1
The hyena boys came to Bonaventure, which was serendipitous, because he was used to avoiding the world before the world spurned him. For one, his white albino skin flecked with dark spots made him a regular target of mockery. When Bonaventure was younger and his father was around and could barely afford to send him to school, his peers often taunted him to come outside in the midday heat. They dared him to come to the playground without squinting, one palm raised to block stray sunlight. They likened him to a pillar of butter melting in the sun. They asked if he was a vampire banished to the shadows.
Moments before the hyena boys arrived, he sat under the shade of his father’s bacha home, getting ready to set out for the day. He took off his singlet and filled a bowl with water from a jerry can. After washing his hair, he wiped his mossy armpits and took a chewing stick from his pocket. He poured more water into the bowl and soaked his shirt. With a small chip of soap, he washed while moving the stick in his mouth.
The bacha house was part of a labyrinth of hovels made from all kinds of materials pulled from vehicles that none had any use for. The lot was once a mechanic village, and their house was farther out, near a solitary mountain of garbage, surrounded by overgrown grasses and situated close to the transmission tower. He couldn’t afford to pay the slumlords much. Even though the nauseating smell of rot, putrefaction, and sogginess came to him in waves, he had sworn to his father to keep the bacha house. As pitiful as it seemed, his father was all he had. He had lost his mother’s love to liquor before he understood what love was. But liquor did more than that; it consumed her body, dried her up before ending her life.
Bonaventure often wondered if that was why he looked so white under the skin. Perhaps it was because his mother began consuming alcohol as soon as he was conceived.
The cars’ skeletons that dotted the lot were covered in red dust; some were missing tires, others had their hoods wide open, axles propped up on wooden barrels, tufts of horsehair poking from their tattered leather seats. Bonaventure imagined that the cannibalization of the cars was gradual: First their engines vanished piece by piece, then the fittings. After that, the padding and upholstery. Then whatever was left of the frame. He sometimes scavenged the lot for scraps, anything he could sell or barter at the market nearby. He never found anything valuable. He had, however, discovered a method for making money. Every morning, he headed to the bus terminal, where conductors jostled for passengers and called out routes. Before the passengers could say no, Bonaventure grabbed their bags and loaded them onto the buses they wanted, claiming he was glad to help. He then waited on them for a tip. On his good days, he went home with change in his pocket, but he often got shooed off by irate conductors for not belonging to the union.
Bonaventure wrung out his singlet and hung it to dry on the tarpaulin covering the bacha house. Above him, the thick, long cables of the transmission tower hummed softly in the breeze. He spat out juice from the chewing stick, eyes roaming, and settled on a rusting Datsun covered in weeds. The cars had been there for so long they’d become a glorious amalgam of greenery and corrosion. Branches snaked through shattered windows, and thickets of grass sprouted on car floors. Moss had turned their chassis green before overtaking the seats and steering wheels. Vines twined themselves around metal rods, stems running through seats, roots tangled, a mess of limbs. The big trees overhead stretched out their long, slender hands, brushing the vehicles. Bonaventure loved the smell of withered leaves moistened by dew and the soft rustling of animals scampering in and out of the car shells. About half a mile farther on, close to the rest of the bacha homes, merchants who had no authorized place to display their wares in the city claimed vacant patches along the rusted tracks, transforming them into bustling markets of their own making during daylight or whenever the police or the city’s environmental task force weren’t there to interfere. Bonaventure found peace in his tranquil corner of the lot, a reprieve from the ugliness of the world.
Then the four of them emerged from the narrow path that led to his corner of the abandoned lot. One had a tattered T-shirt and a multicolored pleated skirt and was armed with amulets of turtle shells and cowries. His head was shaven. His bare torso was crusted with scabs, his face scarred by a hundred fights.
He had an animal at his heels. Bonaventure thought it was a lion. He would later learn that the creature was a spotted hyena with the name Mufasa. His sandy, ginger-colored coat was dotted with black markings; a short mane ran up the back of his neck. A sturdy chain was fastened around his neck, and a pointed muffle covered his jaws. The hyena let out a deranged cackle, pulled against his handler. The sight of the beast startled Bonaventure so much that he hurriedly looked around for a clear path in the bush in case he needed to make a quick escape.
