Painkiller, Xaali’s Intervention, and Problem Child

art by Jean Wolff

by Chekwube Danladi

Painkiller

I was only meant to be in Lagos for one week, staying in an American hotel in Ikoyi

overlooking the lagoon. I was there to read poetry and teach a writing workshop on decolonizing

poetics at the British Council, no order to the chaos of the irony. And otherwise order in jollof

and pizza while avoiding any local probing aunties. Swim, cigarette, and Irish stout in the hotel

pool after dark. Then a long, sullen flight back to Chicago.

Mother was my only reason to leave the hotel. I wanted so badly to call her something:

my mistress, my rich Nigerian girlfriend, my Lagos Sisi, or Punisher. Wanted to be her trusted

and exotic toy who’d come home to be with her before leaving again. This was the nature of our

transaction. Before this trip, we hadn’t seen each other for three years.

We had planned to meet at her flat in Lekki. I took a danfo, wanting to blend in. It’s

home, it’s meant to be natural. The danfo moved along, not far for me to travel. I brought

offerings for her, as I would have to any other water spirit. “Bring red wine,” she’d texted. I had

weed brownies too, delivered to my hotel room via tiny swerving delivery motorcyclist.

At her gate, the gateman saluted me, “Please who are you here to see?” Mother. He

opened the gate, and there she was, shimmering and moving like a river, wearing all black in

32°C tropical heat, Lagos in September. She wrapped herself around me and I loved the swallow,

oblivious to the gatemen looking on.

“Mgbèkè. Look at you. Too long. It has been too long. Quick, come with me.”

Her hand at my collar, pulling. We moved to her flat and she opened the door into the dark

inside. The door closed behind us and your world was gone. Inside, alté from the speakers in her

sitting room. On a large metal table in the center of the room, a tray holding a covered cake,

small plates stacked nearby.

“Did you really think you would get away with not telling me it’s your birthday? Haba.”

How did she know?

“Your sister told me.”

It’s no matter, but I blushed anyway.

“It’s just your luck that you are even with me, sha. I’m hosting a party for you tonight.

Don’t argue with me. It will be small. My friends Kìítán and Fola, and her girlfriend Amaka,

who I also used to date. Then my lover Hauwa, and my friend from uni, Nnamdi.”

She took my hand and kissed it, braided our fingers.

“I have a surprise for you, though, before everyone else arrives. Can you come with me?”

I followed her down the hall leading to her bedroom, orange lights peeking through the door’s

crease. She pushed me forward, opened the door. Positioned in the center of the bed, naked, a

woman coated dark, eyes dark, plum lips and soft smile dark. Mother took my hand and put it

against her cheek. She slithered behind me and started to unbutton my top, her chin on my

shoulder.

“This is Peacemaker. The body that brings comfort. I’ve paid her to spend the entire night

with us.”

The comfort giver smiled and in a low voice, “Mgbèkè. Happy birthday. You must allow

us to meet you with a bounty to savor.”

I looked to the burgundy curtains drawn over the windows. No one would see us. There

was music playing from a stereo on top of Mother’s dressers. No one would hear. Mother

undressed me and pushed me toward Peacemaker. There’s no need to be timid. This is a gift we

could all surrender to.

On the edge of her bed, I waited while Peacemaker undressed Mother, drawn to the

crossing of limbs as cloth met air. Guided Mother to my lap and sat her there, her skin’s warmth

ushered my synaptic eruptions. I could barely see. The taste of electric pheromones swirling,

then a tongue licking my neck. Peacemaker used her chin to shake Mother’s breasts, and the hum

sauntered through the room to seal us off from the world. There was no longer a door through

which to exit. I had laid Peacemaker down and snapped my teeth against her stomach, taking in

mounds of her. Mother poured the essence of her beauty onto Peacemaker’s tongue, gold nectar

easing into her throat. There was no longer a room. Still the orange-colored light. No longer a

bed. Mother with her pulsing waist melting into mine. Peacemaker’s power now a liquid swell,

congealing as our three bodies stuck to each other. Vibrating and leaking sweat, flesh became

intangible, and no longer three; only one shape throbbing, shrinking, becoming confluent; a river

joining another and forming a single soaked mouth.

Xaali’s Intervention

Her sisters flew in from Toronto. Irene from New York. Basra from Minneapolis. Sara,

Jaq, and André drove down from Oakland. Lex drove up from San Diego and Jessie from Las

Vegas.

The LA crew all had roles to play. The plan was for Mari to lie and say it was a picnic at

Kenneth Hahn for no reason, just because it’s nice out. Freedom would be the one to bring her to

the park. Halima volunteered her guestroom for a long stay. A couple of us would take turns

addressing her daily errands. Would help her clean up and pick up her meds. Danita would bring

and shrooms and detox tea. And everybody would bring a snack, so at least it would look like a

picnic at first. There would be a bunch of us, at least we didn’t lie about that. That’s Xaali. She

brings everyone together. It’s palpable, she’s got that light.

Her grandmother joined on video from Somalia. So did Akua from her residency at an

Appalachian cottage. As did Sharifa and Patrice from Atlanta. There was another person calling

in, waiting on Irene’s phone. And it’s certain her ancestors reached out from her side and held her

up by her shoulders.

We all spread out by the hummingbird garden deep in the park. Trees tall enough to hold

and hide us all. It was Jordan’s job to start it off. It’d have to be Jordan because Jordan has been

in Xaali’s place before. Jordan’s tender voice: Xaali, we love you. Xaali, we love you so much.

We have to do this. Come and sit by me. We did this because we have to say something. We love

you too much to lose you without trying to help you.

