“How much did the family receive?“

Gokobiri’s mind was already somewhere else. “What family,“ he answered, yawning. “oh - you mean... Well, half a million naira, I think. He yawned again. “Why?“

“Oh, it’s okay”, Amadiora reassured hurriedly “I just wondered.“

Babiavelli’s eyes flew open suddenly. “Where is my cap?,“ he barked.

“Here, General!“ Amadiora picked it up from the couch and handed it to him.

“The fumes, the vapour was escaping through mai skull.“

They all looked at him in incomprehension. Babiavelli watched their blank faces and was annoyed. “Nobody saw it? Nobody! A True member of - who ‘d been tru’ly called. To The Bar woul’ have. Seen it!“ There was silence. Amadiora looked at the General’s bare balding head.

“I saw it!,“ he exclaimed, surprised at his own shrill voice. He looked at Babiavelli’s head again. In the diffused lighting it was suddenly fringed by a band of thin yellow light only so barely perceptible. It palpitated and moved in a whorl towards the crown of the head, thinning up leisurely towards the ceiling. It was the aura around the head of a sage or a Brahman. One saw it in Michealangelo’s paintings of Jesus Christ. Amadiora was overwhelmed by a rush of fanaticism. His voice rose a notch higher  in a  disciple’s fervour.  “I see it!“ The others exchanged bleary-eyed glances and shrugged it all off as a joke.      

“I know you are truly called, Chucks.“ Babiavelli felt gratified. “A true member. Of The Bar - in many ways.“ Amadiora was dumb-stricken like Moses before the burning bush . He raised his face and looked starry-eyed at the other men with a certain feeling of triumph. Then his doting acolyte’s eyes fell on Babiavelli’s bottle. It was empty. Amadiora signalled the ever watchful Bar-man, raising his voice high.

“one star for the General!“

“At this rate,“ Babiavelli chuckled,  “ I should soon be a Field-Marshal.“ He put on his cap meaningfully. “...This was why I dozed; I was depressed by the vaporisation.“ He took a long pull from the freshly supplied bottle and began to caress his paunch with slow circular movements of the open palm. Babiavelli was going to suggest that they take the salute and  call it a day when Lady Macbeth came in , trailed by an  eighteen year-old woman-servant bearing a large tray of fish pepper-soup served in the traditional black earthenware-pots, the size of large tea-saucers. Babiavelli paused, looked with drunken irritation  at his wife. He frowned and said, “You can trust a woman to come in at the wrong moment.“

Lady Macbeth berthed just outside the circle of men and switched on her most charming smile, her lips smeared with blood. She noted that the men where at various stages of drunkenness. The air reeked of alcohol and cigarette smoke. Her smile became a painful red wound.  Playing the magnanimous host, she greeted them warmly, not without some exaggeration and urged the woman-servant, who waited all the time in the wings, to begin serving the pepper-soup. While she served them the pepper-soup, Babiavelli commented loudly on the roundness of her buttocks. As if moving to a cue Lady Macbeth swept up away to The Bar, her ankle length satin dress trailing the rich rug. Gokobiri argued that it might just be padded up for their benefit.  Alajobi suggested that they put it to the test and Babiavelli responded automatically. The woman-servant, who had put down this sexual banter to drunkenness, was not fast enough to escape Babiavelli’s gorilla paw. He had the roundness of her buttocks imprisoned in his huge palm. Too shocked to move, she looked pleadingly towards Lady Macbeth - who was busy flirting with the helpless bar-man - while he squeezed, patted and bounced her bottom in his cupped palm. Lady Macbeth seemed oblivious to the goings-on. Releasing her Babiavelli announced, again loudly, that hers’ was as real as the best of them. His blood-shot eyes lighted on the young woman’s  pliant body, on the contours of her breast and he imagined his hands caressing them instead of the Fountain of Wisdom a while ago. Like a he-goat smelling the female he became randy. Must touch her wound again sometime again where it hurts between the legs. Hot. Hot pepper-soup. Who touches my wife’s? She looks so saintly. Could bite it to death. Though.

The woman stood far away on the fringes of the men arguing over the hot bowls of pepper-soup. Lady Macbeth swept back to the men, her voice preceding her , asking if they enjoyed the special fish  caught by the best fisher-man on the river Ethiope in Delta State and flown in fresh to Lagos from Sapele, the moment it was landed. Drunkenly Amadiora reminded her there was no Airport in Sapele. Nebucadnezzar retorted that it did not matter if they were flown in or if the fishes  swam straight from the ocean right into the soup pot. Babiavelli felt hurt in his family pride and insisted that they were indeed flown in. “Where are the fishes, anyway,“ exclaimed Gokobiri, looking into his empty soup pot. Lady Macbeth, already distraught at this testing of her generosity, replied tartly, “They are all in the sea, “ and swept angrily away from the garrulous men, her woman servant hot on her heels, grateful to get away from the hypnotic eyes of the General.