Another man steered a rickety bicycle forward while on foot; a large, brown, worn-out suitcase was plopped on the seat. A third man had a baboon perched on his shoulders. Small-framed in a khaki brown uniform and scuffed shoes, he wore a green beret at a rakish angle on his head. The baboon wore a Chelsea FC jersey and a rusty chain around its waist. The fourth man carried a bundle and balanced a Ghana-must-go bag on his head.
The men lengthened their strides. Bonaventure was impressed by the way they moved—their confidence, approach. They were like triumphant wrestlers entering the ring; it was as if the group was being propelled by an indestructible hand, telling them they could do anything. Days later, Bonaventure would hear of the people from the north rumored to use ancient magic to tame wild creatures. He would hear that even their young could domesticate the wildest of beasts.
Bonaventure moved closer for a better view, hiding behind a car shell. Too much light irritated his eyes, and he could never see clearly from a distance.
The men gathered at a clearing next to the rusting Datsun, tied up their animals, and proceeded to put up a tarpaulin tent. They worked swiftly, unfolding their bundles and hammering.
Intrigued as he was, he resented their presence. The yells, whoops, and cackles made him uncomfortable, and he wondered if they were here to stay or were just passing through. He wondered if they had simply assumed ownership of the property or had paid the slumlords a price to secure it. As far as he knew, no one owned the lot. However, the slumlords, a bunch of street thugs, possessed and commercialized it, and their claim had gone unquestioned. Since his father left, he had been making monthly dues payments to the goons.
The person who steered the bicycle placed the suitcase on the ground and zipped it open. A snake rose up and crawled out hesitantly, taking in its surroundings before slithering its way forward on the soil. The reptile needled its tongue out along the dirt and vanished into the bushes. Bonaventure assumed the suitcase was opened to provide the reptile a boon of liberty, for as soon as they finished erecting the tent, the serpent returned as if it understood exactly what was expected of it. It curled back up inside the suitcase.
Later, the men hung talismans on their necks, arms, and waists, and left with their animals. Bonaventure, wearing a pair of half-rotten slippers, followed silently behind at a reasonable distance.
2
Everywhere he went, Bonaventure had always been noticed, and not for good reasons. But today, trailing the men and their animals, he blended in with the crowd, and for the first time, no one spared him a glance or looked at him curiously. He was unsure whether to feel relieved or jealous.
In the marketplace, gaggles of children circled the performers, eager to watch. The younger ones jumped with glee, while the older ones, mostly traders and bystanders, scrambled up mounds of gravel and climbed atop an empty kiosk to catch a glimpse of the troupe.
Bonaventure braved the stench of unwashed bodies as he squeezed through the crowd for a good view. He felt a face looming, rancid breath on his cheek. The sun made his skin itch. He now understood from what he had overheard in the crowd that the hyena boys were performers and that they might spend a few days in this city before moving on to the next, allaying his fears. The idea of going to bed with wild animals in the vicinity bothered him.
Conga drums rolled. The handler of the hyena stepped to the center of the stage. The hyena circled his handler. The beast charged forward, baring his yellow teeth, but was forced back by the harness. The throng gave a startled gasp, retreated, and then, as the shock wore off, applauded. A spectator placed ten naira near the stage; another person tossed in some coins. Bonaventure jostled for a better view through the cloud of dust kicked up by the commotion.
The handler loosened the hyena’s muzzle. As the beast’s jaws opened, the handler placed his arm between them. He then stuck his neck in, much to the alarm of the spectators. Bonaventure looked away for a moment but forced himself to look back at the stage. For several excruciating seconds, the man’s neck was locked between the jaws, causing almost complete silence in the bustling marketplace. The audience let forth a roar of relief and awe when he finally removed his neck. More people rushed forward to give money.
