In Dependence

by Sarah Ladipo Manyika

  Your mother is preparing her trip to Mecca. She informs me that she will offer special prayers for you when she arrives, and that upon her return, she will dispatch henceforth to you some additional provisions. In short, she would like to know how much to send for your esteemed colleagues. It is most encouraging to hear your news. Write again immediately upon receipt of this letter. Read your books, and always remember that you are an Ajayi man. Don’t forget the Ajayi motto: ‘In all things moderation, with the exception of study.’

  God bless you, Your father,

  Inspector (Mr.) Adeniyi Ajayi

  Chapter 3

  All that Tayo knew about Mr. and Mrs. Barker, prior to their first meeting, was that Mr. Barker and Headmaster Faircliff had been at Oxford together in the 1940s and that Mr. Barker was a history don at St. John’s. Tayo presumed, on this basis, that the two men would be similar — that Mr. Barker, like Faircliff, would be highly intelligent, pompous and patronising. Tayo was surprised, therefore, to discover that the man was not at all as he expected, and even more surprised to hear Mr. Barker freely joke about his old friend as a ‘colonial type’ and a remnant of a dying era. Mr. Barker was nothing like Faircliff; he was soft-spoken and married to a much younger and very attractive Italian woman who preferred to be called Isabella rather than Mrs. Barker. The couple had no children of their own but seemed to have adopted a number of foreign students at Oxford. Isabella cooked wonderful meals in a way that reminded Tayo of his own mother, while Mr. Barker talked politics like his father. Mr. Barker had also visited Nigeria on several occasions.

  Today, the Barkers were having a drinks party for foreign students at their house on St. Giles. Isabella welcomed Tayo with the usual hug and kiss before whisking him through the kitchen and into the garden where everyone else was gathered. Tayo felt disappointed that they had to mingle outside rather than inside where it was warmer, but it seemed to Tayo that this was the British way. People spent all day talking about the weather, complaining about how cold, damp and miserable it was, until the sun poked its head around the clouds, and then everyone started talking about the lovely weather. But ‘lovely’ to Tayo could only be warm weather, not this cold, pale orange sun sitting high up there in the sky. He was thinking of an excuse to return indoors when he spotted his friend Bolaji standing next to a striking-looking woman. He’d only ever heard of one Nigerian woman at Oxford so he guessed it must be her — the beautiful, third-year Christine.

  They were talking literature when Tayo joined Bolaji’s small circle of friends who stood by the back door, which was at least warmer than standing under the apple trees where everyone else had congregated. Bolaji was arguing that Shakespeare was the greatest author of all time while others argued for Tolstoy and Homer. As Tayo listened, it became obvious that the group knew much more about literature than he did. Even Bolaji was able to roll out an impressive number of literary theorists in support of his position.

  ‘What does Christine think?’ Tayo asked, curious to hear her thoughts, for he knew she read Modern Languages.

  ‘Poets are the greatest writers,’ she answered, looking surprised that he already knew who she was.

  ‘And why?’ he asked, knowing that the safest way to avoid being questioned himself was to do the asking. He noticed, as Christine talked, that she appeared quite serious: never smiling, despite the fact that the conversation had taken a jocular tone. He’d heard men say she was arrogant on account of her beauty. Others thought it was the result of her having lived in England for such a long time. It was rumoured that both her parents had been to school in England and she had been sent to boarding school as a child. Whatever the reason for Christine’s seriousness, Tayo was determined to make a good impression on this beautiful woman. She spoke eloquently, like an actress, poised and confident so that Tayo quickly lost track of what everyone else was saying until he heard someone call his name.

  ‘What do you think, Tayo?’

  ‘Me?’ he replied, stalling for time. ‘I think, if I had to choose, it would always be Shakespeare — the sonnets,’ he added, with the sinking feeling that someone would now ask him to say more, to explain or, God forbid, name a favourite sonnet. To avoid this, he changed the subject by mentioning one of his old teachers who had been a poet.

  ‘Christopher Okigbo was your teacher!’ Christine exclaimed.

  Later that evening, Bolaji marveled at Tayo’s good luck. ‘Did you see how she lit up when you spoke of Okigbo? She even smiled!’

  Tayo laughed and claimed not to have noticed, but of course he had; everybody had.

  Tayo did not see Christine again until they bumped into each other the following Monday as she was dashing out of the Covered Market. He invited her for coffee at the Cadena, and to his surprise, she accepted. It was all he could do to stop himself from grinning while saying goodbye.

  The following day he was struck by how made-up Christine looked. She was the sort of woman who would always look attractive, but it seemed to Tayo that she had put extra effort into styling her hair and adding rouge to her cheeks. He didn’t care for the rouge, finding it artificial, but the fact that she’d gone to such lengths for him was, he hoped, a good sign.

  They talked more about Okigbo and some of the other new Nigerian authors. He asked her why she was so interested in these writers. Wouldn’t it be more interesting to talk about others that she must know from around the world? No, she replied, insisting that her knowledge of Nigeria and Nigerian writers was not what it should be. Her schooling in England had not introduced her to West African writers. Tayo sensed that it mattered a great deal to her what other Nigerians thought of her. Didn’t she know how in awe they all were of her? Tayo was beginning to think that she was sharing things with him that she might not have shared with others, when she suddenly changed the subject and asked how many girlfriends he had.

