Abstract
Novelist
Written for Index on Censorship magazine and published here for the first time, the tale takes its inspiration from the country’s recently enforced anti-gay legislation. Although gay sex has long been illegal in the country, January saw an unprecedented crackdown. Same-sex marriage became illegal, under secular as well as sharia law, with a penalty of up to 14 years in prison. A “public show” of same-sex relations also carries the risk of a long jail term, as does participation in gay organisations, or a simple show of support.
Against this backdrop of increasing persecution, with violent vigilantes hunting down transgressors, author Christie Watson decided to return her attention to the country that remains close to her heart. Nigeria is the setting for Watson’s first novel, Tiny Sunbirds Far Away, written from the perspective of a 12-year-old girl in the Niger delta, which won the Costa first-book award in 2011.
“As I started to think about motivations behind the politics [of the anti-gay laws], I wanted to explore the idea of distraction,” she tells Index of her latest story. In You are a Big Man, the protagonist’s stream-of-consciousness shows an inability to focus on the country’s major issues, as his mind is pulled to thoughts of luxury goods, sex and his own power. “I originally wrote it from a third person point-of-view,” Watson tells Index. “But then I played around with the idea of second person: the idea that the world is watching the ‘you’ in the story.”
“What’s on your mind?” asks the politician’s wife, presuming her husband is waking in the night with thoughts of a boarding-school massacre, similar to a real life tragedy at Buni Yadi secondary school in February when 59 pupils were killed by gunmen from Islamist group Boko Haram. “That too,” he says, before revealing the main cause of his night sweats: the responsibility of “regulating” gay people.
Watson says: “I’m so saddened by what’s happening in Nigeria now. I used to hold much hope for the country’s future, and I still have hope, but now, and particularly in the run up to 2015 elections, the immediate future looks bleak.”
You are a big man in Abuja.
You fly a different girlfriend to Dubai every weekend, and distribute made-to-order Louboutins around the place like leaflets. You are generous. Gifts of $100,000. You are responsible for so many women.
You are a gifted polo player, have an accomplished political career and billions of dollars stashed in offshore accounts.
You are God-fearing.
So what is it keeping you awake? Giving headaches? There is no ibuprofen, only paracetamol, and it vexes you, this small thing, and I see you sit up on to pillows, and rub your temples until your wife, sleeping soundly, begins to snore. “Are you awake?” Your voice like a little boy’s, like one of her boys. “I have pain.”
Her eyes slowly open, bloodshot, filled with sleep. Old, tired eyes. Behind her a photograph on the nightstand of four children: three boys, one girl. The most handsome of the boys, Dayo, staring away from the camera at something distant. Or someone. Who?
“Where’s the ibuprofen? You said you’d source some. There’s a big meeting tomorrow. It’s important. I can’t sleep.”
She breathes deeply. “What is it?” Her voice soft and measured. Practised. “What’s on your mind?” Her breath is sour, stale, old. You think of a girlfriend who keeps a pack of mints underneath the pillow so that she can freshen her mouth anytime you want to kiss it.
“Ungodly. All of them.”
Your wife sits up, strokes your back, her hand rough. “Those poor children. The families.”
ABOVE: Christie Watson
Credit: Cheryl George
“That, too. Of course, that! It is completely immoral. Disgusting. And I can’t sleep.”
“You need some paracetamol?”
“Above all, a man like me needs sleep.”
“I’ll get some.”
“Do you have any idea what it is like, thinking about gays and their behaviour? Regulating them? Trying to bring such evil to the forefront of public consciousness? Sleep. And ibufrofen,” you say, shaking her off. “The 400mgs.” The burning spreads down, a hand-pressing skull. Then you turn, grab her face, squeeze her cheeks until her mouth becomes a perfect O. You push her head down away from your face, to your lap.
The driver has kept the car cool by running the air-conditioning full but it is sweltering even so. As soon as you climb into the car, trousers stick to the leather seat. “This car is getting shabby. But no matter. I’ve recently ordered – not one but how many? – state-of-the-art, bulletproof BMWs. I need them. I’ve sacrificed my safety for my country. And you, you are a lucky driver.”
A child of 10 years old bangs on the window. “Quicker,” you shout. The child’s hands starfish against the glass: dry peeling skin, scabs, bloody. Open. Listening. An image of children glows in front of you: murdered in their boarding-school beds. You force it away. It is your responsibility to force such images away. “There’s no fight in these people.” You talk. “Nigeria. More out-of-school children than anywhere in the world they say, and yet here look. How can you blame us, when these people have no fight themselves.”
The driver winds down the partition.
“Sorry sir, I could not hear you.”
“They do nothing for themselves.” The smell of the sweat of the driver dances around. “This is unhygienic. How can you come for a day’s work without first showering? There is a long list of drivers who would gladly take your job.”
The partition falls down a fraction. “Sorry, sir.” The driver’s eyes glance in the mirror. His shirt dirty, dark patches of grime on the collar. “Sorry, sir. We have had no power for five days. No water. No electricity.”
“I find that hard to believe. Anyway, you need to save for a generator. You’re not some hawker at the side of a road but my personal driver. You have the kind of smell that clings to fabric. I have the executive president’s ear. Do you think I can speak into the president’s ear smelling like a sewer rat? Get your house in order.”
“Yes, sir. I am doing my best, sir.”
“Do you think anyone cares if you sleep?”
“Sorry, sir?”
This is what is inside you:
Your headache is gone but in its place is a feeling of restlessness. Your responsibilities are too big. Legislating immorality is your duty. Protecting people. And winning the 2015 election is your responsibility. Whatever it takes. Distraction. Later today you will call a girlfriend, or maybe send for a new girl – or two. Powerful men have powerful needs.