A performer emerged from the throng clutching a large portion of beef by its bone. He delivered it to the hyena handler, who fed it to the animal while holding the bone at the other end, a prize for his obedience. Applause.
The jersey-wearing baboon swung into action. The jersey had Lampard and the number 8 written on the back. He approached spectators, shook their hands. He danced and clapped, somersaulted at the command of his handler. Next, the cobra lifted its head from the luggage and began to dance, unfurling its hood. One of the men put his face perilously close to the venomous snake while it wrapped its body around his neck.
Bonaventure spotted a figure weaving through the spectators. No doubt she was the leader of the troupe. She wore a floor-sweeping dress that looked old, and a scarf tied around her head. Her arm was covered with tattoos—a snake and, on the exposed part of her chest, a pair of eyes. Her face was covered with a heavy layer of powder. She carried a burlap sack. The animals seemed excited to see her, the hyena pawing on the ground and snorting. The baboon jumped and yakked in excitement. The men cleared the stage for her. One of them disappeared, returning with a chair for her to sit on and a stool on which she deposited some of the contents of her burlap sack. Most of the bottles were brown glass with fabric plugs inside, along with snuff boxes.
“This is medicine for bed-wetting,” she said, brandishing one of the brown bottles. “I have remedies for cough, malaria, and barrenness; they are all here,” she continued. “I also have a solution for a wayward child or a child who is not doing well in school. Just one drop of my remedy, and that child will be sharp as an elephant tusk.”
Bonaventure wondered if she had anything for him as well. Was there a potion that could darken his skin, sharpen his vision, and make him whole? He immediately dismissed the thought. After she had gone through the litany of wonders, the crowd surged with money from their pockets. The hyena handler barked at them to be orderly.
3
Mighty Igor was the muscled, scarred handler of the hyena referred to as Mufasa. They called the baboon Frank Lampard, and K Minor was his handler. Obama and Traffic Light were the names of the other two men. Uwa was what they called the woman leader of the troupe. Uwa was a giant of a woman with cold and curious eyes. When Uwa came to the tent, driven by a Keke Napep, the men bowed. They sat her on a stool as they did during the performance.
Frank Lampard’s grunts disrupted Bonaventure’s peace for the remainder of the day. Mufasa, chained to one of the tent poles, let out periodic yelps, disrupting the night. Bonaventure woke up from slumber to the stink of animal shit. Should he leave the bacha house? It was bad enough that he had to scrape together money to satisfy the slumlord’s monthly demands, which he saw as an extortion; they didn’t own the property. Now he had to deal with the disturbance from this new neighbor. But this bacha home was all his father had been able to scrape together throughout his years working as an Alajọ—a thrift collector—and Bonaventure had sworn not to allow anyone to take possession. Before securing the house, whenever his father mishandled people’s money through gambling, they had relocated to evade creditors, roughly every two years. This last time, though, the creditors had come for his father before they could flee, and Bonaventure had not seen him since. Bonaventure was, however, confident that he would return. His father was many things, but he was no fool. He always managed to get out of sticky circumstances by offering extravagant promises and making grandiose proposals that never materialized.
The slumlords showed up at noon that day. Bonaventure took some money from his safe and stepped out of the bacha house.
“I am here. Where’s my money?” the leader declared, scanning the crowd as if speaking to a group of tenants, yet his eyes had not yet fallen on the hyena boys.
The men reined in their gallop toward the abandoned lot, and the leader’s gaze settled on the newcomers. Thin as a starved cow, his mouth saliva-flecked. His trousers were held up by a piece of twine. The second slumlord’s thug had a metal pole in one hand, his eyes bloodshot and his armpits ringed with sweat. The third was shirtless, revealing a curved spine.
“When they told me we have new people here, I asked if they have paid us,” he said, hitching up his trousers. His tone was laced with irritation. Mighty Igor stepped out of the tent to face him.
“Did you pay me my money before coming to live here?” the slumlord said in a gruff voice, his gaze fixed on Mighty Igor.
