The Catfish Farmer

His insides felt like a piece of towel wrung from each end by the strong arms of yam-pounding housewives. Rivulet of sweat traveled down his head, trickled down his back, soaking his white kaftan.

The gentle night breeze from the River Niger, drifting in through the open windows of the shack of a beer parlor did not help.

The earthy odor of the river, like his beloved fishpond, would have been comforting. But not tonight. Mixed with the smell of spilled beer, palm wine, soup, body odor, and the longing in his heart, food wasn’t what he craved.

A single yellow light bulb dangled from the rafters. The dim light somehow provided enough illumination.

Men and women laughed and talked at the top of their lungs. They seemed to compete with the loud and staticky Afro-juju music, blaring from a speaker suspended from the ceiling of the thatched roof of the beer parlor.

Sitting alone, Ebuka raised his cup to his lips—kept it up— until it was empty. The sweet palm wine, bitter on his tongue.

He searched for the waiter. Some pain could only be soothed away by wine. The more times he saw the bottom of his cup, the better he felt. He needed more of that.

Ebuka locked eyes with the waiter and raised his cup.

The occupants of the tables on his immediate left and right laughed boisterously. Just two nights ago, he’d felt like them. Now he was empty, alone.

He wasn’t a drinker, but he’d never experienced anything like Agatha Okonkwo. Did he say or do something wrong to her?

Agatha had suddenly cut him off—wouldn’t answer his calls, nor reply to his text messages. The exact opposite to how she’d accosted him at the market and placed herself at his disposal when they met.

The one week they spent together felt like a lifetime.

Warmth shot through him as he remembered their last embrace two nights before. How they held each other, her soft body pressed against his. He ran his hand against his arm, feeling the ghost of that embrace.

“Your wine, sir,” said the waiter, interrupting his thoughts. He filled his cup and left the calabash on the table.

Ebuka took a long drink. As he lowered his cup, the music stopped. Conversations and laughter around him became sharper. He jerked his head to his right. He was sure he heard someone say her name.

“That Agatha has all the qualities of Mama iwota,” said a voice that sounded like gravel sliding down a tin roof. “She’s definitely a mermaid!”

The voice belonged to a barrel-chested man that hung around in the car park. His sweat-soaked babariga had seen better days. He looked like a pregnant woman wearing a tracksuit.

Ebuka sharpened his ears. A mermaid? Yes! The bewitcher of unsuspecting men.

Mr. Barrel Chest sighed, a wistful glint in his eyes. “I heard her body is like Our Lady’s Bread, soft and supple.” His fingers moved as if he were readying pounded yam to dip into a bowl of Okra soup. “Her latest victim is that big for nothing boy that sells catfish and palm oil.”

Ebuka’s breath caught. The sound of his heartbeat sounded like the corn grinder in the market.

Mr. Barrel Chest stooped low to deliver his climax. “She wrapped that body around him and completely fried his brain. H-He’s even considering marriage!” He roared with laughter, encouraged by the laughter of the people around him.

Ebuka looked away as people glanced his way. The village people seemed to know more about his relationship than him. Right now, he wished he was a tortoise—pull his head into his shell—and vanish.

He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, then a hot breath against his ear. He had experienced such playfulness from only one person ever-Agatha. All the blood in his body changed direction and headed toward his groin. He whirled around.

But it wasn’t her.

Ebuka jerked back. The smell of stale beer and decaying teeth nearly suffocated him. The ugly face of Boniface, the village drunk, stared back at him.

“Ebuka, my friend, don’t mind them,” said Boniface, his voice slurred. “They wish they’re the ones rocking boots with her. I ryke your style. You…you are your own man. You don’t pretend to be who you are not.”

Ebuka stared at his primary and secondary school mate, unsure if it was the man or the bottle speaking. He needed to get rid of him in case Agatha showed up. He refilled his cup and handed him the calabash of wine.

Boniface beamed. “Ome ka nna ya. Like father like son.”

Ebuka would never take advice from Boniface, but his words were supportive. He felt better. And happier when Boniface staggard away.

With the music still out of commission, the voice of the barrel-chested man sounded like a choir of one. Ebuka turned to look, and much to his chagrin, the man was pointing at him.