We get it, you know, where it all comes from. The Yemeni refugee camp. The Kenyan

refugee camp. The Toronto public housing. The abusive ex. The running away to New York.

Your first attempt. Your time at fashion school. Being back home in Toronto. Then Montreal,

doing what? Back to New York. Your second attempt. Then you were better. Fell in love with Jaq

and moved with them to Oakland. Did good work in the women’s shelter. Your community

garden plot. Until you left for L.A. Jaq gave her blessing. And since you’ve been here, we’ve all

fallen for you.

That’s Xaali, always laughing, her walk is its own dance. Her bright tones, and how she

always bring bouquets of flower to each occasion. But friend, we see it. We see you’re hurting,

and we know you’ve hurt before. And all of us are worried about you. She’s had to bear it alone

before. But not anymore. We’re not going anywhere. We’re all afraid to lose her.

It was grandmother’s role to close it out, Basra translating: Let us help you. Please, let us

help you. Xaali, we love you so much. I am tired, but I am here today to save your life. Please.

Xaali.

Problem Child

The plan: it would be me, Sirena, and Kalisha. Skip School; Middle of the Night; Catch a

Bus; Florida or NYC. We’d already agreed: our moms were cunts; broken people and mean,

mhm mhm yup yup. Our dads were Grade A pieces of shit—fuck him anyway, he won’t even

notice we’re gone. Fuckin deadbeat, pinche fuckin hombre, negligent fuck.

School, there was no point. We could get GEDs after we got down/up there. GEDs would

be easy. After all, we attended a Westside Academy for Gifted Ghetto Girls. Sirena was on honor

roll and debate team. But also the first to offer up something to sniff, and cops kept coming

around. Kalisha ran track and did spelling bees, quiz bowls. But she kept getting put in a special

ward at Shepard-Pratt because she couldn’t keep her fingers out of her throat. My case: I could

flip through physics and literature and history books like nothing, but “despite her academic

achievements, Olivia remains disobedient, melancholic, and displays a poor attitude toward her

social environment.”

Middle of the night cuz when else?

Catch a bus cuz none of us had a car, a license, or more than $20 to spare.

Florida or NYC, because Florida was warm, or NYC because Sirena had lived in The

Bronx before Baltimore and still had family there. But we weren’t gonna tell them about it, shit

no. they’d just call her mom to come get her, then everybody gets caught and its oh my god what

were you girls thinking, don’t make me send you back to the DR/Nigeria/down South. Fuck that.

The time was now or never. Let’s just get it done and get the fuck outta here.

I stuffed my backpack with what I owned: nothing, a pack of cigarettes, a tiny

screwdriver for protection lifted from Walmart, a still-packaged flip phone lifted from a Circuit

City in the suburbs, $30 I’d taken from my mom’s boyfriend’s wallet that morning. Tapped my

feet until 11pm, then on the dot, got up to leave. My sister in the bathroom crying, my cousin in

the back alley burning herself with a lighter. My brother watching football on the couch. Mom’s

at work. No one saying bye.

I caught the 82 bus to Mondawmin, the 26 bus from there headed south to Cherry Hill.

Barely anyone else on the 82, so the bus driver stopped to piss in front of the Stop Shop and Save

on Wabash and Cold Spring Lane. The 26 buzzed on, every westside street the same at night,

blur of dope fiends, litter, red lights, blue lights, bandos, concrete, stray cats, corner boys,

bandos, cop cars, bandos, bandos. Saw downtown lit up as we got closer and I said out loud to no

one, “Fuck this whole city, I’m out this bitch,” standing ready by the door.

The black and blue catacomb of the bus terminal, and I rushed in to find my

coconspirators. Humming yellow fluorescence coating grey sallow figures hauling luggage,

moving about like crickets, frightful and sporadic. Sirena was on a seat near the back by the

water fountain, arms crossed and shaking her leg. She stood when she saw me.

“Kalisha didn’t come.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been calling her ass all night since I got here.” She was pissed, biting her nails too

close to the beds, tiny blood bubbling up. “I told you she’d punk out.”

I put my hand in my pocket to find my phone. “Maybe she’s just late.”

“Nahhh. She’s not picking up her phone. She ain’t comin. You can try her, but we both

know she ain’t comin.”

“Yea, probably not. She was mad nervous when we last talked about it.”

“Fuck it, we don’t need her, right? Let’s just dip.”

I looked around at all the ticket desks. Southbound, northbound, westbound stops.

Considered how far away we could go, with our brute will, there was no knowing the distance.

The day had ended and it was time to want, to know where to flee to.

“Yea. Where do we wanna go?”

“I don’t wanna go home.”

“And I don’t wanna be cold.”

“Florida?”

“Florida.”

“Which part?”

“I don’t care.”

“I don’t either. As long as we get out of here.”

At a southbound counter, we bought two tickets to a bus that would stop in Jacksonville,

Orlando, and Miami. We’d get off at whichever one seemed right when we got there. Who cares?

Just get on the bus. The pressure doors open, no luggage today? No sir, no luggage. Settle into

two seats near an emergency exit door, just in case.

The lights inside turn off with the rising whir of the motor. The driver announces the

departure. The bus pulls out of the terminal and starts slow down the road. The road has no

entrance or exit, no sidewalks or streetlights, no signage. No skyline imposing, no electrical

lines, no stars to hunt for, only absence. The way out is through absence, the bus swelling as it

approaches absence. No separation between self and black exterior, no color, no seat, no

windows to claw, no passengers and no driver. Nothing behind and nothing ahead.

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