“Who do you think you are to come here and tell us what to do?” snarled Mighty Igor. Curved Spine picked up a large rock and closed in on the hyena boys. He walked as if something was lodged between his thighs. Traffic Light, K Minor, and Obama sprang up from their seats to defend Mighty Igor.
“Igor!” Uwa’s voice boomed out of the tent; Igor retreated. Uwa walked out.
“Mr. Man, what do you want?” asked Uwa.
Before he could respond, she walked away. She returned with Mufasa. The slumlords retreated in terror, one even fleeing for a distance before halting. Bonaventure’s heart lurched. His throat was dry. Mufasa bristled; his pupils quickly contracted to the size of needle eyes, ready to pounce.
“This place does not belong to you. We asked around. Now leave us and never come here again,” she shouted and snapped her fingers. Mufasa moved toward the slumlord, saliva dripping down his jaws, and for a few tense seconds, the slumlord narrowed his eyes at Uwa. He then shook his head and spat on the ground. He walked away, taking his men with him.
In that moment, Bonaventure decided he wanted what they had. He wanted to be the one to instill fear in people’s hearts, to do anything he desired without anyone questioning it, rather than living a life of fear and rejection. Like Mighty Igor or Uwa, he would command the admiration and respect of strangers. What would he call himself? Voltron. Yes, he would be Voltron, the Defender of the Universe, like the cartoons, although he was not sure who he would be defending. Yes, Voltron sounded like a formidable name. He would move to the next city and the next, far away from his past, far away from pain. He had always felt unmoored, but this time it would be different. He would not be without authority; he would trample this great earth like he owned it.
4
The next morning, Bonaventure stayed behind at the bacha house. He peered around the tent of the hyena boys, trying to think of a way to draw their attention when they returned. What if he attempted to feed one of their animals, a banana for Frank Lampard or a piece of cow offal from the abattoir for Mufasa, a risky but courageous move that would demonstrate to the troupe that he was able to join their ranks. What if he approached Uwa directly, as they all deferred to her?
Their tent was oddly empty, with only litter scattered throughout. They left nothing behind—not even their sleeping mats. This felt familiar.
“We came with nothing when we came to this world,” his father used to explain when there was no furniture in their apartment.
Bonaventure felt a pang of hunger and went to the bus station to see if he could make money. He plunged into the street crowd and weaved his way through the throbbing of car engines and the milling of hawkers dangling their wares through car windows. He noticed a bald driver who didn’t seem to have a conductor and took it as an opportunity. Although this was uncommon, occasionally a driver would fire his conductor, making room for any derelict looking to bring in passengers in exchange for a cut. Far from the other boy conductors, Bonaventure began calling out routes.
He found his first passenger, grabbed her handbag, and guided her through the writhing bodies to the bald driver. He took off before the driver could say anything and dashed back into the crowd. He accosted pedestrians, demanding to know where they were going. He relieved a woman of her heavy load and hoisted it over to the bus. Bonaventure went off again, emerged from the crowd with two male passengers, left them with the driver, and sprinted back to the road. He stopped in his tracks when a boy conductor planted himself in his way. He was not surprised.
“Who are you?” the conductor challenged.
Bonaventure knew that at some point they’d question his audacity. But he decided that today he was done being harassed. They wouldn’t dare harass the hyena boys in this manner, would they? With their intimidating looks and ferocious beasts. Bonaventure wrinkled his nose and tried to push his way past him. But the conductor sent him sprawling on his buttocks, stirring up a plume of red dust. He picked himself up and parried the fist hurtling toward his jaw. Bonaventure unraveled a combination of hooks and jabs at the boy, who reeled back, groaning as blood streamed from a cut on his forehead. All he wanted was enough money to buy lunch, with a little extra to save for dues.
A crowd began to gather, but he didn’t care. The boy dove at his legs, and Bonaventure wasn’t fast enough to save himself. He felt his knees go out from under him, slammed his back against the hard-packed soil. He felt no pain, only wetness behind his head and a dull thudding in his skull. He summoned enough strength to kick his assailant off him and jump up. The bald driver showed up, a gnarled stick in one hand. The boy stepped back, cursing and spitting. The bald driver then told him to go home.
