Where Eagles Crawl and Men Fly

By Jelani Nias

Welcome to Warri, Wadad, where "all God's children" got real wings and the devil's earthy brood brandish shotguns. But it's hard to tell
the good from the bad in this marvellous mash-up of Action and Fantasy. In Warri, crime is as much entertainment as it is a lucrative
necessity. Even bums prosper-through-violence. They let frustrated execs batter them--just "for a buck." In this ingeniously imaginative
novel, ghetto dwellers and high-flyers spread their wings only to see them clipped. But, like Lucifer expelled from Heaven, their flaming
downfalls are hypnotically radiant.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9780993707117

Book preview

own.

CHAPTER ONE

The Road to Wadad

"Life is one big road, with a lot

of sign, Sign and more sign"

-Tenor Saw ‘Lots of Sign’

The bus driver sang out Bislington! as the 97 Far-Long Bus creaked to a halt on Bislington Drive and the rain that had been threatening all day fell suddenly as if he had called it. Rain battered the roof and windows of the old vehicle with uncommon violence drawing scowls and muttered curses from those passengers exiting. A man sitting near the front, overladen with hockey sticks, tennis rackets and a duffel bag full of other sporting equipment, whistled long and loud. I hope the weather is better in Glade, he said to the driver, conversationally.

Glade is twenty, maybe twenty-five miles away, man, the driver said coolly. How different do you expect the weather to be?

You’d be surprised, brother, Sports Man replied with what was meant to be a knowing look.

Would I now? The man behind the wheel didn’t sound convinced.

"Oh yeah. Glade is like nowhere else on the planet. Aside from the surfing and the mountains they got the type of bitches there that’ll do anything for five of our dollars, especially for a foreigner," Sports Man explained, as if those things had some effect on the weather.

Sitting near the back, Badroy sighed and looked out the window. It had been a long ride, made longer by the fact that he knew he was never coming back and even longer still by having his only friend Madcon along for the journey. Fortunately, the early nineties reggae playing softly over the bus’ public address system gave him something else to focus on. He wished he could turn it up.

This is bad, family. How’s South gonna run without you? Madcon asked for the fifth time as the first strains of Garnett Silk’s Mama Africa pulsed gently in the air around them.

South never cared about who was running it, Badroy answered.

Madcon licked his lips nervously, his left leg bouncing on the ball of his foot. So, what’s that? You’re feeling bitter ‘cause people in South didn’t show love?

Badroy chuckled at that one. The closer they got to Glade, the more inventive his old friend got.

Nah, Badroy said at last, shrugging his massive shoulders. I got what I wanted out of South. I just stopped wanting it. And when I figured out the new thing I wanted, South didn’t have it.

Bullshit, Madcon snorted, unimpressed, South got everything.

South is just a neighbourhood, Badroy corrected.

Madcon shook his shaggy head. "South is the gem of Anetha City. People all around the world know about South. Don’t try and use your brain on me, family. I’ve known you since you were a little punk in short pants with grape juice stains on your shirt. This is about sex. You’re going to Glade for the aliens and freaks, which is stupid because South got freaks of all types, shapes, sizes, persuasions, stripes and colours."

Riiiight. You only say that because of Chekka, the big man said. A quiet smile played across his face.

Madcon grinned his wild grin in return, teeth flashing white against his dark skin and the black of his beard. Fucking right, he agreed.

Chekka was one of Badroy’s more memorable ex-girlfriends, a petite, golden-skinned and gorgeous woman with eyes the colour of amber and a pair of constantly twitching, hand-sized wings on her back. The appendages were useless, an evolutionary hand-me-down from a time when Chekka’s family had lived in the giant trees of Norwes Hills, but Badroy had found them fascinating. They were tapered, muscular and sensitive to almost everything. When it was hot they were moist and shiny, slick and smooth against his fingertips. During the winter freeze the wings seemed to contract, growing rough and brittle to the touch. More than once he’d been woken by the prickly feel of them scratching against his skin. Every now and again he missed the sensation.

If it was about sex I’d go to a whorehouse, not another country, Badroy reasoned.