  ‘So far, I’ve counted five,’ she said, referring to the number of women that had passed by their table to say hello to him. ‘And I noticed that Isabella was quite fond of you the other day.’

  He laughed it off, but Christine wasn’t laughing.

  It took some days to convince Christine that he wasn’t the playboy she took him to be. Each time they ran into each other she would find a way of commenting on his female friends, but because she was still talking to him, Tayo grew bold again and invited her to his rooms for coffee. It was a Friday night when she came, and this time, when she made yet another dig at his so-called girlfriends, he decided to play along. He told her all about his teenage fantasies of Indian women and how he used to go to the Lebanese theatre in Ibadan to watch Indian films. Unable to understand Hindi, what else was he supposed to do but look at the ladies? Christine laughed this time, which gave him the courage to turn serious and tell her how beautiful she was. He still half-expected to be pushed away or for her to say something about how silly and young he was, but she didn’t. And then, because she didn’t resist, he reached for her hand and drew her close for a kiss. For the rest of the term, they were together.

  There were moments when Tayo felt guilty about Modupe, but then he would tell himself that he and Modupe had been too young to make promises to each other. Three years was a long time to be apart, and now when he re-read Modupe’s letters, they struck him as childish. Modupe was just a girl. With Christine, he had gained confidence. He no longer felt the need to talk about long-term commitments as he’d done with Modupe. He was, after all, only nineteen, and now that he’d won the chase with Christine, he still hoped to meet other women and further expand his horizons.

  Chapter 4

  Vanessa cursed herself as she and her friends left the pub. A wet October night was not the time to have worn, of all silly things, a strapless dress with summer sandals. What on earth was she thinking, splashing through rain and stubbing her toes on paving stones as she ran towards Balliol? And who was this person whom everyone was talking about as though he were a god? He was good-looking, from an aristocratic family, captain of boats
at Balliol, and a million other marvellous things, but none of this meant much to her. Certainly not the aristocratic bit, but she’d stayed with her friends because it was late and too dark to walk back to college on her own, even though she still felt tempted to try.

  When they arrived at the party, someone was thoughtful enough to lend her a towel. She dried herself off, realising only too late that the men who stared were looking not at her dress, but through it. ‘Oh well,’ she sighed, ‘let them look!’

  ‘Care for a drink?’ someone asked.

  ‘Would love one.’ She took the glass and drank the wine quickly.

  ‘I’m Charlie,’ he smiled, ‘and you are…?’

  ‘Tired.’

  ‘Well tired is no good,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Let me get you something.’ He took her empty glass and returned with a full one and a jumper.

  ‘Not a bad match,’ she smiled at his choice of clothing.

  ‘Oh, look who’s here!’ Charlie grabbed her hand and pulled her along.

  ‘Mehul, meet …’

  ‘Vanessa,’ she offered, shaking free of Charlie to greet the newcomer whose handshake was firm but then too lingering. What was wrong with these Oxford men? Still, she liked the deep tenor of the man’s voice and watched him as he wandered off, stepping gingerly over empty wine glasses, toppled bottles, and a body sprawled drunkenly across the floor. It was rare that a man’s looks made her stare, but he was Indian, or possibly Arabic, with dark, shoulder-length hair and eyes like Omar Sharif’s. Everyone seemed to recognise Mehul, or at least pretended to know him as they slapped him on the back in inebriated greeting.

  ‘He’s terribly good-looking, isn’t he? An artist, apparently, of some renown.’

  ‘I see,’ Vanessa nodded, trying to remember the woman’s name, but by now she was finding it difficult to think straight. The woman was in the same college as her. That much she remembered.

  ‘They say he’s a prince.’

  ‘Really?’

  So, a prince and an artist, Vanessa mused, until she realised that it was someone else that the woman was referring to. And God, he was good-looking, too. Tall and dark, with beautiful hands that gestured as he talked. Oh no-no-no, Vanessa thought to herself, when he looked her way. She felt a little drunk, but still sober enough to care about looking bedraggled in front of a man like him.

  The next morning Vanessa woke up shivering and with a throbbing headache. Every time she moved her head, the pain got worse so she lay still, trying to recall where she’d been the night before and how she’d managed to get back to college. She swore not to drink so much next time. She hadn’t intended to get drunk, but part of the problem, she realised as soon as she got a whiff of burnt toast from somewhere down the hall, was that she hadn’t eaten very much. Food was so terrible in college that she’d been skipping meals. She lay still for a few more minutes, hoping for some sun to brighten the room. Then, the relentless ringing of Oxford bells began. She tried folding the ends of the pillow over her ears to block out the noise but that didn’t help, so she gazed at the fireplace, wishing it could light itself.

