GONE BOY

 

GONE BOY

by: Evans Kwofie

“He wouldn’t be here with me if I’d had someone at home to take care of him…”

the boy’s mother was explaining to the grey-haired man behind the bookstore

counter as he disappeared through the pews, caught up in his own expedition.

The bookstore looked like it’d witnessed more than its share of history and was

now struggling to keep on. The roof was brown with rust and there were little

pores through which shafts of the setting sun poured into the store. The shelves

were old too, with whiffs of dust hanging on the wooden boxes and the books. The

boy was currently walking through the African Literature section; here was Wole

Soyinka’s The Interpreters and Chinua Achebe’s masterpiece Things Fall Apart—

the boy walked on, unfamiliar with the luminaries. Two boxes below Things Fall

Apart, he found a book with two elaborate circles embossed on it and reached for

it. Then he reached for the rag which lay on the floor and swept away heaps of dust

from the book. He then passed his palms on the cover and found it slippery. He

clutched it to his chest and scooted happily back to his mother.

“Yes please, I am looking for any children’s book, something I can read to him

before he sleeps,” his mother said to the bespectacled man.

“Oh okay. I have the perfect set. Wait, I think I put them under—

“Mummy! Mummy! Look, I want this one,” the boy shoved the book towards his

mother, excited and apologetic at the same time.

She regarded him in a way she hadn’t done in a long time—with pride. But, when

she glanced at the title, she gasped—Black Ass by A. Igoni Barrett stared back at

her obliviously. She shook her head and gave the book to the keeper.

“Please take this. I don’t know what about this book enticed my son but I am

already worried.”

At this the man turned his gaze to the boy, “Ah I see you chose something beyond

your years.” He smiled knowingly and turned his gaze back to the boy’s mother,

“Oh but this is a good book. I would recommend that you read it.”

“Alright then. I will have that with the two children’s books.”

“But Mum, I want that—

“Shush,” she stooped and took the boy’s hand, “go and look for something else but

don’t do anything reckless otherwise I won’t read it to you. Is that okay?” The boy looked like he would cry but he nodded and disappeared around a shelf

filled with books.

A couple minutes later, a cluttering sound could be heard at the counter. The two

elders turned towards where the boy had disappeared. At that point, the boy

emerged with a book in his hand, covered in dust, looking like he’d just escaped a

desert storm. This time he held the book to his chest protectively and went to stand

silently beside his mother as the keeper bagged the three books. There was a look

of utter determination in his eyes, as if to forewarn whoever dared to pry the book

from him; neither his mother nor the keeper bothered him.

When the boy’s mother received the receipt, it was for the three books.

“What about—

“Oh don’t worry about it. That’s a gift from me to my good man.”

The boy’s mother looked back at him and then directed her gaze to the grey haired

man but the boy stared blankly ahead. She glared at the boy. Then, the boy, as if

now coming back to his senses, hurriedly mumbled, “thank you”. They sauntered

out of the bookstore, the old wooden door rattling behind them.

“Okay now can I see your book?”

“No!” the boy cried.

Later in the evening, the boy’s mother realized that her son had changed since

returning from the library; he looked happier where he was originally sullen and he

spoke confidently and freely, where his words were previously curt and guarded.

Earlier, on their way home, the boy had stared unseeingly at the black book which

had still remained in the cross of his hands. She had expected that he would pop his

head out of the window and count all the buildings that would zip by until he tired

out—as he always did—instead he’d been transfixed by the book. Two years ago,

she’d lost her sorry excuse for a husband, and motherhood had become a tougher

battle, therefore she was thankful for anything that distracted her son and brought

her some relief.

After bathing and eating supper, the boy turned towards his bedroom.

“Have you done your homework?”

“No mum. Please I will do it tomorrow,” there was that plea again, his voice

dropped to a few decibels. Ever since she divorced her husband, the boy had been quieter, sullen and more

reserved, perpetually living in his shell. His voice had lost all evidence of

confidence and when he spoke, it was as if he didn’t consider himself worthy of

the privilege. She knew she would enjoy her son very much if he would continue

on his unexpected path to self-transformation.

“Okay. You may go to bed now.”

“Thank you,” he squealed happily.

His was one of three bedrooms in the house. It was small and cute, as if the builder

had had him in mind. There was his small bed and beside it a small wooden table

on which burned a lamp he used for reading; and his stationery. She placed the two

children’s book she’d bought on the table. After tucking the boy in, he asked that

she read him one of the books. Initially, she thought he was referring to the black

book so she reached for it but he snatched it away.

“That one,” he pointed to one of the books—William Golding’s Lord of the Rings.

It wasn’t long after she’d started reading when the boy fell asleep, snoring softly.

