Outside, Nwanyioma set up the grill across the pink-gray mansion where a doctor lived with his beautiful wife and child. As the fish, plantains, and yams roasted, the smoke attracted passersby. Her chest tightened as her friend Obi arrived. He was a vulcanizer who worked down the street, and before he finished pointing to the pieces of yam and fish’s tail, she quickly placed them on a plate and poured palm oil on it. The secret to her success in the grill business was not how she roasted the yams, plantains, or fish, but the freshness of her palm oil.
The air that morning was dry, and in it floated large debris which resembled fermented human skin. Residents walked about with watery red eyes, a dry cough or a constant harrumph, and in their pockets a charcoal-stained handkerchief where bullocks of sputum were deposited. Underneath the permanent dark sky, unable to breathe in clean air, people passed on rapidly. The number of deaths climbed until its shock wore off.
Nwanyioma’s sleepless nights persisted. She was afraid to die like the newborns whose mothers screamed when they found t
hem lifeless in the middle of the night. Nwanyioma would dunk her head into a bucket of water to decongest her nose. When she woke the next morning and found black fine particles laying on the hairs of her arms and legs, she was always surprised that she was alive.
“Nwanyioma,” Obi said as she handed him his plate.
She smiled. Unlike the other men who had to pay first before she glanced at them, Obi was one of her reliable customers. Even when the community abandoned their cars for fear it caused the poor air and his business collapsed, he paid her. When other customers arrived and began hollering at each other over who came before the other, the tightening in her chest became a piercing pain. She struggled to stand on both feet. The surrounding people became blurry, and she heard the panic spilling over in Obi’s voice before it turned dark.
“Nwanyioma, are you okay? Nwanyioma?”
***
Before she opened her eyes, she could tell the air was like in the old days before the appearance of a permanent dark sky, before black dust fell on the sills of windows, and black palm prints appeared on walls, and the madams instructed their girls to mop the floor thrice in the day before each meal was served. She wondered if she was dead. The other cities would let no one come into theirs. They tore down their airports, blocked roads, and gave their patrols orders to kill on sight. She was in a room with enviable air, on a large Queen size bed, and there was a large closet across from her: a baby pink gown, a long flowery skirt, and a black jacket. The clothes she recognized. She had seen them on a human body and admired them.
“Daddy, she is awake,” a young girl’s voice said. Nwanyioma turned to find the owner and instead she saw the doctor who lived across her grill stand, standing by her.
She sat up immediately. “I’m sorry. How did I get here?” She recalled setting up the grill, Obi’s appearance, and the look in his eyes.
The doctor made her lie back down. He placed her head on the pillow. “You need to rest,” he said.
She inhaled the air greedily before asking, “What’s in here?”
The doctor, with his cold stethoscope, measured her heart rate. “The air?”
“Yes.”
“It’s imported,” he said.
She stared at him and wondered how he got it. She had only heard rumors of certain government officials in possession of it. It was expensive. If only she could, she thought, she would collect some and take it home with her.
“I need to see you at the hospital. You don’t look well,” he said, after the examination.
The young girl looked at Nwanyioma for a moment before she turned to her father. “Is she going to die like mama?”
The doctor placed a quieting hand on his daughter’s shoulder and smiled politely at Nwanyioma. “Get some rest. I will drive you to the hospital in the morning.”
They walked out of the room, closing the door behind them, leaving Nwanyioma with nothing but the voices in her head.
She hadn’t seen the owner of the room in a long time. Of course, she was dead. Everyone was dead and was going to be. She was relieved the doctor didn’t ask her to leave the room. The air was good for her.
**
The hospital smelled like antiseptic mixed with dust. After her medical exams, she sat in the hall for hours with other patients. Everyone there appeared just as gaunt and ill as those in the streets. When her report was ready and the doctor summoned her, she could tell from his forced smile it was bad. Not even his polite manner could soften the blow.
After multiple failed attempts to deliver the news, he said. “It is cancer you have. ”
“Cancer?”
Nwanyioma knew something was wrong. She had never fainted before, but Cancer?
“It’s well advanced,” he said in a worried clinical tone. “We’ve been seeing more of these respiratory cases since the dark sky.”
