Synopsis

The Dust Can Intoxicate is a psychological story in which a boy who's been deprived of his parent's love and attention
ever since the birth of his brother tries to manipulate a family custom to win some love for himself.

— Originally published in African Writer Magazine (2021)

The Dust Can Intoxicate

The dead no longer roam in our tales;

they have all seized our pens and papers;
now they are writing themselves to life.
living, dead, all have stories to tell.
—Anonymous

After a long, vain struggle with rheumatic fever, my little brother, Chidi, slept in a coffin yesterday
evening, his body dark, rigid, and cold like the iron stake erected outside our house. Our culture
doesn't allow parents to bury their children. It hates the explicit picture of misfortune, so it
permitted Uncle Mezi and Aunty Stella to carry Chidi's body in a solemn farewell—the disposal of
the deceased. And they laid him in there, in eternal darkness. They laid him to rest 'in the Lord's
bosom'. I was there. I watched it all. Papa and Mama couldn't bear to watch it all like I did. They
hunched away, leaning against each other's age-tested shoulders and dampening them with lots of
tears. When he was alive, he'd make them laugh. Now he's dead, and he makes them cry. The world
really is strange.

#
The iron stake in front of our house has many ribbons tied around it. But they are of three colours:
blue, green, and white. When an old person dies in the family, the next older relative travels down
here to tie a white ribbon to the stake, for peace and total farewell. When a middle-aged person or a
youth dies, we tie a blue ribbon to mark great sadness. And when a child dies, the closest sibling must
tie a green ribbon to bid them to return here… . I am holding a white ribbon.

Mama hasn't come out since yesterday evening. Papa has been sitting on the porch, his scrawny
hands on the handrails, weary eyes looking out, far away, over the emptiness strewn over palm trees
and cars and sands and passers-by. Chidi used to be the only thing that filled his sight—just like
Joseph the dreamer did to Jacob.

Papa shakes his head and nods—maybe at the departing memories—a smile playing on his lips. He
raises his hand and waves. Gets up his feet and forces a weak run, for he is hunched over. "Chidi,"
he calls in a weak voice, eyes beaming. "Chidi!" Soon he stretches his arms as if waiting to take the
imaginary child into his arms.

Mama scuttles out this time almost crashing into the porch railings. "Kedu ebe Chidi no? Where is
my Chidi?"

I clutch the white ribbon as I stand before the stake, gazing at them. Mama stands still staring in the
direction Papa is pointing at. At once they slow a step forward, their jaws slacked and eyes brimming
with what can only look like joy. Joy of a long-sought reunion. I tighten my grip on the white ribbon
and my knees shiver beneath me, just for a moment. They keep trudging forward. They keep
moving. Till they are right in front of me. Is old age really like this? Or … is this what trauma does to you?

"Chidi, it is you… Chidi." Mama grabs my small shoulders, looking up into my eyes. She rubs her
hands over my face, mumbling, "Chimo… Chimo…" Papa breathes a laugh at the same time, a
happy grin spreading across his mouth. "I thought you were gone," he says, pointing at the far street
end, like one with a wisp of dementia. "So you are here. So you are here…"

I want to protest, scream back at them with my teeth clenched: "Your Chidi is dead! I am not
Chidi!" But they don't look like average people who would like to think twice. They are traumatised
old folks who want to revel in an illusion of restoration. Why bask in a mirage when there's a live
alternative? Perhaps I was nothing to begin with. But… Why don't I just…

"Mama. Papa," I call them both and gaze into their eyes. It feels like a trigger, a spell of hypnosis.
Their eyes shimmer within their sockets and they grin the more, each oldie taking me by an arm,
walking me along, back into the house, singing a familiar folksong they sang days back when Chidi
was breathing his last. Back then, they must have thought Chidi would hear the song and become
healthy again. Perhaps they are singing it again because… I flatten my lips, a tingling warmth spreading
beneath my face. Maybe I can live like Chidi. Even though I'm growing towards adulthood it isn't
too late to receive love. It isn't late to enjoy the attention in his place. My arms still locked in theirs, I
ease my face back to glance at that iron stake. And I grip the white ribbon tighter so that my
untrimmed fingers dig into my palm. Me… the new Chidi.

I can't sleep. I just keep rolling on the mat. The oil lamp doesn't flicker its yellow flame. The wind
isn't blowing through the open windows. My room is silent—our room. Chidi is gone. Chidi is here.
There are two of us here. Two brothers living in a body. I shake my head and get up and snatch the
ribbon from the side of my pillow. I don't bother to tiptoe; I just open the door, walk into the living
room, twist the key in the lock, turn the knob clockwise, and step out into the night.

Now the wind begins to blow.

I don't hate my brother. I never did. He was my little brother who made me smile a lot, and he was
my little brother who made me feel unloved. Or was it my parents who did? Was it their old age that
threw me off their sight and brought in a younger, cuter son? A flash of lightning casts daylight on
my surroundings, especially on the iron stake. I glance at my hands; I can't see the ribbon in the
dark, but I can feel it's silkiness against my palm. I stride towards the stake. Chidi, it's time for you to
leave. To leave and never return. I pull at the ribbon with my both hands and press it against the stake;
then I knot it tight behind. The lightning flashes again, pulling along a rumble.

Big brother, why white? Why don't green? I want come back…
 #

The rays of the sun flush through the window, against my face. I snap my eyes open, squinting at the
warm beam. The wall clock ticks louder than usual. I glance at it. 11 AM. And no one woke me? I palm
the mat against the floor, trying to get up, but I crash back, my wrist aching and quivering.
Sweltering heat courses through me, raging within my abdomen and spreading through my limbs. A
mass of fog descends before me, clouding my sight. And the tingling begins. In my head, in my ears.
And the pounding and the ramming. My fingers twitch and quiver. Soon it spreads to my legs. And
my eyes. And my voice. "Pa… Ma… m…" A weight presses me down, digging right inside me,
inside my heart. And it stops. Everything. As though it were a forced illusion.

I try to get up, breathing rapidly. Chidi was like this a few months ago. He complained of everything
that just happened to me. And that was how his illness began. Rheumatic fever? I rush to the
window and poke my head across it. A frown tugs hard at my face. On my neck, under my jaw,
there's a swollen lymph node. Chidi had it back then too. It can't be, right? That I want to live like Chidi
doesn't mean I have to be exactly like him. A shiver slinkers up my legs. "Holy shit!" I punch at the mirror,
smashing it into splinters, cutting my knuckles.

I rush towards the door and push it open and hurry out of the living room. But I stop at once. Papa
and Mama are outside, sitting on the porch. Mama sits arms crossed, a distant look in her eyes as she
gazes into who-knows-what. Papa's hands are on the handrails again. He doesn't see me. Mama too.
"Papa. Mama," I call, inching towards them. They don't hear me. Or they do, but deem it useless to
reply me. This can only be one thing. "No…" But yes, this can only be one thing. They no longer see me
as Chidi. They no… "Darn!"

Why white? Why don't green? I want come back!

I look around, eyes widened. I don't see anyone. The voice isn't from my head either. I heard it last
night. And now? Is that it? He has come to take back his identity?
I scuttle towards the stake. The white ribbon is still there. I take a step back. And another. I caused it
all. I should have tied the green. Maybe then he would have merged into my soul and I would have
kept him alive—even inside me. And I wouldn't have to lose… I wouldn't have had to lose that love
again. I look back at Papa and Mama. How? How's all of these my fault?