Below lies an excerpt from a book i have been writing for some time now. In a
word, the first two chapters. I would rather say no more for it may take away
from the reading experience and context may, for once, act at cross purposes to
meaning. It is enough that you see it as part of a much larger work. And enjoy
it with that anticipation.
FILM
DAY ONE : ‘Barely, aware.. .’
The raven…if it is a
raven...cracks on the window with its mouth...its
insistent beak...not very quietly...until he wakes up...his eyes open
quickly...his head still heavy from a full night...sleep cut short...by that
cracking on...he does not yet know...it is nothing but a persistent and
annoying sound...noise...clear enough to wake him...but still be
unfathomable...as he rolls out of bed...twisting his large body
sharply...coming out with some pain...and tiredness...he has enough of his mind
on to disable the alarm...to look at the window...almost prescient in this
act...Window...unhindered by the undrawn curtain...sees nothing...collapses
back on the bed...finds no sleep left...
Waking up again…not really…He makes
his way to the bathroom...almost an hour from the first crack of that
beak...the one he does not yet know...legs fall out of bed...like heavy
stumps...splashing water on his face...regretting the aftertaste of last
night’s wine...the peeping Lagos sun...through the open window...cursing at its
yellow intrusion...the scourge of being awake...
...making notes for the day...trying to
construct the business ahead...never liked the busy...had to be tied to
important...had to be tied to purpose...the idea of a bird...perched on a
window...waking him...passes through his mind...but is quickly discarded...a
thought he cannot yet recognise...hector stalks in on him...unannounced except
by an out of place...yet friendly...tap on the head...he gives a side glance,
drinks his tea...hector corrects his notes...leaves as he came...Forri watches
him leave..Drinks some more tea...Sits back on the chair...caresses his own
head...eyes closed...savouring from his own mouth...the taste of...the sweet
sting of leaf, water, sugar, milk...hot water...
He emerges from his room to see he is
the last one out...the plethora of...crewmen, production
assistants...And one unwilling executive...all waiting curiously by the
cars...polite nods...some genuinely friendly glances...he settles in the lead
car...where hector is on the phone...something domestic thing with lams...so
the car is silent...except for...The fast roll...of his own heart...trying to remember...what
day is it...Monday...what car he is in...a production vehicle...Where he is
going...to the film set...why...to produce and direct...a co-written
script...codeword for doctored...sort of codeword for ghost written...what
film?...the film based on the book...his book...written aeons ago...not one he
enjoys...now...too starry in the face...and with rights sold...things set
up...he is now ready...to push a medium he loves...back to the centre...of
introspection...to make a film...
...The ride is as uncomfortable...as he thought it would be...as
uncomfortable as...hell...or heaven...if you do not belong there...did this not
begin with a taste for heaven...is it still about that...when did things
change...when did he pray...feel the wind shift on his upturned finger...hear
the tone ‘to go forth’...when did he write a new line...with that old need to
say something...when last was a word about God...self...he thinks...as they
take the last turn...and the knots gather in his stomach...settling down a
little at the jolt over the speed breaker...the smell of gravel, the wind, the
feel of early sunlight...the weight of standing...on heavy legs...looking at
the impossible rush...the anty rush of the set...tiny wires...full
trailers...cords...lights...camera...people standing around...could he have
caused this...did this come from his own flawed mind?
Standing on nothing...now looking through a
lens...but not seeing the scene set up...or searching the marked positions of
the actors...but looking through time...staring at pre-production...seeing the
endless meetings...permits, approvals, agreements... all done by some other
person...for the benefit of his work...some other person sweating through
offices...seeking permits to film...his eyes back to the present...all deals
done...permits gotten...filming on...
The mere fact of being there...erases the
weirdness...the excess caught out by the play...the false background fades into
the picture...and it comes back to him...the feel of this old place...a memory
not so far...he is not scared...donning the ear phones...sitting in the
chair...side glances at hector...looking through the scene notes...correcting
dialogue at the sleeves...remembering shooting has begun...letting go...
