The Death of Vivek Oji(12)

Fucking foreigner, thinking he could take whatever he wanted. No man had touched him since Vivek died, and the way Osita felt now, perhaps no man ever would again.

He rested his head on Kavita’s shoulder. She patted his cheek. “Try and sleep,” she said, “there’s go-slow.” Osita closed his eyes, and they made the rest of the drive back to Ngwa in silence.



* * *



—

The charm Kavita was looking for had been a gift she’d received from Dr. Khatri when Vivek was still a baby. It was made of silver, in the image of Ganesh, and it hung from a thin silver chain. “Give it to your son,” he’d said. “Never let him take it off.” Kavita could still remember the warmth of her uncle’s hands as he pressed it into hers, the octagon of the pendant cutting slightly into her palm. “Promise me, beti.”

Even though Kavita had converted to Catholicism, even though the charm was an idol, she had agreed. She kept it for several years, afraid that Vivek would swallow the pendant as a toddler and choke. On the day she finally gave it to him, when he was six, Vivek looked at her with his serious dark eyes and insisted on putting it on himself. His hands moved like a ritual as he lifted the chain over his head and let it drop. From that day on, Ganesh rested just below the hollow of Vivek’s collarbone, but it was missing when his body turned up by their front door. After the burial, Chika decided that it must have been stolen, of course it had been stolen—it was silver, real silver, after all, not that plated nonsense. But Kavita didn’t want to hear it. It couldn’t have been stolen, couldn’t have been lost. He must have removed it and put it somewhere.

“He never took it off, woman.” Chika hadn’t bothered to rise from the bed as he said it, his eyes following her as she rummaged through her dressing table. “Why would it be there? You’re being ridiculous.”

“Shut up!” she shouted. “You don’t know. You don’t know what happened. You don’t know where he put it! If you don’t want to help me, then leave me alone.” Chika shook his head and turned over, backing her, leaving her to her madness. Futility had pressed him flat.

Kavita didn’t have time to talk to her husband. His friends had been calling the house to see how he was doing; even Eloise called a few times to check on him. All Kavita could think about was finding that necklace. She kept hoping Osita would know where it was.

“You can stay as long as you like,” she said when they reached the house. “Help me search his room for the pendant. You know which one I’m talking about? The silver one?”

Osita nodded. “The one with the elephant-head god on it.”

“Yes, exactly. If he took it off, he would have put it somewhere safe. I’ve looked, but I know how you boys are. There must be somewhere special, somewhere I haven’t looked yet.” Her face was lit with a desperate hope.

It made Osita uncomfortable. He knew as well as Chika did that Vivek never took the pendant off, but he could tell it would be pointless to say that to Kavita. When they stepped into Vivek’s room, Osita paused at the doorway, his skin skittering. It was strange to be there, in that new emptiness. He looked at the wine-colored velvet curtains that blocked out the sun, and remembered the afternoons they’d spent there—building elaborate wars on the bedspread as children, listening to music, talking about their crushes. And then, years later, after Vivek came back from university, those sparse afternoons when they weren’t at Juju’s house or in the boys’ quarters, when they drew the velvet curtains closed and lay in the dark, whispering. Now the air in the room tasted dusty and alone.

Kavita looked back at Osita and he stepped in, scratching his head. “Erm, maybe here?” he said, walking over to the bookcase. “He used to hide things inside his books.”

“Just any of them?” Kavita stood by his shoulder, peering at the shelves.

“No.” Osita pulled down one book: Vivek’s copy of The Beautyful Ones Are Not Yet Born by Ayi Kwei Armah. “Usually just this one,” he said, opening it. A dry pressed flower fell out as he flipped through its pages, and Kavita caught it carefully. She turned it over in her hands as Osita slid some letters out of the book and into his pocket without her noticing. “It’s not here,” he said. Kavita looked up, disappointed, and set the flower on the shelf.

“Are you sure?” Osita handed her the book. She looked through it slowly, then shook it, as if the pendant would burst out from the pages. “Isn’t there somewhere else he could have kept it?”

Osita pretended to think, looking around the room again. The performance was depressing him, especially because he knew it would end badly for her. He walked over to the mattress and lifted it to check underneath.

“I already looked there,” Kavita said. “Only some condoms.”

Osita was glad she couldn’t see his face. He went through the desk drawers as Kavita trailed behind him, her face growing sadder and sadder. “It’s not here, is it?” she said finally.

Osita sighed. “I’m so sorry, Aunty Kavita. I don’t think it is.” Guilt filled him as she shook her head, dashing the edge of her hand against her eyes.

“It was like a part of him,” she said, “and now it’s gone and he’s gone.” She sniffled and looked up at her nephew, her face crumpling. “He’s gone, Osita. I can’t believe he’s gone.”