Yeah, well...fuck. You’re sure leaving me in a hurricane without even a raincoat, Madcon said miserably. And to that Badroy had no response.

The 97 Far-Long’s last stop was on a deserted looking street named Ivory Lane which boasted three houses, a large, unkempt field and an abandoned storefront with faded Going-Out-Of-Business signs still taped to the window. In the grey glow of post-rain daylight, the area looked forsaken.

Through the field and make a right. You’ll see a tall, white building and tons of cops and dogs, the bus driver said when Badroy asked the way to the border checkpoint.

I’m going that way. Just follow me, Sports Man offered, overhearing. By then the talkative little man was the only one left on the bus besides Badroy, Madcon and the driver.

Badroy nodded his thanks to the man, then turned to see Madcon smiling ruefully and rubbing his right eye with the heel of his hand. There was something child-like about the grizzled killer just then. He looked like any five-year-old boy whose best pal was moving somewhere far away.

I’m gonna ride this bus back ‘round to the city, Madcon explained, dejectedly.

Cool. Thanks for following me this far, family, Badroy replied.

I would at least walk you to the border but this bus only comes every hour or so, I think, Madcon went on needlessly.

No worries, Badroy waved it off. He’d known before the trip began that his friend would never come as far as the border. Madcon hated being anywhere near large numbers of police.

I’m about to leave, the bus driver announced impatiently.

Badroy looked away from Madcon to see that Sports Man had already exited the bus and was waiting near the edge of the field.

You better get moving or you’ll lose your guide, Madcon laughed.

The lifelong friends took a final moment to touch fists and say One love, family in a unison that would have been comical at most other times. Then the bigger man adjusted his knapsack, turned his back on his oldest ally and shambled off the bus.

With mixed feelings, Badroy watched the bus pull off and grow distant taking with it his last living link to everything he’d ever known. As he gazed, unbidden memories bullied their way into his brain, crowding his thoughts. He recalled late night basketball games, hide-and-go-get-it in the park with girls from across town and helping to carry a twelve-year-old drunk-for-the-first-time Madcon home from Great Aunty Walker’s annual party. Impossible to tell how long he might have stood there had Sports Man’s annoyingly cheery voice not brought him back to the present.

Ready to go, buddy? I want to get to my hotel in time to see Migue Coster perform, the wiry man with too much equipment chirped.

My fault, Badroy apologized, Let’s go. They began walking through the grass, following a well-trodden foot-path. Idly, the big man from South wondered how many people had taken the same walk for the same purpose.

This your first time visiting the Magical Country? Sports Man asked cheerily.

You mean Glade? Yeah. First time, Badroy answered. He’d heard Glade referred to as the Magical Country before, but for some reason Sports Man’s use of the term bothered him.

You’re going to have the time of your life buddy, trust me, the man said with a whistle. "To be honest, I envy you. There’s nothing like losing your virginity, right? And, trust me, no matter what you think you’ve done, if you’ve never done it over there you’re still a virgin. I just hope you booked enough time off. If it’s your first trip you’re definitely going to need more than a damn week."

Lot to see, huh? Badroy asked. From his perspective, Sports Man was an easy read, a middle aged, upper middle class thrill speaker whose real adventure was holding forth on his exploits. In other words, a smart guy with a stupid need to talk. Over the years, Badroy had found such men to be great sources of information, be it fact or rumour.

Sports Man coasted on, completely unaware of how he was being perceived. Is there a lot to see? he repeated incredulously. Does a hooker have diseases? You could be in Glade for years and not see the half, my man. I’m just pissed that I can only get away for four days this time. I usually don’t even bother unless I can set aside a solid month. Oh yeah, I’ve got it down to an art form. I spend a couple days at one of the resorts in La Tourista so I can surf a bit and get my cock into some exotic, magical cunt. Then I trek out into Janevess and rough it for a few weeks. Locals call Janevess The Wild Place. I’m talking one hundred per cent, real-life rainforest.

What about safety in Glade? Badroy asked.