The
first scene to be shot...is of him, hector, buksy, Mohican, Ai, dotman and
Phil...standing at the foot of the auditorium...it is scene that never
happened...a figment, an amalgam, a cinematic trick to bring all the players
together in one recognisable frame...a device put there by the script
doctor...the actor who plays him hangs loose, almost magnetic...unlike him...it
flatters the second skin of his real demeanour...the dour stance...the open
mouth...the tired limp after the sun sets on a long law school day...all those
years ago...the other players inhabit the scene with all the skill...all the
competence of the countless rehearsals...all hector’s idea...all hector’s
show...they look unaware, for this is the real magic, they look unaware...like
there is not another universe present...the real one...recording their own
false one...he sits in awe of it...a little...as it plays out...trying to
figure out...who is to say what and when...trying to remember...on this day of
days...why he chose this...was it about heaven?
...they do this little scene over and over
again...always some sensible line from hector...something wise and forward...he
just wants to get it done...but it is somewhat better...every time...he had
read that somewhere...the fiftieth take may be better than the fifth...he
argues with hector...for the sake of it...and a little...tired of the
tedious...until they reach a point they both like...looked at over and over
again on little monitors...shot...print...
...the hours pass...progress is slow...four
eyes pour over every detail...must agree...the accountant counts the
hours...looks away nervously...at lunch most of the tension gives in to real
hunger...he eats spaghetti and drinks his beloved coke...as light as can
be...hector writing notes to the actors...chewing at a salad...swallowing
water...pushing his new glasses up the bridge of his nose...nothing left to
argue openly about...peace at last...
... the second part of the day flows out of
the first...sweat is in large supply...heavy chins fall...concentration needed
even when receding... he wonders how this can be fun for anyone...but it is fun
for him...boundless...passionate, worthwhile, valuable...in retrospect...but
fun in measures...controlled chaos...outside the box...but very in a much
larger box...
...he waits for someone to call it a
day...the sun is descending...there cannot be much to it in this
ambience...they have moved on to other scenes...some out of sequence...he is
confused...and distracted...tired...short with answers...out of the energy driving
everyone else on...realises he has a say in ending the day...hustles around to
make it so...okay, okay...yes...it is a wrap...for the day...
... Applause breaks out at the end
horn...relief, perhaps...he walks to the waiting car...hector wants extra time
with some actors...car will be back for
him...nods his way to the car...accosted on the way to his blessed
backseat...the actress playing ‘Mohican’...wants a ride home...nods her
in...quiet...she tells the driver where she is going...he nods approval
again...she drops off into some dark street...offers something, perhaps a
‘chance’ meeting with the parent(s)...struggled politeness says “no.”...she
says: “goodnight then and thanks for the lift”...he barely answers...his reply
trailing after her as she enters some unknown gate and is gone...
In the bath tub...floating in the milky
waters of rest...he calls home...talks to the shadowy wife...over the phone, a
plane and a car ride away...her voice tired, pregnant, wistful...just the way
he likes her...conversation easy...relaxes afterwards...almost falls asleep in
the tub...except for the loud knock he can hear through the open doors of the
suite...the knock expected...he hurries out...dries with a heavy, white
towel...finds his robe...paddles in wet marks to the main door...hector in the
half-light of the hallway...looking like
some kind of Moses...a tablet under his arm...
They sit...over more tea...and talk movies
and magic...and all the business/non-business interest they share...he is soon
falling asleep...the sure voice of friendship had that effect on him...the
vodka in the tea loosening day-bound knots...hector waking him on his way
out...
-rest well, hector says.
-ok, he says, the voice strange, loud and
clear...like the start of a conversation...
...almost tumbling into bed...adjusting his
hand...covering himself...letting the last thought of the day drift off toward
heaven...he can hear...in almost-sleep...that old sound again...he has no idea
what it is...we do...all of us...a dark beak...cracking, cracking at the
window...patiently waiting...to be let in...
LIFE
EXCERPTS FROM THE NOVEL “THE SUN”
BY F.S. BANU:
1
(A JOURNAL IN WRITING: To begin is always
the hardest part. Where to start, where to end, what to reveal and what to
withhold. At morning I wake up to the old dark wound of remembrance: I know I
must make my way to school. There is boredom in staying under the covers but
there is purpose in the drudgery of existence. On the way back from the hours
in between, on that especially dusty road that separates the speedy sort of
highway from the stillness of hostel life, I am in conversation with Nas about
the thing in front of me, this book-demon, wind that causes a shiver, that must
be exorcised or I will have no rest. He gives me the key to the kingdom in
short sentences.
-why don’t you, he says, write about life
as it is happening for you right now and has happened before and somehow link
it to faith and the idea of having conversations with God?
