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170 Ile-Ibenu I n Old Benin the altars were caked with blood, and naked boys held up the arms of the king. He wore so many bracelets of coral and brass he couldn’t lift his own arms. The walls were studded with human skulls and everywhere there were slaves crucified on trees. The soldiers that came and burned the city down vomited at the smell. They were British officers and they called it the City of Blood but the old name was Ile-Ibenu, which means Country of Hatred. In the museum there is a drawing in ink of the old palace. The display cases are mostly empty except for some leopards and a few bronze heads. “Ours are better,” my mother whispers to my father. “Ssh,” he says. “Of course,” she says, “the best are in London. The Victoria and Albert has a spectacular collection.” I think how the ground drank all that blood. The Oba now is tall and thin. He wears glasses. He looks like a teacher. I saw my father shake his hand in the newspaper. The balsam flowers I planted came up red, not pink or orange. 171 C y c l e 3 ...

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