“There must be something in the air,” she said, and the doctor smiled.
“Would my death be any different?”Nwanyionma asked.
“I cannot determine that,” the doctor replied, looking at her like he had stared at his wife on her last days.
“Yes, you can. I want to know,” Nwanyionma said.
He looked away, unable to witness another breakdown. “You can do chemotherapy if you meet the criteria. Buy yourself time.”
She nodded. “The air in your wife’s room. Does it keep one from getting sick?”
The doctor frowned at the mention of his wife. “No, and it has no benefit to you at this stage.”
“Why not?”
“I got it when my wife was ill. Same diagnosis. She is gone now.”
He slouched in his chair.
“I’m sorry,” Nwanyioma said. “I don’t have the money for air or drugs. What’s going to happen if I don’t meet the criteria?”
They both knew she would be dead before she amassed the money she needed for treatment.
“If you meet the criteria, you don’t have to pay. But to meet it, stop the grill. Yes, the air is foul, but your daily exposure to smoke isn’t helping.”
Nwanyioma rose. “Stopping my business has no benefit at this stage.”
“Wait_,” the doctor said, but she’d closed the door behind her.
****
The officials came on the first Saturday of the new month, and all the residents assembled to hear the updates. Nwanyioma watched from the front, their noses covered in gigantic oxygen tanks as they spoke, while those who listened had their noses covered with thin fabrics. There were only a few who could afford to wear the large oxygen tanks. But it was not long before their tanks allowed the thick, dark matter to escape into their nostrils.
“We do not wish for the people to keep dying,” the speaker standing on the platform said. “Believe us, we are doing all we can to stop the pollution. We found one cause to be the exhaust from vehicles, and we implemented their elimination. Our scientists are pointing to our refineries, and we are working to see how we can reduce the emissions, but our livelihood depends on it, and it would take some time. Each of us has to play our part in ensuring our safety. Cover your face at all times. Drink more water.”
It was the same speech every month. They had reached the culmination.
Nwanyioma raised her hand when the man paused.
He frowned at the lone hand in the air, studied Nwanyioma, and decided it was no harm.
“Yes?” he said, “Even though we are not taking questions.”
“How long will it take the scientists to end this?” she asked.
“It will take as long as it does. We do not have control over the process.”
People muttered in displeasure.
“What have the scientists found since the last time?” she asked.
The man started and stopped speaking. He couldn’t find the words. There was growing outrage in the crowd. People began to throw their items at him. The officials saw the assembly was getting rowdy and tried to calm the crowd but failed, and the next thing they did was disappear into their airship, and finally behind the dark clouds.
The assembly dispersed. Nwanyioma was about to leave when a young man, no older than 25, approached her.
“You have hope for our city, don’t you?” he asked in an almost pubescent voice.
She turned to see him. “Yes, I do, but I don’t believe our solution lies with these officials.”
The young man smiled, “Neither do I,” he said. “They have a safe home they can fly to. Others are more pragmatic than they are.”
“And who are you?” she asked.
He smiled again, flaunting his white dentition in a city where white was stark. “Environmental activist.” He stretched his card to Nwanyioma, and she took it.
***
In every way, the city was stained. With each passing day, her body gave room for cancer. Nothing weighed more than what was inside her chest. Nwanyioma needed to see the doctor but avoided him. She did not like his suggestion of abandoning her grill stand. She had nothing else to do for a living.
Nwanyioma’s customers were happy to see her and did not know she had to stop in between serving each meal to catch her breath.
Obi stared at her on one occasion. “You look tired,” he said.
She laughed. “I am, but if not me, who is going to feed you? Mama Zion?”
Mama Zion manned a grill stand on the next street. Her palm oil stew was famous for its terrible taste.
He burst out laughing. “May she not hear you, a little less salt, and her cooking might beat yours.”
Nwanyioma scoffed. “Nobody can beat my palm oil stew. You hear?”
They both laughed.
Nwanyioma’s bones became light, and it took a lot of strength from her to scoop palm oil and spread it across roasted yams and plantains.
One afternoon at the stand, as she served the first few people in the queue, her chest hurt. She took a break and Obi approached her.
“That day you passed out, it wasn’t nothing. Was it?” he asked.
