Authors: E.C. Osondu

This House Is Not for Sale (15 page)

IBE

I
be said I must give the house a befitting name. We all called it the Family House, I said. By what other name should I call it? You must give the house a name that evokes prestige, a name that will make people respect the people who lived in the house and the house itself. So what name do you suggest I call it? You can call the house White Castle of Peace. But it was not white in color, it was not a castle, and it was not that peaceful, I said. You can call it the Grand House on the Hill. You can call it Eagle Terrace. You can call it the Purity Villa. You can call it Peace Haven or Giant Oaks Villa. Give the house a good name because a good name is better than gold, and a man's house is his castle and every man is king in his own abode.

And what about Grandpa and all the things that happened in the house? I asked Ibe. Grandpa was an illustrious and generous
man. He fed the poor and the beggars, he clothed the naked and the orphans and widows, he was a man of legendary generosity. He was more generous than Rockefeller. He mounted loudspeakers outside so that people could listen to the music he listened to, he entertained himself and others. He invited the whole street to come and watch television in his house, those who could not find space to sit inside watched through the window screen while some stood by the door, Ibe said.

And what about the woman that was stripped naked and had her head shaved and was paraded around the town? Ibe said the woman was only enacting a ritual drama. A drama? Yes, she was taking part in a traditional ritual for cleansing the community of the sins of everyone. She bore the shame of everyone. What she did for the community was like what Christ did for the whole world.

Are you sure about this? Trust me, I remember everything. She was rewarded richly for her role in that traditional ritual. But she was cursed as she moved through the community, don't you remember? You are the one who does not remember. People beckoned to her to come closer so they could drop some money into the calabash she was carrying on her head.

Do you remember the uncle who told his followers to sell all they had because the world was going to end? Of course, I remember him. He was a true prophet. He heard the voice of God. God actually told him he was going to destroy the earth, but like a good prophet he interceded with God to show a little mercy and give the people a chance to repent. And the people that threatened to burn down the house? Nobody threatened to
burn down the house. The people went away rejoicing that their lives had been spared and that the world did not end. They went away singing his praises and calling him a true prophet.

And what about the soldiers who came to . . . ? What soldiers? Oh the soldiers. Grandpa had friends, some of whom were soldiers, officers, engineers, lawyers, policemen. All kinds of professionals came to the house.

And what about Baby? Oh, Baby? No man was willing to marry her but Grandpa was always generous so he found her a husband. He even paid the man to marry her, I think.

And what about all those kids in the house? I told you already that Grandpa was generous and kind and did not allow orphans to suffer so he brought them all under his roof and fed them and sent them to school.

Do you remember any suffering in the house? No one suffered in the house. It was the sound of laughter and the sound of spoons on teeth and the sound of food on its way down to the gullet that people heard coming from the house.

And do you happen to remember that one time that you were sick? Me sick? I have never been sick in my life. I was not sick. I was in a trance. I was seeing the future. I was sitting with God in heaven and he was showing me the future of everybody, including you. You had appendicitis but we thought it was because of the money and other stuff we took from the shrine. You imagine a lot of things, not as they were, but as you want them to be. I was in a trance and I saw God, he was wearing cream-colored trousers that swept the ground and his beard was as white as snow.

HOW THE HOUSE CAME TO BE NO MORE

T
here were soldiers carrying guns and
koboko
horse whips. There were civilian members of the Environmental Task Force in yellow overalls. There was an engineer in blue overalls and a white safety helmet. There was a policeman on an impatient horse that refused to stand still. There was a top civil servant in the Ministry of the Environment dressed in a four-piece suit and tie under the dull yellow glow of the sun and suffocating heat. There was the operator of the bulldozer and his assistant. There was the bulldozer, yellow in color with a large
CATERPILLAR
logotype on its side. There was a photographer with a camera.

There was a new governor who had just been sworn in. Who had sworn to make the city a modern city. He said the city was filthy. There were open drains clogged with filth. The once-in-a-month sanitation program was not enough. People simply dug up the filth and dirt in the drains and shoveled them into the street and after a few days heavy rains ensured the dirt ended up right where it had come from. He was going to demolish the houses that blocked the city sewage and drainage system. He was going to ensure street trading was abolished. He wanted houses to have a fresh coat of paint and he insisted on the planting of flowers and palms along the major roads.

The Ministry of the Environment sent a notice that the Family House was sitting on a place that should have a major drain way. He sent his men to put four large
X
s on the four walls of the house. There were whisperings as to whether the Family House would go down or not. Some said that all the juju that lay buried in the house would ensure it didn't fall. Others said that the evil committed in the house was enough to pull the house down.