She plastered a kiss on his forehead, spread the sheet so that it covered all but his

head and then lifted herself from the bed. As she headed towards the doorway, she

stopped and turned back to look at the black book; indeed, it was so black, there

was nothing else she could see—no author’s name, no publication. It was as if the

pristine blackness had sucked up all writings on the cover. In that moment, she

wondered what her boy had seen about the book that was so enticing; it unsettled

her to think that he was attracted to something so dark. As if that wasn’t enough,

there was something about the book which unnerved her. She couldn’t put her

hand on it, but it was there, and it tugged at her. Should I take it away? she

wondered, and then discarded the thought just as quickly.

It was somewhere midnight when it happened. The boy felt a pull, a tug, a

vibrating sound. But it was otherworldly, as if it were happening somewhere

else—in his dream maybe—so that all he had to do was open his eyes and the

nightmare would be over. However, when the boy opened his eyes, he felt the

vibration again, more profound than ever, coming from the black book which lay

on his chest, shaking vigorously. He flung it off and waited to hear it clutter to the

floor. Instead, it stuck to the air, as if it had been hammered with an invisible nail

to a slab he couldn’t see. He flipped off the sheets so that he was only in red

patterned underpants and scurried out of bed, somehow avoiding a scream. Instead

of hurrying out of the room, the boy ended up in a corner, where his wardrobe

stood. From his perch, he watched the book—still suspended in the air—flip open, the pages zipping. The speed was such that the boy couldn’t actually see the

individual pages or what was written on them. After a while (which could have

been an eternity) the pages stopped fluttering at once, the book closed instantly,

then fell to the floor.

The boy took this as his cue to move closer to the book but before he could get to it

another thing happened: a ring of light, no, a shaft, spat from the book like

toothpaste and shot up onto the ceiling, creating a circle of light on the varnished

plywood. It began as a speck of light, then as the seconds rolled by, it burst into a

ball that twirled, like a vortex. Subconsciously, he knew that he should call for his

mother, scream with all of his might, but he didn’t. He was transfixed, and he

found that he actually didn’t want his mother to come in. Somehow, his mind was

prepared for whatever was going to happen next, and the worst thing that could

happen was his mother suddenly entering.

The boy began to see writings, floating in the light, all over the pages. At first, he

thought his eyes were deceiving him but when he stared keenly he realized that the

writings were actually there. He squinted, trying to figure out what they said but

they moved so quickly that he couldn’t piece together enough letters to form

anything discernible. Then, as if sensing his frustration, a sound came out from the

vortex. It was a barely audible tone and the first few words seemed to disappear

with the air but he craned his neck closer and heard clearly.

“Why have you summoned me? Why did you bring me here?” it whispered. “What

do you want? Tell me. Tell me. Tell me.”

For a moment his mouth hung open in stunned silence. His heart hammered and he

felt himself inching for a way out of the room. The words tolled in his head again,

what do you want? tell me. tell me. He didn’t know what he wanted; in fact, until

now, he didn’t know there was something he wanted. He racked his brain, reaching

for that elusive thing the voice said he wanted. There was nothing.

“What do you want? Tell me. Tell me.”

“What do you want? Tell me. Tell me.”

He reached again, for that thing he wanted. He cast his mind back to the library,

and wondered afresh how he’d gotten the book. He realized then that the decision

hadn’t been entirely up to him. The black book had called out to him, although not

on a conscious level. He’d moved for the book not because he’d wanted to but

because the book had sought him out. He wondered about his school, his friends, and his parents. Then, he found it. The

thing he wanted. He hadn’t known before but now he did, and there was no doubt

about it.

Two years ago, his parents divorced. Despite what they both thought he’d heard

enough to know that his father had cheated on his mother. He’d had a good

relationship with his father (he had been his favourite parent), and so he’d felt

somehow guilty. In any case, when his father left, he left without him. He knew

that his mother blamed him, he saw it in her eyes when she looked at him.

“I want to go” he said, largely to himself. “I want to leave here.”

The light twirled again, like a bonfire, cackling, calling out to him. The boy moved

closer to the light and reached his hand into it—a bout of something shot through

his hands. He withdrew instinctively. Then he realized that it wasn’t painful at all,

in fact, it wasn’t anything he’d ever felt. He reached again, this time sure that he

will not withdraw his hand no matter what happened. He felt a pull, as if someone

on the other end had taken his hand and was pulling him in. He resisted for a

moment and looked back at his room, only to mumble a goodbye. He was pulled in

completely, disappearing into the vortex. The light stopped instantly, flitting back

into oblivion. The book snapped shut and disappeared—it was as if the boy and the

book were never there.