Home?
Now that the adrenaline had worn off, his head felt very heavy. He touched the back of his head, and his hand was stained crimson. He clenched his jaw in pain.
The troupe had returned by the time Bonaventure made his way back to the bacha house, and Mighty Igor approached him.
“Uwa wants to see you,” Igor said sharply.
Her eyes looked like threatening slits, a piercing gaze full of fire. They scared him.
“Young man, what were you doing in my tent?” she said.
Unintelligible words spilled from his lips without his permission, as if his brain and vocal cords were short-circuiting. If it were up to him, he would have constricted his throat around the syllables and pressed them back down, but Bonaventure was no longer in charge. Pain surged in his skull. He again touched the tender back of his head, still bleeding.
“Come, my special child—let me tend to your wounds.”
He turned his gaze slowly toward her. The fire had gone out of her eyes, and all that was left was a soft smile.
5
She told him they were part of an ancient tradition of snake charmers and circus performers. She said her father was a hyena man, as were her grandfather and great-grandfather before him.
“See this one?” she said, pointing to Mighty Igor, who sat on a rock, smoking weed. “His mother gave him to me when he was just a little boy. I taught him not to fear anything from a very young age.”
Igor now jerked his head backward, lips curling. Smoke puffed out through his nostrils. It was dark, and they had made fire.
“You are a special boy. You will bring us money and good fortune,” she said, holding Bonaventure’s hands and looking him over. For a moment, suspicion arose in him, but he reminded himself that he had nothing to lose. He chided himself for not recognizing the magnitude of what they had already done for him and how they welcomed him with open arms. Bonaventure knew that albinos were thought to attract mystical power, even if he had never felt he had anything to offer the world—not until now.
“To tame the beast of the wild, you first have to be tamed,” said Uwa.
Uwa produced and untied a cellophane wrapper to reveal a black powdery substance. Then Uwa raised her face and remained motionless for a long time, eyes closed, mumbling incantations. Bonaventure didn’t understand what she said, but he didn’t mind. This initiation was certainly a small price to pay to be Voltron. What did it mean for him to be tamed? He had always been the underdog, so he assumed that life had already tamed him.
Uwa was shadowed on the ground by the firewood’s glow, and the smoke from the embers enveloped her and thickened the night.
She placed the wrapper gingerly on her palms and carefully poured the powder into the glass of water Mighty Igor provided. It bubbled and frothed. She handed the glass to Bonaventure.
He coughed, then clasped the glass with two hands and lifted it to his trembling lips. He took a swig, his eyes shut, his face screwed into a frown, his pale skin flushed. The liquid dribbled down his chin and traced a frothy line above his upper lip.
He stood silent for a long time, staring blankly, digging through the labyrinths of his memories. His whole body ached, and chills ran down his spine, but he could not move. His thoughts spiraled uncontrollably, descending into a confusion he couldn’t comprehend. Later, Igor would recall and tell Bonaventure that, at that instant, the gleam went out of his eyes and his pupils disappeared.
He saw himself sweeping through bobbing heads and outstretched hands—a zombie-like crowd with sweat-slicked faces. Angry faces. Tearful faces. Faces bright with anticipation or twisted with suspicion. There were flashes of his former schoolmates approaching him with raging eyes, firing volleys of angry insults, calling him.
“Yellow.” One hacked up a mouthful of phlegm and spat it at him. Thick yellowish phlegm slid down his temples, or did it?
Yellow. Yellow. Yellow. Yellow.
At first the taunting words were sharp and insistent. Then they sounded stretched, like a bad cassette.
An unfamiliar sensation bordering on nausea hit him. He took quick breaths, fighting to contain it. A rush of almost uncontrollable vomit came to his mouth. He doubled up, fell to his knees, and then forward, prostrate. His body convulsed with sobs, and his throat produced a drawn-out, animal howl. Then there was silence. He saw himself strolling down a bougainvillea-lined path to a forest covered with a variety of bright flowers. Strange music flowed from the fresh flowers into his ears.