In the wake of the women’s sudden heated exit Babiavelli stood up slowly touched by the insult, and by alcohol. Enraged by the women and beer-befuddled, he found it hard to maintain his balance but somehow managed to keep on his feet. He turned to the bar and nodded at the bar-man. The table rose in a  body.

“Let’s take the salute, gentlemen.“ Fresh bottles of beer were supplied by the bar-man. Each man had one brand or the other. The General was entitled to a star - especially for the salute. With each Member of The Bar clutching a sweaty bottle at the ready, Babiavelli looked around the circle of faces. In various stages of alcoholic exhaustion they looked as prepared as they ever would be.

“Attention!“, Babiavelli called. Feet wobbled, staggered and dragged themselves together in a mock drill, with week knees trembling to keep old men straight and their chicken chests upright. “Fire!“ And all the guns in the Nigerian armoury crackled, aimed at the strong-holds of all manner of enemies as the bottles cracked  burst open and sent liquid shots gurgling down the throats of those who wanted to die as kings. Head thrown back like a maniac laughing and Adam apple working up and down rapidly like a piston Babiavelli proved his legend and emptied his bottle in the time it would take to cork an AK 47 or uncork a bottle. In one crack flat! He belched loudly and stood back to watch the others, patting his stomach. Amadiora brought down his hand, clutching a half-full bottle. He left it on the table, looking unhappy. Like him Nebucadnezza and Alajobi did not quite succeed. Only Gokobiri equalled Babiavelli’s performance. In disapproval  Babiavelli slowly shook his large head from side to side.

“I hope it is not that you can’t contain the fumes, gentlemen.“ He looked around the faces and shook his head once more. “’kay, let’s see if we can all. Cross the bar without fallin’...“ He was referring to the Power Walk, with which the night was usually concluded. Babiavelli started the walk.  It would take him  from one end of the room to the other. Following a narrow strip of cloth running straight across the length of the rug, which he tried not to step upon – in conforming to the rules of the Power walk – he would roll and sway like a boat, pulled and tugged along by  the cloth-strip of his own intoxication. But somehow he managed to step on a strip of his intestine and  slipped upon a gallon of star beer. The sea heaved inside him, smashing a bucketful of beer through his mouth against the far wall in a jet as he stepped drunkenly over a regulation wooden bar resting delicately on tripods at the end of his walk. He stepped back breathing as if he had just done a hundred meter dash, waving his hands to urge on the others.

Amadiora started out like a ballet dancer, following the cloth-strip with a studied concentration. Suddenly the bees buzzed wildly in his head and stung him behind the eyes. Propelled by the force of his smart, he staggered the rest of the way with his feet caught in the cloth-strip and was shoved sideways by an energy he could not comprehend. Trying to straighten his wayward body and regain his balance, he only zigzagged around, careered down the remaining way and knocked down the bar from its rest on the tripod, collapsing against the General. They both went down in a bear-hug, rolling in Babaivelli’s vomit. Enraged, Babiavelli struggled up, using the wall for support. Amadiora lay there panting for breath while Babiavelli rained abuses on his ancestors. Gokobiri moved forward, straightened the cloth-strip once more and replaced the wooden bar on the tripod. He moved back to the other end of the room and began his walk. He moved deliberately, almost taunting, with a roll and a bounce, exuding the self-confidence of a man accustomed to difficult situations. He stepped over the wooden bar lightly and stood back, folding his arms against his barrel chest. He looked down at Amadiora, who was finally pulling himself up. Amadiora eyed him balefully. Well executed  - like a true killer, he thought. One after the other Alajobi  and Nebucadnezzar managed the walk without much incidence. Amadiora tried once more and succeeded. To fail twice would have meant having to take the salute, alone,  before another try. Sometimes the bar-man had to be summoned to act as referee if there was a general disagreement. At such times someone invariably pointed out that their collective judgement was ‘externally’ influenced during the walk and was undemocratic. There were no complaints now and they began to leave one after the other. Babiavelli suggested that anyone who felt too tired could take one of the guest rooms. Amadiora was quick in refusing, suspecting that the idea was meant especially to denigrate him. It was two o clock in the morning and the others decided to relieve their chauffeurs the risk of having to race against armed-robbers’ cars prowling the streets of Lagos at night in search of victims. Amadiora left.