subsistence.
When Mwamba reminded her that cattle were a man’s affair,
And should properly reside in the byre only men might enter,
She warned him that if he went off with her cows and placed them
In his byre she would enter that same byre and piss in it,
Thus polluting its sanctity and cursing its cattle, making them
Prey to the tse fly and other wretched diseases. She told Mwamba
That she was no longer bound by any great devotion
To their customs, being capable of earning her own income
With the cash invented by the white administration
And thus she sent him away with a flea in his ear
In order to protect Kweli. However at night, she wept bitterly
Over this necessity, because Mwamba was as handsome
As her husband had been, and had she not her albino boy
To shelter from each prying eye, she would have become
His wife quite happily. Zayn meanwhile grew strong and surly.
The secret that he had to keep ate away at his soul. He slept
Soundly at night, then rushed out during the day to play
Football. When in the hut, over the evening meal, he would talk
About what fun he was having in the sun. The pallor of his brother
Disgusted him, although he spent much of his time among
The white men of the administration, fascinated by civilisation.
Meanwhile he stole from his mother’s bag from an early age
In order to buy toy cars and guns, accumulating an arsenal
So as to impress other boys, and distancing himself as he grew older
From the customs of his people, all that mumbo-jumbo seemed so
Primitive. Even so, he was too frightened by his grandma’s
Warnings about the powerful ghouls who might attack him
Ever to let slip the existence of his twin, but nevertheless
The secret gnawed at him, weakening his soul as he grew strong in body.
Day after day, his brother Kweli stayed in the hut, helping his mother.
Mancala was his favourite game, and he could always gain
More beads than his brother could. As he grew older he learnt to create
Dyes of richness for his mother, using the ink-berry’s juice
And the juice of other berries he found in the bush at night.
The bush at night became his natural habitat. Using the juice
Of the night shade fruit, he would turn his body black.
This didn’t help in the sunlight, the sun would still cause his skin
To crack, but in the night it helped him hide from predators.
And so he roamed in the gloom, sometimes wearing a huge blue leaf
As a robe. And since his only human acquaintances were
His family, he was eager to learn how to communicate with animals.
On nights when the moon was on the wane, he would sit
In a niche in his favourite tree. This he adopted as his ritual.
His grandma was in the habit of saying, Ritual rids the soul
Of anger. There was anger in him. This is why he sensed he needed
A ritual of his own, but as the crescent waxed he would roam.
In his tree he stayed so still, the animals came close to him.
Thus he learnt to imitate all the noises of the night. The sooty
Monkeys soon began to chat with him. He learnt the whirring stutter
Of this bird, the booming honk of that, the toad’s belch, the swift
Inhalation of the shy gazelle. Rustles, bursts of hissing
Were as words to him. He learnt from the creatures of the bush
Which leaves were tasty, which were toxic, and then at times
A wounded beast would come to him, and he would apply
Some moss that was a balm to the wound. Thus the big cats of the jungle
Accepted him as their friend. Kweli taught the elephants
Not to eat the laurel-like leaves of poison trees. Then one night
He helped a snake vomit up a stone it had mistaken for a rat,
And the indebted snake whispered to him the secret of how
To change his skin. It was the bush that provided him
With an education. Beneath the canopy of its trees
He learnt to hum along with the bees and gradually his hum
Became an OM. Though he knew nothing of what this meant
On a continent far from the land where Upanishads were known,
Finding the three components of that holy sound, he sensed
That its intoning could help the soul discard all evil
Just as the snake discards the skin of a previous year. Thus he came
To know the bush, and enter it without the slightest fear.
Then one night, an immensely tall black elephant
Who had lost a tusk in his battle for a mate, began to trample
Down the bush near Kweli’s favourite seat. Maddened by
The injury which had turned gangrenous, the elephant battered
The wounded side of his trunk against a tree where the bees
Had a honeycomb stored, and there was a risk that the comb
Would get dislodged. Kweli made a trumpeting sound, offering
The elephant the poisonous leaves of the laurel that would
Put him out of his misery. The huge black proboscide accepted
That a quick death was better than long agony. And so the comb
And the bees’ home in the tree got saved. Then the swarm in
Gratitude offered their queen as the bride of his soul so that whatever befell,
His spiritual existence would be spread among them all
If ever he should be at risk of violent extinction. Kweli had grown
Into a man by then. His brother Zayn had left the hut and had gone
To work in the docks. He wanted to earn enough to buy a car.