They made him sit up when he came to. The voices around him sounded like liquid. Something slimy and rope-like was wrapped around his neck. Something streaked into his peripheral vision. He became aware of the cobra’s head flicking a forked tongue. He felt too calm to be terrified this time. He felt melody in his heart.
As the evening progressed, the stars brightened in the night sky. They shared a bottle of schnapps. He took a swig, warming his insides. Mighty Igor got inebriated and called him “brother.” Bonaventure smiled; then he laughed. For the first time in his life, he felt completely at ease in his own skin, without fear of being humiliated or teased. It was an odd sensation. The world felt new. Reset.
On a raw new day, they went out to perform. This time he went with them and was handed the thick brown briefcase containing the cobra. Perhaps he would one day be their snake charmer.
They gave him a horse whip and let him control the crowd. He watched the chaos swirling around him, dust flying, the crowd surging back, cars roaring down the road. Sweet glory.
In the crowd he recognized one of the two conductors who had confronted him the other day, and without hesitation he charged after him. His whip struck with brutal ferocity, tearing through the fabric of the fellow’s brown T-shirt and some flesh. The conductor writhed and spasmed like a salt-bathed tapeworm in its final death throes. The conductor looked at him with a dazed and shocked expression, then moved to strike back. But Bonaventure had already raised his whip, poised to strike again. Terrified, the conductor turned and fled. Bonaventure’s lips curled into a faint, triumphant smile as a surge of dominance coursed through him, a sense of vindication.
Moments later, he caught sight of the conductor once more, this time flanked by three men. His eyes, red with the pain of the whip, gleamed with unspoken threats. The men lingered at the edge of the crowd like predators in wait. Bonaventure inched closer to the troupe, his troupe, as if proximity alone might shield him from the imminent danger he sensed. And indeed, the men did not move closer. Perhaps they recognized that the whip in his hand was more than a mere tool for crowd control. They saw that it was a symbol, an extension of the troupe’s authority, much like a police officer representing the state, embodying the weight and protection of the law.
Bonaventure understood he was no longer truly safe here. Or perhaps he was safe only as long as he remained with the troupe. They all returned to the lot before midday, where Bonaventure found his father waiting for him.
6
Bonaventure’s body tensed when he saw the man. He mumbled a greeting as he walked in. His father looked up at him with a sour look on his face. Without hesitation, he asked Bonaventure where he was coming from. When he didn’t respond, he called him no good and the son of a drunken slut.
His father opened his mouth to heap on more insults, but all that came out was a stutter. He began coughing so hard he nearly choked. His veins bulged, and tears streamed from the corners of his eyes. His father’s insults weren’t as potent as they once were. This man, who once made him tremble, suddenly diminished before his eyes. Bonaventure warned him gently that he’d end up collapsing if he worked his nerves up too much. Then he informed him about the troupe and declared his intention to leave without returning. For a few moments, his father gave him a tired, empty look. He said, “Do you want to be better than your father? You have no education. You have nothing. I’m the only family you have.”
Rummaging through his belongings, Bonaventure tossed some clothes into a plastic bag. His father’s laughter boomed, mocking him, and he took off before Bonaventure could finish packing. He joined the hyena boys at the tent. Igor offered him a lit joint and rolled a new one for himself. They all smoked in silence, Bonaventure’s fingers trembling as he brought the blunt to his lips. He closed his eyes and filled his lungs with smoke, allowing it to creep into his skull and finger its way across his brain. They then traded stories and laughed, and as Bonaventure listened and laughed along, his anxiety eased.
The slumlord and Curved Spine arrived later in the afternoon with armed policemen, their starched trousers neatly tucked into their boots. Panic seized Bonaventure. He knew the slumlord acted with impunity, but he didn’t think they would be able to get the policemen on their side to do their dirty work.