Sports Man shrugged. "It’s pretty safe compared to some places, but it is considered a third world country and you know what that means. Just make sure you hire a guard at the terminal and you’ll be okay. After a few trips, you won’t even need the help. I haven’t used a guard since ‘97."

That long? Shit, you must be an expert by now, Badroy said.!

The man puffed visibly with pride. "I wouldn’t say expert, he beamed, Let’s just call me an experienced traveller. Not to brag, but I’ve been all over the fucking globe. There are some crazy, crazy sights to see in this world, my friend. If you think Glade is amazing, you should go to southern Africa.

There are cosmic wells there too, you know. Zimbabwe alone has three!"

I guess I’ll have to work my way up to Zimbabwe. Between you and me, this trip to Glade is my first time leaving the country. I feel like a newborn baby, not knowing shit. And I’ve heard so many rumours. Like I heard that they sell guns at the terminal once you cross the border. Is that true? Badroy asked, steering the conversation back towards Glade.

Sports Man looked Badroy up and down with a worldly smirk. "Sorry big fella, they won’t sell you a gun. That’s only for permanent residents. It probably wouldn’t do you much good anyway. Just hire a guard, brother. Trust me, that’s the safest bet."

Badroy had stopped listening after he heard the words permanent residents. He was already wondering exactly what type of gun he would purchase.

Passport? the three-armed woman at Gladian Customs asked in a bored tone. Her third arm protruded from the space on her chest between her tiny breasts and it was this limb that she stretched out to take Badroy’s identification. Once she had the passport in hand she thumbed through it with professional carelessness. Your name, sir? she asked after a time.

Badroy Anthony Taylor, he answered meekly. A lifetime of defiant dealings with authority had not prepared him for handling an official he actually wanted something from. It was a strange experience accompanied by an alien uncertainty and a queasy sensation that he guessed was nervousness. He’d already been through the all-too-familiar lines of security, submitting to being scanned, sniffed and prodded. Seeing a woman with a chest-arm for the first time only intensified the encounter.

When were you born? the Customs Agent asked next.

September twelfth, seventy-nine.

Country of birth?

Aquanie.

City?

Anetha City.

I see you’ve just received your Gladian citizenship, she noted. Congratulations.

Thank you, Badroy said. He flashed her his most charming smile, to little effect.

And what parish will you be staying in?

Wadad.

Address?

Badroy had memorized his future address the day he’d gotten the deed for his home-to-be in the mail. Unnamed residence number six on Whip Street in Warri.

That one bag is all your luggage?

Yes.

Any weapons inside?

No.

Are you planning on getting a weapon soon?

Yes, Badroy said firmly. He wasn’t sure if it was the smart answer, but he didn’t want to start his new life by returning to old criminal habits of lying and trickery.

Good. We expect our citizens to be capable of some measure of self-defence. Do you have anything else to declare?

No ma’am.

"Welcome to the City of Ocanam, sir, it is known as the Gladian gateway. The green signs will lead you to the exit. Enjoy what’s left of your day."

Thank you, Badroy sighed, relief making it heartfelt. His greatest fear had been that something would stop him from beginning his new life, that he’d be forced to go back to South and face what he’d done. It wasn’t the thought of a return to killing that bothered him (although he was tired of that, too), it was the thought of seeing that one boy’s face. Never again, he thought, already eager to get into Glade proper.

And Mr. Taylor? the Customs Agent with a trio of arms said as Badroy made to walk away. You might have been a big mafia in Anetha, but try that foolery here and you’ll be handled pretty quickly.

For a moment, only an instant, Badroy was too shocked to react, but the emotional jolt passed quickly leaving calm in its wake. Really? I guess I better be on my best behaviour then, he said, showing his teeth in amusement at the term big mafia.

Without realizing it, the border official had finally given him an assurance he understood. You didn’t waste breath giving hostile warnings to someone you meant to turn away. Besides, this was how people who worked for the government (any government) were supposed to act, like all-powerful jerks. As he walked towards the first green sign, the former gangster felt his muscles relax.