Pretty soon he managed that, and drove up to the village
In order to show it off. By that time his grandma had passed on.
Back in the port where he worked, he met a girl whose Pa
Was white and whose Ma was black. He fancied her.
She liked his car, and his muscular arms and the sheen of his skin.
But her mother was a lady who still maintained respect
For one tradition, which was the payment of bridewealth
By the groom to the parents of the bride. And though her daughter
Was as keen as Zayn to get married, her mother demanded
More than Zayn could afford. More than ever his secret gnawed
At the soul of Zayn, whose member stiffened like a tusk
At the thought of possessing the girl who admired his vehicle.
There were cafes where witch doctors pricked their fetishes with pins.
He knew albino body parts could fetch a cool six thousand pounds;
The victims kidnapped so as to be dismembered by assassins.
Kweli was stirring a cauldron, mixing a dye for his mother when
They burst in and dragged him away, never to be seen again.
One who had hardly been seen by anyone. His kidneys went to Washington.
His mother blotted out her grief by rapidly losing her memory
As became apparent at the Christian ceremony that was held
To mark the marriage of Zayn to the girl of his choice. The parents
Of his bride, found him a comfortable job in the business of
His father-in-law, and pretty soon he was able to buy a more
Expensive car, and live in style in a spacious bungalow
Situated in the airy hills above the port. His wife gave birth to twins,
Both of whom were dark. Zayn breathed a secret sigh
Of relief. Everything seemed to be going well. His wife enjoyed
Flower arrangement and gardening. And so they planted trees
Around their house, and kept up charming flower-beds.
And all manner of plants and flowers bloomed about them as
They sat in their garden with their guests who were forever admiring
The wonderful view of the sea below, as their children swung
On a swing or played table-tennis in their recreation room.
But one evening, as the sun went down, Zayn who was reclining
On a garden chair, let his hand drift down among the dark leaves
Of some glorious white-petaled flower and was bitten by a snake.
He let out a cry, but the pain was not very great.
Nevertheless he was driven straight to the doctor
Who examined him and could observe no inflammation or
Swelling. Obviously the snake had not been of a poisonous
Variety. There was nothing to worry about. He was driven home
And slept as soundly as ever that night. But then a few days later
He noticed that his skin was paler. He was turning white.
Zayn decided to bathe in the sun, but lesions began to split
His skin. It was clear that he was losing all his precious melanin.
Desperate to keep his condition secret, Zayn took leave of his wife,
And drove to the hut at the village’s edge. There, his forgetful Ma
Failed to recognise this son who now went in fear for his life
And called him by his brother’s name. Albinism conquered him at last.
All his velvet blackness was now just a thing of the past.
Quite unprepared for this fate, Zayn stayed indoors. He could not eat
And perished a month later, hidden in the hut, but when he died
A swarm of bees descended on his corpse, and in some magical way
They entered it and Kweli stood there instead. He went out into
The sunlight. His newly entered body now accepted the sun.
Soon he was as black as his brother had been, and he became
His brother’s wife’s ghost husband, and she was very pleased with him.
♦
—This is the seventh installment of The Runiad. —
See previously
Extracts from Books 1 & 2
Extracts from Books 3 & 4
Extracts from Books 5 & 6
Extract from Book 7
Extract from Book 8
Extract from Book 9
ANTHONY HOWELL, a former dancer with the Royal Ballet, was founder of The Theatre of Mistakes and performed solo at the Hayward Gallery and at the Sydney Biennale. His articles on visual art, dance, performance, and poetry have appeared in many publications including Art Monthly, The London Magazine, Harpers & Queen, The Times Literary Supplement. He is a contributing editor of The Fortnightly Review. In 2001 he received a LADA bursary to study the tango in Buenos Aires and now teaches the dance at his studio/gallery The Room in Tottenham Hale. He is the author of a seminal textbook, The Analysis of Performance Art: A Guide to Its Theory and Practice. Details about his collaborative project, Grey Suit Editions, are here. In 2019, his exploration of psychic chaos, Consciousness (with Multilation), was published by the Fortnightly’s imprint, Odd Volumes. His latest collection is From Inside (The High Window).
Image credits: Drawings by Anthony Howell. Top image from Burak Basturk.
Post a Comment