It makes sense. It sounds easy enough. What
can you do with the heavy burden of memory but diffuse it into the system of
the world so that your aches and pains join the singing chorus of prayers
making a beeline for the heavens?
It is something to think about but not for
too long. The writer is forever in the immediate, the underscore, and the short
span from the spurt of the idea to the energy of creation. If not, entropy will
do its dirty work.
Soon all will be gone from memory.
So, it comes at night, to cover shaking
hands and heart. At night when the wind vane turns a little more violently and
there are beacons of sudden hope everywhere, this is when I plan my coup
against inertia and demise.
The table is set; the light is low, the
pen, the white paper, the drooping silence of the page soon to be filled.
My hand rubs my aching head. The head is
aching in a good way, the ache of the idea about to reach full expression.
-just begin, I tell my fear, just begin and
you will find the way.
Deep bread, take up the pen……..begin with
the deepest piece of honesty you can muster, the thing uncommonly known. The
book is a quest for intimacy, a seduction beyond time and space. Share as
deeply as you can, fumen says, so it may be shared with you…..
Share, share, share…do not be afraid.
Okay, the pen goes.
The pen writes:
It all began the night I tried to kill
myself…)
In the beginning there was the suicide
attempt and it felt like it was real. The truth sat next to him but he did not
see it, know it or recognize who it was. He reacted to it like an outside
event, a scene from some play but a play of his own life on a stage before the
audience of one. He heard two whispers: one for and one against. He could not
decipher which was of the dark and which was of the light. These were the
details of the life almost ending. He sat in utmost misery observing and then
he made a move, the slightest tip of his hand, in order to yank a page from the
growing book of life. Here, in the great book of life, I write the events of
every worthy life. Every life is made worthy and then must be made worthy by
choice. Still here is a life facing extinction by knife and the call of the
darkness within. Even this life must be examined, from time to time, and here
are a few pages of it:
It all began the night he tried to kill
himself. When he dares to think of this night of re-creation it comes to him in
strange visions, curious vistas: the
unsharpened knife, the untested will, the unhappy heart, the uncertain state of
everything around him in, this, his dark room. The walls are a pale blue. They
are dirty from the passing of age and the play of hands touching them in the
many hours that he suffers the enormous idea that the weight of living as flesh
and blood will never end. Even in the midst of the amazing, the parts in slow
motion can seem to last forever.
He
has the gait of a drowning man refusing to come up for air. The music is
blaring from the radio; he is laid back, counting the seconds, till he can pull
out of himself the courage to do the cowardly thing.
It is like this that he decides it must all
end. He takes one last look through the window and the promise of the known
world offering only pleasure-pain. He looks at these fierce inanimate things
and somehow they hold an almost strange beauty, like a final fading dusk.
Eternity, to his eye, becomes one straight line and while I can see all of it,
he sees it in shadows, an incomplete picture.
Then he puts the knife to his wrist and
lets it rip.
He wakes to feel the dark around him. The electricity has gone off again. He feels
the necessary wrist and finds that the blood spilt is not enough, that the
wound is still just a wound and he has survived his latest attempt at ending
the imponderable.
[You lack the courage to do what is
necessary.]
Soon she enters the room with a candle of
light. She can tell what has gone on because of the history of conversations,
the look on his lost, withdrawn face and the tale-tell of blood on his wrist .
He has threatened to do it often enough. The failed reality is in his eyes. He
can, by now, see the anger rising in hers.
“Give me the knife”, she says.
He obeys.
He waits to see some tear in her eye but
there is only resolve, the steady arrogance of being right against a wrong
scene and this right breaking the fragile state of the part of him that wants
to be in the right. To bask in the false malady of being lord of the jungle,
king of the hill and the ruler of an imaginary kingdom.
“Stupid” she says, as she leaves, not
intending to return.
Yes stupid, very stupid.
[You lack the courage to do what is
necessary.]
Later, he can hear everyone going to sleep.
Sim does not come to say goodnight. He hears his mother ask, in Hausa, if he is
asleep. The no-answer makes the question rhetorical. The door to their own room
closes. And then it locks. His room is open but he is now alone. The place he
loves and dreads the most.
Oh well, he thinks, tomorrow is another
night. Practice will make perfect.
Then, the white light comes…..or he can see
it finally, for it is always there.