“We have been likened to Nazis.” The young woman’s voice fills the room and is followed with quiet that moves between the three men, twisting in seats.
You stand, walk to the silver cabinet adorned with gold leaf and aluminium, and lift the heavy embossed lid to find the cognac. You fill a gold-leaf-trimmed glass almost to the top, let the vapours travel up, breathe deeply. “This is good stuff.”
Godwin laughs until his enormous stomach shakes almost independently of his body. His shining face has tiny sweat-beads. “Only the best.” He turns to the young woman. “What else are they saying? Read out the comments. Would you like to try this cognac while you read? It’s the best cognac in the world.”
She shakes her head, looks at the papers on her lap. Sighs. She wears dark trousers and a white blouse that is not quite, but nearly transparent. You imagine her in her underwear, without her underwear.
Credit: Paul Davey/Alamy
ABOVE: Gay-rights protesters outside the Nigerian embassy in London in February, after Nigeria passed its law against homosexuality
“One of the comments on Twitter,” she reads. “‘They took time to sign a bill into law for being gay? I don’t have electricity’.” And another, “‘Our president is covering up incompetence with hatred of gays: meanwhile Boko Haram kill another 300 this month. Shine your eyes, Nigeria.’” She shuffles papers, looks around the room. Follow her eyes. Three important men. Members of the National Assembly. Your friends. Great thinkers like you.
“There are rumours already,” she says.
“What are you talking about?”
She swallows loudly enough that you hear it and focus on her slim throat. I see inside you. You think: I want to hold her throat while I fuck her. Then, God, the pain in your head. As if someone is crushing your skull.
“There’s gossip among the politically active community. Rumours. But the sources are wide and trustworthy. About a list.” She crosses and uncrosses her legs. “They say there’s a list. A long list.”
“What list?” You flick your arm and a splash of cognac falls on the marble floor.
“Don’t waste too much of that,” Godwin laughs. “It is worth $200,000.”
“You have the most expensive tastes of anyone I know.”
Solomon lifts his long arm, his thin fingers wrapped around the glass, brings it to his face and looks through it until his usually perfectly shaped head is surreal and distorted. “Beauté du Siècle. Only a few bottles left in existence.”
The young woman sits upright, lifts her long neck. “The list,” she says. Her voice is louder. “They say there is a list of gay men and women who are all the offspring of the NASS members.”
Silence. Your heart so quiet it feels as though it’s stopped beating. Vision blurred. You try and sharpen it, focus on objects: the surrealist art on the wall, Solomon’s distorted head, the statues, the solid gold table holding photographs of Godwin’s family – his wife on their yacht in Monaco, her Hermès scarf blowing around her face, his racehorses, lined up one by one, his daughter who is in Germany being treated for toothache. She, unmarried at 37, living in LA. Solomon’s son: in London, whispers, whispers, whispers. Your reflection in a gold-trimmed glass. Bloated and dull.
“Nonsense,” Godwin laughs from where he sits on one of the Italian leather sofas, his stretched out naked feet, toes squeaking on the polished marble floor. “This young girl is an expert in managing social media but what does she know of political matters?”
She falls further into the armchair.
“It’s good to have a young female social media adviser among us. Especially after the incident before. But let’s leave the official talk for later.” Godwin shifts back but his eyes remain on the girl. “Manage the Twitter account and I’ll review things later.” Godwin waves until she stands. A curtain of fat moves underneath his arm. “Privately,” he says, winking and grinning widely.
“They say this law is dangerous. And people have been killed already and many, many more will be killed,” she says, before leaving the room, her court shoes tapping, tapping, tapping.
She is not afraid. You see that and feel longing.
“Opponents will argue it violates human rights but people don’t understand the law. Fundamental human rights are not an absolute.”
“It’s a question of morality.” Solomon’s glass drops from his face. “We don’t need homosexuality and Aids here! Here in Nigeria we’ve passed laws in line with our own cultural and religious inclinations. Nigerians are pleased with it. These haters are few. Let them shout. We’re the lawmakers and we speak for our people. Let us extricate ourselves from the West. We have new friends. Do you know what those people are doing with their anus? It’s disgusting.”
Godwin yawns. “It’s a good distraction from the NNPC thing.”
“I’ve been suffering headaches,” you say. “All those billion dollars’ worth of missing receipts,” you say, touching your temples. “Children slaughtered.”
“Hell.” Cognac swigged, then glass re-filled.
“Pressure,” you say, touching the top of your skull. “And down the back.”
“Receipts are easy to find, my friend. And you know what I think? All this discussion is being hampered by these basic needs we have as men. Call up those girls,” says Solomon. “We’ll send the cars, clear the roads: they should be here soon. All these stirrings in my loins are causing a distraction from important matters. I need to drink, to fuck, then eat. In that order!”
“Great men have great needs,” you say.
After all, you are among friends. These men, like you, are great men. Of course you all let off steam now and then to help solve the complexities of Nigeria; it’s in the nation’s interest. Nigeria’s interest. There’s an election coming. And you have things to distract people from. This law will make you popular. Win votes. It’s a huge responsibility. You are godly men, proud men. The future of Nigeria. Together you make laws protecting Nigeria from immorality. From Aids. No one knows the headaches you bear. The pain of making these decisions. You sit down on the leather sofa, on top of the darkness. Godwin and Solomon click their glasses against yours. You smile. You drink the cognac quickly, wait for girls. Drink, eat, fuck. Drink, eat, fuck. Drink, eat, fuck.