Alice in Wonderland, Badroy whispered to himself. He was in the process of watching the strangest grouping of humanity he’d ever witnessed pass in front of him. Years of cynicism and decades of seeing it all melted away in seconds, and he openly gawked. A woman with short horns on either side of her nose and lips threaded shut by a gold chain caught him staring and winked mockingly. The reaction shocked him into being more discreet. Stop acting like some newborn stiff on his first trip to the ghetto, he reprimanded himself silently. Still, Badroy spent a long while just standing there, a little outside the enclosed confines of customs and officially on the Gladian side of the border.

In truth, his own response to Glade’s version of multiculturalism surprised him. Anetha was a cosmopolitan city and South the type of neighbourhood that immigrants gravitated towards. As a boy, he’d attended school alongside more than a few of the winged folk who called themselves Drago-kin. He’d even spent a year as the cellmate of a Horo’sone whose entire body was covered with formfitting, exoskeletal armour and could walk up a wall like some sort of human cockroach.

This was different. For every person who fit his idea of normal there were two with wings, extra limbs, or some other unique feature. Twice he saw creatures that appeared to have no human qualities at all.

Are you okay, sir? a Horo’sone cop in a black uniform and a cap that said POLICE in white letters asked. The policeman’s tone was professional, conveying neither friendliness nor animosity.

I’m fine, Badroy answered, using the same cool inflection.

Perfect, the cop nodded. Be well, sir.

Thanks, the new arrival replied.

Sure. Just keep behaving yourself. The officer took care to look in Badroy’s face as he uttered his gentle warning.

Yeah. You, too, Badroy said pointedly. New start aside, he was still hypersensitive to police tactics, especially those meant to humble him.

The You, too stopped the officer in his tracks. Grey eyes slid over to make contact with Badroy’s brown ones. It was an unusual experience for the Horo’sone. Most people remembered who had the power when told to behave by a member of law enforcement; very few returned the admonishment. A tense beat passed between the two men and then the cop nodded again and moved on. Badroy watched as the man walked over to the nearest wall and then continued to casually stride upwards horizontally as if there was some powerful adhesive on the bottoms of his feet.

Asshole, Badroy muttered. He started moving a moment later.

A sign informed him that he was in the Ocanam Transit Terminal, which he found slightly comical since if he walked back twenty feet and went through a sliding door he’d be in the same building except it would have another name and be located in a totally different country.

Names and borders aside, the terminal was huge. In the southeast corridor alone there were two souvenir shops, four restaurants, a newsstand offering three choices of newspaper including The Gyno Review, a liquor store with an armed guard out front, five bulky men who each claimed to be The best in protection, six security firms that also claimed to be The best in protection, a pair of competing evangelists who screamed obscure religious passages at each other, and three gun stores.

Deciding between Guns in Tons, The Never Miss Dealership and Superior Selection was easy, since Superior Selection sounded like somewhere an adult would shop and had the bonus asset of being next to a Caribbean eatery. Badroy entered the clean and well-lit establishment with his stomach growling and nostrils filled with enticing smells from next door. A quick glance around revealed that he was the only customer.

Goov edenin’, came the accented greeting from an elderly woman behind a long counter. She had extremely large, droopy breasts that might have raised Badroy’s eyebrow in Anetha City but didn’t even make an impression now that he was in Ocanam. With her inversion of the sounds for v and d, it took a moment for him to figure out she’d wished him a good evening.

Hey, he replied absentmindedly. His attention had already been captured by the hunting rifles on the wall to his left, the assault rifles on the wall to his right and the handguns in display cases throughout the shop.

First time in Ocanam, right? the old woman asked.

Badroy winced mentally at being so easy to spot as a newcomer. Yup, he admitted.

Can’t sell you a gun unless you’re a citizen, baby, she said apologetically.

I’m a citizen, ma’am, Badroy said and showed his charming smile for the second time that day. !

You’re Glavian? And here I am thinking you look like such a typical Aquanian, the woman smiled back. Sorry about that.

No worries. I was born and raised in Aquanie. Only got my citizenship card and passport last week, Badroy explained as he looked at a pistol that closely resembled a Desert Eagle.