“Don’t worry, little farmer,” said Mr. Barrel-chest. “All you can do at this point is buy a thick wrapper and drink your sorrows away.” He took a drink from his cup, half of it ending on his babariga. “Agatha is a Lagos chick looking for a man.” He made air quotes in the air. “To settle down with. You’ll have to sell a whole lot of Catfish and palm oil to keep her.” He looked around in mock gesture. “Where’s she? Oh, she figured out you were just big for nothing and moved on.”

Ebuka stared at him. Was that true? Anger rose in him like bubbles floating to the surface in a pot of boiling water.

“She’s moved on to greener pastures. Now. She’s with that loud-mouthed trader that owns Bend Down Boutique.”

Ebuka knew the man. He pictured the trader's store in his mind's eye. Make America Great Again Tee shirts and caps heaped on mats on the floor, with other second-hand clothes. Customers, bending down, sorting, and picking.

But Agatha had said she loved him?

Mr. Barrel Chest continued as more people paid attention to him. “Thank your stars it ended. Your first child would have had a thousand fathers.” He raised a finger and moved closer to Ebuka. “You know, she’s no different from that donkey you use to transport fish to the market—they both make a living on their backs.”

More laughter.

“Just that the donkey has a longer face.” Another voice pipped in.

Ebuka’s body was taut. Muscles humming like a fishing line that caught a big one. At six feet four inches tall and over two hundred pounds of raw muscle, the pot-bellied bully was no match for him. He sprang to his feet.

But, a heavy hand on his shoulders pushed him down.

“Enough teasing for one night!” It was the owner of the beer parlor—a respected elder of the village and Ebuka’s best customer.

“Okezie, I know it's the alcohol speaking,” said the restaurant owner looking at Mr. Barrel Chest. “Careless talk like this can lead to fights, stab wounds, even death, then police involvement. It's been five years since we had any of that in this village, and we should keep it that way. It's not good for business.” He looked around. “Please cut it off.”

***

The following day, Ebuka woke early. He would have beaten Okezie to a pulp if the beer parlor owner hadn’t intervened. He dressed quickly. He must find her.

“She went to see that Okirika trader,” said the old lady that owned the guest house where Agatha rented a room.

Ebuka rushed off headed for the trader's home. He took a shortcut, hoping to get there as fast as possible. He had a plan he was sure Agatha would like.

The trader lived alone, Ebuka knew, but he still exercised caution. Snooping around someone else's home could cost you a limb or more. He walked up the footpath toward the bungalow. But for a few chickens scratching the ground, the place was as quiet as his fish pond.

Convinced neither Agatha nor her new man was there, he contemplated what to do next. Then he heard the unmistakable sound of a Keke, tricycle. He hid behind a bush and watched.

The Keke stopped at the bungalow.

Then he saw her.

Agatha got off, dressed in tight jeans and tee-shirt, curves everywhere.

Ebuka could hardly breathe. His heart pounded in his chest as if he’d just run a mile.

He must stop her before she got in any deeper with this meddler. Ebuka watched him get off the Keke and stand beside her, smiling like a Christmas goat. So it was true. He felt like a hand had reached into his rib cage, wrapped a palm around his heart, and squeezed.

If he hadn't seen them with his own eyes, he wouldn't have believed it. Agatha just threw him away like a used sanitary pad.

He believed there was still hope. But he needed to speak to her alone, tell her his proposal. But with the trader hanging around her like a mother hen, that would be impossible.

The taxi drove off, and they disappeared into the house.

Ebuka emerged, walked to a window, and peeped in. He saw them entangled in a lover's embrace. Hands that had held him not too long ago caressed another man.

“What did you even see in that farmer?” asked the Trader. “A sophisticated Lagos chick like you…”

Ebuka didn’t want to hear her reply but knew he had to. He pressed his ears against the window so hard he was afraid he might break it.

“He was my one mistake,” said Agatha, her voice husky. “Moreover, I saw him before I saw you.” She ran a finger along his face. “I forgive you of any mistakes you’ve made, so we’re even.” She wrapped her hands around his neck.

The trader's hands circled her waist, cupped her buttocks.

“I’ll love you forever,” said Agatha.

“Me too,” said the trader. He kissed her, then stopped. “I still have to get to the boutique. What about we hang out tomorrow?”