The officers pushed Uwa out of the tent, and when Mufasa howled and snapped, one of them cocked his rifle, and Uwa ordered the beast to stand down. The officers traded spittle-laced insults with Traffic Light and Igor. One of the officers landed two quick slaps on Traffic Light’s cheeks. He reeled back, blinking. The officer raised his hand to slap him again, but he ducked out of reach. Igor fought back, grabbing a fistful of the officer’s shirt, getting ready to land a punch, but he recoiled when the officer pointed his gun at him. The policemen screamed threats as they cocked their weapons. A shot cracked loudly, then another. The smell of gunpowder filled the air. That was when Bonaventure realized he was in danger. Fear inflated his heart like a balloon, his breath coming fast. As the officers rounded them all up, preparing to lead them away, Bonaventure spoke up. He declared he was not with them. If it were up to him, he would seal his lips, but Bonaventure was no longer in charge. Still, his voice said he lived in the bacha house down the road and faithfully paid his dues. Mighty Igor glared at him with incredulous eyes. Then his eyes met with Uwa, who had a look of pained surprise. Bonaventure turned his gaze away. The slumlord verified that he wasn’t among them, and they let him go.
After the policemen led Uwa and the four away, the adrenaline wore off. Guilt overwhelmed him. For a few moments, he convinced himself that he had not separated himself from the troupe. He followed them from a distance, carrying his belongings, and watched them as they were loaded into a Black Maria close to the main road. He got on an Okada and tailed them till they got to the police station, a dilapidated bungalow with flaking paint.
He stood stoop-shouldered at the side of the road, his arms hanging loose. Should he enter and declare himself one of them, the police would likely make fun of him and think he was crazy. Or maybe the police would be able to see how much he wanted to be with them and contend that he ought to be jailed after all. Or he could choose to wait for their release, apologize to Uwa and the troupe.
He approached the station. Behind the wooden counter, manned by two policemen, was a framed photo of the president and one of the state governors. Bonaventure could smell urine and insecticide from a dim passage leading to the cells behind the counter. One of the police immediately recognized him.
“Are you not the yellow boy we wanted to arrest some minutes ago?” the police officer said. “You must think we are joking here!”
“No, sir.”
The words of the policeman were the jolt of reality he needed. A group of men and women entered the station, approaching the counter, and the officer became distracted, engaging with them. They brought a complaint about a stolen goat. It suddenly dawned upon Bonaventure what joining with the troupe could mean: facing the consequences of prison time alongside them, no matter how long they would be there. Did they have enough money to get a lawyer or bribe their way out? From the stories he had heard, he knew police officers didn’t like holding people in jail for too long. If the troupe did nothing to free themselves, then they might be transferred to the federal prison notorious for its terrible conditions.
He stepped out of the station as the sun blazed fiercely, the heat scorching his skin and making his eyes blur. Someone shouted from a distance, “Yellow!” He ignored it at first, but the calls persisted until he turned to look; it was a group of children. Though it started with just one, the others quickly picked up the chant, shouting “Yellow” again and again as they pranced about gleefully. Their jeers made him pause in his tracks. He turned back. He was not angry; he simply headed back into the police station.
“Go back home,” the policeman said sharply, irritation in his voice.
He looked at the officer and hesitated to speak for a few moments. Perhaps the officers would throw him out, and he would go a day later only to discover they had left. Maybe he would search for them everywhere, praying they hadn’t gone far. Maybe his hope would slowly slip away as the days passed, until there was nothing left to hold on to. Maybe meeting them would feel like a dream. Or they could seize him, grasp him like family, and he would join their ranks, emerging from captivity as Voltron, the Defender of the Universe.
“I have no home. I am with them!” he said, holding out his hands for arrest.
Samuel Kọ́láwọlé’s debut novel, The Road to the Salt Sea, garnered critical praise, winning the 2025 Whiting Award and the 2026 Alex George Prize, and being a finalist for the 2025 PEN/Hemingway Award. His books are forthcoming from Amistad/HarperCollins.
