Rudy

There is a bird living in my house.

Our backyard is full of trees — coconut, guava, orange, date palm, and pawpaw — clustered together to the point that half of them grow into each other.

I spend a fair share of time here, and have come to notice this skimp of a bird. Its beak is orange, its feathers a blend of brown and grey, and its breast a muddy white. It is cutting across the grass as I write, fleeting with little skips before soaring for a branch, the faintest twittering song on its beaks.

I call this bird ‘Rudy’.

I am convinced that Rudy does not live outside the confines of our backyard.

How can I be sure?

One, I have never seen more than one of Rudy’s kind at a time. Two, the sheer number of times I have seen Rudy. And lastly, because the lazy writer in me needs that suspicion to be a certainty.

In the mornings, when it is neither dark nor bright, there are these pigeons that hug the edges of our roof and that of the squat, neighboring bet shop.

Pigeons are pretty commonplace birds. They diddle on the roofs, taking haphazard turns at the grains on the main street after the bet shop. They are not so many or loud as to be worrying.

And that is what I thought. That these were normal pigeons. Until I noticed something strange:

The pigeons have sides. Warring factions. One filled with white pigeons. And the other with dark ones.

I must state that this is not some clever allusion to the current clamor for racial equality nor the events that have stoked it. I am not so nuanced in the matters of racial injustice or writing to attempt such a thing. It just happens that sometimes shit be black and shit be white. Like pigeons.

They do not eat together, they do not flock together. Save for when the grain seller throws out some corn onto the street and it is time to attend their buffet. When they all line up atop the eaves, you can see a discernible space separating both factions.

Now, to introduce the last character in this story —Mother Noir.

By the fence on the other side of the house is our water tank and its stand —a tower as tall as our duplex. On occasion, when the sun is halfway to its peak, a grim bird comes to perch at the top of the rusty stand. It is big, bigger than the pigeons, and it is black, pure and glistening from tail to beak tip.

One might consider my description of this bird as grim to be unfair, stating that it is merely a subjective perception of her. But I promise you, it is a fact.

For five to ten minutes, depending on the day, Mother Noir swoops in with shrieking caws and lands on the highest part of the tank’s stand. And she just…stays, observing the full breath of the backyard from up high.

All of a sudden, there are no rustling lizards, no flapping birds, no skittering rats (these ones are a tale for another day). It is as if Mother Noir’s presence has engulfed the sound of nature.

I think that she only leaves when she feels that the fauna of the backyard have been sufficiently cowered. After which, one by one, the lizards and the birds and the rats are able to breathe again.

Grim, no?

Rudy and I have come to develop a curious relationship. One that I am rather glad of. Even though Rudy stays predominantly in the shade of the orange tree next to the water tank, in the mornings, around the time the pigeons start dotting the rooftops, I find him by the other side — by the fence over which I see the pigeons.

I emerge from the kitchen out to the back this morning carrying a cup filled with raw garri. Sure enough, the pigeons have started to troop in. And sure enough, Rudy is on the stretch of grass by the fence, hopping back and forth.

“Rudy,” I call, skipping down the short stairs onto the grass.

Before this ritual had become one, it used to be something of a tedious dance between us, where Rudy would flutter away at the slightest hint of my presence.

But now we are more aware of each other.

Rudy bounds towards me eagerly, waiting at my feet for the contents of the cup. I oblige, pouring a stream of the grains onto the floor.

And so I stand, watching Rudy chirp and eat.

It does not seem like a poignant moment on the face of it. But as someone who has never had a pet, I find it utterly fascinating. It is a kind of detached intimacy. That Rudy is just eating and I am just pouring food, but also that Rudy is eating only because I am pouring the food.

Will a day come when Rudy becomes comfortable enough to literally eat out of my hand? Or perhaps a day when, as I write, he shuffles in his perch atop my shoulder, as much a part of my process as the background echoes of Mounika’s discography?

Call me a naive optimist, but I see endless possibilities.

Furious wing flaps make me raise my head. The pigeons are fighting again. These scuffles happen more frequently these days. Rudy continues to poke at the grains, unconcerned by the noisy pigeons. My phone buzzes from behind on the stairs. I leave Rudy for a moment to go check it.

Pay attention now. The following series of events happen in a blur.

The roof is unable to contain the two tussling pigeons. They scramble off it, a cooing flurry of black and white gliding onto the grass, landing mere steps away from Rudy.

Rudy is not frightened by how close the fight is. He watches, transfixed as both birds prod at each other with their beaks and wings.

This is when I hear the shriek from above.

But it is too late.

I feel the burst of Mother Noir’s piercing dive like a missile has just thundered past me.

She is here and it is not quiet. She will not stand for such impunity.

Her flight is quick and low, inches over the grass. By the time I am aware of what is happening, she is already gone, vanishing beyond sight.

And Rudy along with her, lost in the clutches of her spindly claws.

The pigeons are still, scared senseless by the savagery they just witnessed.

The spot where Rudy had been seconds ago is empty. Empty with a yawning silence.