Agatha cocked her head. “Where?”

“I’ll surprise you?”

Agatha batted her eyes. “A romantic trader. I like that.”

The trader eased her down onto the mattress.

Ebuka had heard and seen enough. He dragged himself away, shrouded by the dark clouds of loss and betrayal. He felt something die inside him.

***

Ebuka walked home feeling like a drenched rat. What he’d just witnessed playing in his mind like a bad Nollywood movie stuck on repeat. What was he going to do? He couldn’t even keep a girl that said she liked him. He was just good for nothing.

He stopped in his tracks. His father's words when he was thirteen came to him. A boy who can’t stand up for himself becomes a man who can't stand up for anything.

Earlier in the school playground, he’d been bullied by two smaller kids he could have easily beaten to a pulp. They had pushed him around, and he did nothing. His father must have seen or heard.

Walking back from school, a dog had rushed out of the bushes snarling and barking. Ebuka ran, tripped over a stick, and fell. The skinny little dog kept barking at him, fearless. Pound for pound, the dog was no match for him.

On the ground, cowering, clarity had come to him. He understood what his father meant. The kids at school, the dog, all saw a scared boy inside his big frame.

Shame washed over him—then rage took over. He’d jumped to his feet, picked up the stick he’d tripped on, and beat the surprised dog to death. He then continued on his way home.

The cluck cluck cluck sound made by the foraging hen nearby brought him out of his reverie. The calm he felt that day fifteen years ago suddenly descended on him.

He walked away, believing a plan would come to him.

Once home, he went about his chores at the farm just as his late father had taught him. At times like this, he wished he had a mother. Ebuka never met his mother. She’d died giving birth to him, and his father had blamed him.

He fed the fish, weeded the cornfield, and pruned the palm tree fruit trees. By the time he finished, he was beyond exhausted and slept early.

Ebuka woke in the middle of the night. Sleep wouldn’t come. He did some mindless chore, scrapping the edge of his machete over the flat surface of a stone, one side after the other. Tomorrow he would harvest corn with it.

While doing this, he realized he hadn’t even told Agatha of his initial plan. He would try again and provide her with a modified proposal.

He'll do some work on the farm first thing in the morning, then try to talk to Agatha again. With renewed energy, he sharpened his tool.

***

Ebuka woke after just an hour of sleep. With a spring in his steps, he readied himself for the day. He harvested a section of the cornfield, climbed a few palm trees, and cut down palm kernel bunches.

Just before noon, he gathered up the few orange-black fruits that dislodged from the bunch, the red oil staining his fingers. With those and some scraps of maize, he headed for his catfish pond. He tossed the palm fruits and corn into the water, and soon the calm water surface rippled with hungry fish snapping up the treats.

Ebuka turned to leave when he heard voices on the other side of the pond. Curious, he went to investigate.

His eye widened, almost popped out of their sockets. Agatha, dressed in a blue Bubu, sat on a mat in a tight embrace with the trader. The trader had on jeans. His shirt lay in a heap next to a picnic basket.

“What the…” he muttered in a low voice. They hadn’t seen him. He turned to leave then stopped. He had planned to go to Agatha, but instead, she had come to see him.

Was that a sign that his ancestors approved of his plan? Adrenalin, fast and furious like a flash flood, ran through him. Shaking with excitement, he rested the knife against a fruit tree and walked toward them.

“Hello!”

The love birds turned to look.

Agatha’s eyebrows narrowed. “Ah, ah! Are you stalking me now? What are you doing here?” Her voice was deep and resonant, captivating in a woman.

Ebuka shook his head as he admired her. Angry or not, she was beautiful. Neat rows of hair twisted into knots lined her head. It reminded him of the bunch of palm kernel fruit.

“This is my property, and you are the one trespassing.”

Agatha looked around as if, for the first time, noticing the farm and pond. She looked impressed.

The trader smirked. “It’s a hand-me-down from his father. He has run it into the ground. Even the giant Catfish they were known for is no more. How difficult can it be to feed fish?”

Ebuka ignored him, his focus on Agatha. He raised a finger. “Can…can I talk to you for a moment.” He could hear his heartbeat in his head. His whole body vibrated like one big pulsating piece of muscle.

“Anything you want to say, say it,” said the trader.