Ohhhh, an immigrant! We’re getting more and more these vays. We neder use to get any a few years ago, people were too afraiv. Times are changin’ I guess. The woman paused to pick her teeth with a fingernail, then gestured at the display case Badroy stood in front of, So you like the Glave Birv, huh?

The what?

The Glave Birv, one o’ our more popular han’guns, she clarified.

The Glade Bird? Is it gas-operated? Badroy wondered, trying to figure out how much like the Desert Eagle it was.

Yup. Just like a rifle, the old woman agreed. And I’m guessing it takes .44 Magnum rounds, the ex-gangster and gun enthusiast questioned.

Yeah baby, but you can put .44 Specials or .38s in there, too. I’v stick with the .44 Mags though. If some hoovlum runs up in your house then those will make the biggest holes. Which is what you want, after all.

Badroy laughed. The woman reminded him of Great Aunty Walker and some of the other grandmothers from South: frank, vibrant women who could stab you with the same hand they used to cook dinner for slum-orphans. My friend Madcon would love you, the new immigrant said.

The saleswoman grew abruptly serious. Is he han’some? she asked without the hint of a smile. Von’t lie.

Badroy shrugged, a bit taken aback, He does alright with women.

I like young men, but they had to be dery han’some...and oral, the woman said, matter-of-factly. To add emphasis to her words she gave Badroy a blatant, head-to-toe appraisal.

So how much would that Glade Bird cost me? Badroy asked quickly. Perhaps this woman wasn’t as much like Great Aunty Walker as he’d thought. Then again, he didn’t know Aunty Walker like that.

The elder woman sighed and shot the big man a look that was mostly disappointment with the tiniest bit of reproach. Two hundrev and fifty Aquanian vollars or two thousan’ two hundrev and fifty Glavian.

Badroy bought the gun and a box of ammunition, all the while doing his best not to giggle uncontrollably. He knew his mirth was childish, but it was genuine and it felt as good as any emotion he’d experienced for years. His only hope as he exited Superior Selection was that the feeling would last all the way to Wadad.

After paying three hundred Aquanian dollars for a black Glade Bird and bullets, and fifteen more for a surprisingly good meal of pepper pot and fungi at the restaurant next door, Badroy was left with nineteen thousand seven hundred and twelve dollars wrapped in rubber band coils and stuffed into his luggage. The money, and the house he’d purchased in Wadad (and had yet to see), were all the nest egg that he’d managed to put aside after thirty-three years of living. One might think he’d have more, since that time included two decades spent selling cocaine at various levels and extorting businesses across South, but he’d given away a fair share and spent a lot on things and people he enjoyed. Of the many regrets he had in life, how he’d used his money was not one.

Of course, much of his generosity had simply been his last minute way of settling the emotional debts he believed he’d racked up. His Anetha City car and apartment had been purchased in his girlfriend Sara’s name and since he figured she’d spent enough years hiding drugs in her cavities, taking collect calls from detention centres and sitting in courtrooms for hours at a time, he’d left them to her. He’d given another five thousand to Great Aunty Walker, who’d halfheartedly tried to refuse by claiming she wouldn’t live long enough to spend it. Unlike Sara, Aunty Walker cried when he came to offer his gift and say goodbye. Her last words to him were that she knew he was a good boy, despite everything, and she hoped that wherever he was going he would get the chance to be himself. Madcon was the last recipient of Badroy’s outpouring, getting a seldom-used laptop and the Desert Eagle he’d worn in his waistband for the previous three years. Looking back, Badroy marvelled at just how easy it had been to discard an entire life the way a snake sheds its skin.

Armed and fed, he made his way to the terminal’s train depot, bypassing the bus bays and the shuttles that were headed for the nearby airport. He wasn’t sure why, but he wasn’t ready to face the permanence of his new life yet. The idea of stepping off a plane in a few hours and seeing the first home he’d ever owned strangely terrified him. In a way, the feeling reminded of him of the vague anxiety he’d get during the final days of a prison sentence.