The morning the bulldozers came, accompanied by members of the newly constituted task force on the environment, no one told them that a former occupant of the house had been a task force member, that he was called Soja and that whatever had killed him was not unconnected with his duties as a member of one other task force a long time ago. Down the street a song boomed from a loudspeaker. The lyrics of the song went this wayâ
vanity upon vanity, all is vanity
. About
half an hour later the track being played would change to another song titled
Oh Merciful God
. . .

There were also the people on the street who had gathered to witness the demolition of this house that had long been abandoned but of which they had heard strange stories.

âBut why all the soldiers and policemen and guns and horses? Is it not an ordinary house?â

âThat house is no ordinary house. Ordinary house, indeedâ

âBut it is not as if the house is going to run away. The house has no legs with which to runâ

âIf you knew all the things that have happened in that house you'd know that it can do more than runâ

âPeople say that at night you could hear voices and sometimes cries emanating from that house. Even though no one lives there anymoreâ

âIt casts a dark shadow on our street. They should demolish it so that light will take over from darknessâ

âAll the things they said happened in that house before you were born will make your ears tingleâ

âBut how would you feel if they decide to demolish your own house that you built with your own sweat and blood because the new ruler wants to beautify the city by planting flowers and painting housesâ

âThat house was built with the sweat of innocent, hardworking peopleâ

âWait; hold on a minute. What is going on? See, what did I tell you? That is no ordinary houseâ

The bulldozer was about to sink its teeth into the house when it belched and coughed and sputtered to a stop. It gasped and then its motor stopped running. There was a brief silence and then the horse neighed and made as if it was about to bound off, but it was restrained by the police rider.

“What is wrong?” the leader of the task force, the big boss from the Ministry of the Environment, asked.

The bulldozer operator and his boy jumped down, looking confused. This had never happened before. The bulldozer was almost new and had never stalled.

“Let me check the plugs, maybe they overflowed,” he said, and brought out a handkerchief, wiped his face, and began searching for the plugs.

âYou see what I told you, they must have buried something in that houseâ

âYou don't do this kind of work if you are not strong. To do this type of work with an
ordinary
hand and with no protection is to court deathâ

âThat is true, though. Even the engineers that construct bridges, white engineers, Germans, Israelis, American engineers, they buy rams sometimes cows or chickens to make sacrifices to the river goddess before they start constructing bridgesâ

âThese ones should know better, they have been doing this job for long. They know that you cannot just demolish a house built by someone just like thatâ

The bulldozer started working again. This time the driver and the bulldozer went at the house as if doubly determined
and soon there was rubble and dust. As a part of the house came down the members of the task force who were standing a little distance away began to clap and cheer. The song playing from the record store came to an end and a new song came on: “My Father's Mansion in the Sky,”
In my father's house there are many mansions
, the musician sang as the dust rose like a sacrificial burnt offering from the crumbled Family House into the sky.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I
could never have done this alone. Heartfelt thanks to my family: Evelyn, Aisha, Michael, ChuChu, Cheta, CJ.

My agents Jin Auh and Jackie Ko in New York, and Sarah Chalfant and Luke Ingram in the U.K.

My editors Tim Duggan, Emily Cunningham, Bella Lacey, and Michal Shavit.

Oscar Casares, the New Writers Project at the University of TexasâAustin, where I served as a visiting assistant professor in the spring semester of 2013, and where some parts of this book were written.

And to my colleague Eric Bennett, who read an early draft of this book, for his encouraging words.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

E. C. OSONDU
is the author of
Voice of America
. Born in Nigeria, he received his MFA from Syracuse University and is the winner of the Caine Prize for African Writing and a Pushcart Prize. His fiction has appeared in
The Atlantic, n+1, Guernica
, and other publications. He teaches at Providence College in Rhode Island.

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www.AuthorTracker.com
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ALSO BY E. C. OSONDU

Voice of America

CREDITS

Cover design by Milan Bozic

Cover photograph Â© Eye Ubiquitous / Superstock

COPYRIGHT

THIS HOUSE IS NOT FOR SALE
. Copyright Â© 2015 by E. C. Osondu. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

FIRST EDITION

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Osondu, E. C.

This house is not for sale : a novel / E. C. Osondu.

pages Â Â cm

ISBN 978-0-06-199088-5

I. Title.

PR9387.9.O856T55Â Â Â Â Â 2015

823'.914âdc23

2014013856

EPUB Edition February 2015 ISBN 9780062097781

15 16 17 18 19Â Â Â
OV
/
RRD
Â Â Â 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1