Agatha looked from the trader to Ebuka. “Yes, go ahead and say it.”

Ebuka hesitated, then shrugged. He was already down. He won’t fall far. “ Agatha, I forgive you. We can still make this work.” He spread out his hand. “All this belongs to me. It will be ours. Let’s start afresh together—marry me.”

Time stood still. Then Agatha started to laugh. “A little pond and some corn? I can do better than that in a day.

The trader smirked and pulled out a wad of cash from his jeans pocket. With counting machine precision, he counted out a few thousand naira and tossed them at Ebuka. “I like the scenery here. Down payment for your little farm.”

“It’s not for sale,” Ebuka blurted out, then turned, and started to walk away.

“I’ll deck you again…as I did in secondary school.”

Ebuka remembered that humiliation many years ago. Behind his ears, neck, burned with heat. He forced himself to continue walking as his father's words reverberated in his head like an evil mantra.

A boy who can't stand up for himself becomes a man who can't stand for anything.

Suddenly his feet felt like they were encased in concrete. He slowed, picked up his machete where he’d leaned it against a tree and continued to walk away.

Agatha hissed, then laughed. “Mm-hem, where did we stop, nwoke oma, handsome man?”

Ebuka froze in his tracks and turned slowly.

Agatha had straddled the trader.

The trader had a look on his face that seemed to say to Ebuka, I have your girl, do your worse.

His grip on the knife handle tightened. After so many years, the trader still held the same beliefs he had when they were kids—Ebuka was just a hollow tree trunk—good for nothing.

A blinding curtain of rage descended over Ebuka’s eyes. A loud cry that sounded like it came from an injured animal escaped his throat. He rushed toward the couple, arm raised.

The machete came down once, then twice.

The trader, eyes wide with terror, held up a bleeding stump where his hand had been. Then a blood-curdling scream escaped his throat.

Ebuka’s machete came down again. This time on, the trader's head cutting off his screams.

“Let me see you count money again," said Ebuka in a low voice, his breathing coming in gasps. He turned to Agatha. Her eyes were as wide as mango fruits, pleading. Her lips quivered, trying to form words.

Too late.

Ebuka drew his hand back. It came down, and Agatha’s head, with its corn rows, leaped into the air like a palm kernel bunch, cut off from a tree. Blood spewed from her like a garden hose dispensing red water.

Agatha’s headless body sat erect for a beat, then fell to the ground, spasmed, then stopped.

His hands shook, but inside, he was calm. Just like that day many years ago, when he took care of the dog and dumped the body in the pond.

Ebuka raised his head and took a deep breath, filling his lungs. The air had a distinct odor and tasted like he had pennies in his mouth. He exhaled, the air rattling out of his lungs in a rush.

He looked around. It was now clean-up time. He let go of the machete, and one after the other picked up the bodies and body parts and tossed them into the pond. Deja vu all over again.

***

Two months later

Ebuka was at the market with his donkey, surrounded by smiling women. He untied the tarpaulin-covered blue plastic bath from his donkey's back and lowered it to the ground. When he pulled back the tarp, the crowd gasped.

Catfish, as big as five-year-old boys, filled up the basin

The beer parlor owner greeted him warmly. “Another batch? O me ka nna ya. Like father like son. I’m buying three for my restaurant! Wow. It's been five years since we saw Catfish this big. You're feeding the fish your father's secret recipe, eh?"

Ebuka said nothing. All around them were smiling women seeking his attention to buy fish or get closer to him.

The restaurant owner shook his head. “Since your fortunes changed, women have been flocking to you. You know the saying, Ego bu mma nwoke, money is a man's beauty!”

“How much?” asked a black beauty pointing at a fish and smiling suggestively at Ebuka.

"You should dine one of the girls at my restaurant this afternoon, on the house,” said the restaurant owner.

Ebuka smiled. “Thank you. I’ll come tonight if that beauty will come with me.” He pointed at the young girls asking for a price.

The girl nodded, batted her eyelids, and looked away.

“No, come before it gets dark,” said the older man, concern written all over his face. People have started to disappear again. The police are at a loss. Maybe they got up and left, just like that mermaid girl and the Bend Down Boutique guy that tried to make fun of you.

Ebuka smiled. “I’ll be fine.”

The End.