The man behind the counter at the train depot had a face that appeared to be made of some sort of glass or plastic and spoke with the careful, almost accent-less diction that Badroy was coming to expect as the business standard in Ocanam. Not a single v or d was inverted as he informed Badroy that the ride to Wadad took five days, cost a hundred dollars and left in five minutes.

You should catch it if you sprint, sir, glass face smiled stiffly, handing him the ticket envelope.

Badroy took the advice, calling out a Thanks man, respect! to the ticket agent over his shoulder as he dashed away. Just as he began to run, Badroy noticed four policemen, all Horo’sones, perched about ten feet above him on a wall. It was disconcerting to see them standing horizontally on a surface they should have slid down or fallen from, but he wasn’t shocked to note that they were watching him intently. He thought about giving them the finger as he hurried off, but wisely decided against it.

Had he been able to hear their conversation he would have heard one of them say, That’s the one who told me to behave myself. You see how he’s moving?

Yeah, another, larger Horo’sone police officer said in an accent that was stronger and more Gladian, He’s carryin’ a gun in his waist for sure.

Might be he’s one of the foreigners Popau brought in to fight us, the first speaker mused aloud.

Easy to fin’ out. See what train he gets on an’ if he’s going to Wavav we know he’s one a the vick-heavs, the big cop proposed.

Oh, he’s a dick-head alright. Just look at him, another spat.

Below, and out of hearing range, Badroy had made it to the train just in time to be the last passenger. The group of policemen exchanged a telling glance as they observed that the train was destined for the parish of Wadad, home of the infamous Popau and his rebelistas.

Knew it, one officer said.

The largest of the law enforcers smiled humourlessly and rubbed his hands together. We neev to get on the phone with the local boys in Wavav. Let’s fin’ out what city that train lets off in and arrange a greeting party for the vick-heav, he snarled.

CHAPTER TWO

Warri

"The ghetto is a great resource. Every city needs a few. Where

else can you apply enough pressure to warp people into the

particular type of adaptive genius a society needs to avoid

stagnation?"

- Su Langstones

City of Warri, Wadad Parish, Glade

The night was quiet, black and sugary sweet. Along with the background buzzing of mosquitos and the singing of frogs, there was little to hear beyond the slurred curses of a lost, drunken old man. Warri’s rowdy Wet Strip was dark, near deserted now that its restaurants were no longer serving food and the bars had sent home their patrons. Most of the activity taking place at this time was of a discrete nature. A cheating couple slunk down the paved road as quickly as the near-tropical heat would allow, the man releasing the woman’s hand as they came close to a rare street lamp and furtively raising a wing to obscure his face. Two old friends and longtime prostitutes silently passed a bottle of white rum back and forth as they sat on the front steps of their tiny home, not talking about the hassles they’d encountered, the johns they’d serviced or how little the money they’d made. A well-known brute sat alone in the shadows behind his ex-girlfriend’s house and let the tears cascade over his cheeks. Like most of the things that humanity hides, each person’s actions were primarily mundane and not at all interesting unless you knew them.

What was taking place inside Panub and Eboyn’s bar (P&E’s) was different. For Panub, it was a personal nightmare made manifest, a perfect storm of longtime connections and old sins come to haunt him. His wife Eboyn was just as worried, but took a slightly broader view and thought about the implications for the city and perhaps the whole parish. Both feared that the adventure beginning in their humble establishment would end tragically.

By then, the bar was practically empty. The two hundred or so customers who’d danced and drank earlier were long gone. Bartenders, waitresses, bouncers and cleaning staff had also left. In the back office, down the hall from the main room with its three bars, many tables and gaming area, Panub and Eboyn sat across an old, metal desk from three of Wadad’s most powerful men. The outlaw sat in the middle, the religious man lounged on the two-seater to the left. On the right, the legendary killer stood. Looking at them all together made Panub’s head hurt. Only in Warri, he thought, Could a barman have such a trio as his closest friends.

He’d met Ungle first, back when the outlaw was known by his birth name of Sunno. For Panub, following Sunno had come as naturally as flapping his underdeveloped