Nwanyioma resumed for fear of being found out. She went behind the grill, grabbed some plates, and started dishing out her customers’ daily servings of roasted yams, plantains, and fish. A few minutes later, it got rowdy. The crowd at the grill stand seemed to have doubled. People stood with their plates stretched out before her, asking for different things. Some demanded a refund. It turned out she had given the man who wanted 7 yams, and 2 plantains and the one who wanted the head of the fish, the belly.
She attempted to resolve their grievances, but her vision blurred. She had to sit, but they would not stop complaining.
Obi approached her a second time. “Nwanyioma, what is wrong? Why are you not serving your customers?”
She had never known her body to be so weak. She was afraid that anyone to find out.
Obi took charge of the grill stand. He took the customers’ plates and gave them what they desired. When all customers were appeased, he sat by Nwanyioma.
She smiled at him. “Thank you for that. You did well. Anyone who didn’t know my stand would have believed it was yours.”
“What is going on with you?” Obi asked.
Nwanyioma met his eyes and it did not take long before she cried.
Obi was alarmed by the strong display of emotion. He placed his arm around her. “It must be serious then.”
“I’m not well,” she said. “The doctor wants me to stop the grill.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“So, why haven’t you?”
“Look around, we are all dying,” Nwanyioma said. “What difference does my grilling make?”
“Look at me,” Obi said and raised her head. He wiped her tears. “You have to get well. Even if the world is going to end. You have to do what the doctor told you. I look forward to seeing you the next morning each night when I go to bed.”
Nwanyioma met his eyes again and in it found what she had always been eager to dismiss.
***
She saw the young environmental activist again. Their second meeting was intentional. Out of curiosity, she dialed the number on the card he had given her. He invited her to the refinery in the early hours of a Saturday morning, for he loved to take a stroll around where he believed was the source of the city’s pollution. The two stood two feet apart.
“There are people who believe our city is coming to its end,” he said.
“I’m one of them,” Nwanyioma replied. She could see its ruin everywhere and she could feel it in her breathing.
He looked at her. “You are not wrong, but most likely wrong about why it will.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Negligence,” said the young environmental activist. “Remember when the sky was blue and the air clean?”
It was a hot morning. Nwanyioma’s nose was stuffed, and she longed for fresh air more than ever.
“It was only five years ago,” she said.
“A long time for people to turn a blind eye,” the young man said.
There was a cockerel’s sound and a passing wind that carried more dust than air.
“Do you sometimes blame yourself?” she asked him.
“No, I’d die knowing I did all I could for my city.”
“Are you afraid of dying, then?” she asked.
He harrumphed. “No, when I die, I will go to a place with pleasant air.”
“Heaven?” she asked.
“Yes, but I imagine we all have our versions of it.”
It was after the talk with the environmental activist that Nwanyioma decided she was going to see the doctor. On the morning of her appointment, she received disturbing news. Before she entered the Doctor’s office, her phone beeped with a message. She screamed and fell to her knees. Obi had died. She left the hospital in shock and rage. It was important for her to know if it was true. She arrived at Obi’s shop and met an older woman, who, by age and resemblance, she could tell was his mother. She confirmed the bad news to be true.
Nwanyioma returned to the hospital a week later, but there was no treatment: she did not meet the guidelines criteria.
Grieving and full of despair, she added beef, sweet potatoes, and turkey to her grill, and every day, as though to forget Obi’s death and the city’s ruin, she served her customers. On the first Saturday of the new month, the officials delivered the news that the refineries were going to be shut down. The next day, the residents found out from the newspapers it was because the officials, just like the residents, were dying rapidly. The air and earth oozed with the smell of the city’s population's decaying body. At her grill stand, Nwanyioma coughed blood. She turned a plantain on the grill, and the smoke went into her body. Nwanyioma took many breaks and in those respites; she wondered what would have happened if the city did not ignore the signs and closed the refineries years ago. Maybe Obi would be alive and she would not wonder what life with him could have been like.
Her chest pain grew worse, and her nose bled. In her dreams, she saw the doctor’s wife, her mother, Obi, and all those she lost to the city’s pollution. They came beckoning her, like a gentle pull to the other side.
Comments