  ‘Shit,’ she whispered, spotting a lump on the floor. Thinking it might be a rat, she clung tightly to her blanket as she craned her neck squinting for a better view. ‘Thank God,’ she muttered. It was only last night’s clothes lying in a crumpled heap — her red dress and Charlie’s jumper that she hadn’t returned. She pushed back the blankets, got out of bed and searched for her slippers and dressing gown before padding across the wooden floor to her desk. She took her notebook and hurried back to the warmth of the bed, plumping her pillows so she could sit comfortably against the wall. But first, music. She had to have music. She slipped out of bed again and selected Bob Dylan’s The Times They Are a Changin’ from her record collection.

  ‘The trouble with Oxford men’, she began scribbling on her notepad, ‘or better still, the trouble with men.’ Either way, there would be no confusing which article she was referring to, given that “The Problem with Women at Oxford” had been published in the same student paper for which she now wrote. She jotted down a list of ideas and wrote a few paragraphs before she changed her mind. She would write to her best friend instead.

  Dear Jane,

  I’ve just spent a frustrating hour trying to write something on the status of women in Oxford. If only you were here then we could talk about it, but by the time you receive this I will either have written the article or abandoned it. Perhaps part of the problem is that I’m trying to write this piece in response to a silly article arguing that Oxford women are to blame for distracting the men (as though men have nothing to do with their own distractions!). In any case, I think I’ve now decided not to bother writing a response. I’ll write a totally separate piece on the ways in which we’re treated like second-class citizens and how it must change (can you tell that I’m listening to Dylan?).

  And now, after all of that, how are you? I miss you so much and can’t wait to see you in London next week. You haven’t told me what your rooms are like. Do you like them? I love my room, with its view of the college gardens. The birds love it too and each morning I’m greeted by a choir of finches and robins who sit in the tree outside my window and serenade me sweetly, which is far more pleasant than the clanging of college bells. Do please tell me that you are not cursed with the same at Cambridge! Everyone says that after a while one stops hearing them, but I can’t see (hear!) how that’s possible.

  I’ve thus far made two friends in college, Gita (from Kenya), who reads English, and Pat, who is a physicist like you. Pat’s father is a Balliol scout, which must make it terribly uncomfortable for her among the more snooty girls here in college, such as the Roedean girl who speaks incessantly of family connections and refers to Churchill as ‘Uncle Winston.’ Silly girl!

  Vanessa readjusted her pillow and took another biscuit, reflecting for a moment on her own family. They were more posh than she cared to admit. Her grandfather sat in the House of Lords and her father talked endlessly of his time in the colonial service. At least there was Uncle Tony and Mother to balance things out.

  I’ve signed up for the Labour Club, JACARI (Joint Action Committee Against Racial Inequality), and the college music society. Maybe more if there’s time. And you? Do tell me whom you are meeting and all the things you are getting up to at Cambridge. I’ll be dreadfully unhappy if you tell me that all you’re doing is work.

  Write to me soon!!

  Lots of love,

  Nessa xx

  Vanessa folded the letter and glanced at the clock. Twelve noon. Lunchtime, but college food was overcooked and flavourless. ‘Dreadful, dreadful,’ she muttered, looking down at the empty biscuit tin and feeling sick. Time for a cigarette, one small consolation for being away from home, but not as good as Mother’s roast beef with horseradish, or lamb with mint sauce, rosemary-flavoured potatoes, peas, carrots, Yorkshire pudding, treacle tart, apple pie …

  ‘Oh, stop it!’ Vanessa berated herself.

  Chapter 5

  Tayo hummed to himself the tune of Count Basie’s One O’ Clock Jump, clicking his fingers to the rhythm as he stepped out of Hall into the cold. He lifted his shoulders and drew the tips of his coat collar beneath his chin. All around was the lazy English drizzle which floated in the air, like harmattan dust, only worse. Nigerian rain fell with purpose, in serious torrents, watering the earth and then stopping; in England, drizzle lingered for days.

  Tayo tugged again at his collar and kept walking. As he crossed the quad, he nodded to some young men on their way to dinner, who looked surprised that he would acknowledge them. They each wore their gowns, as was mandatory for Hall and tutorials, the lengths of which varied according to a student’s performance in entrance exams. Tayo felt thankful not to be a fresher again, with first-year anxieties only exacerbated by these visible markers of alleged intelligence. He still worried about work, but not at all about his social life, except for today as he thought of seeing Christine afte
r the long summer break.

  They’d had an argument just before the holidays and a few weeks later Christine sent him a letter telling him that their relationship was over. She’d taken offence at being called clingy and accused him of looking for an excuse to court other women. In Tayo’s mind he’d only been trying to tell her that he wasn’t ready for a long-term commitment. He didn’t want to make the same mistake he’d made with Modupe, but he also didn’t want the relationship with Christine to end. He kept hoping she would change her mind but weeks went by with no word from her, and as he began to meet new people, he decided that perhaps the break was a good thing.

  The room booked for the West Africa Society meeting was in the basement. It wasn’t the best of rooms — cold and damp — but it would do. Someone had set up the film projector so that all Tayo had to do was rearrange the furniture. He rubbed his hands, wondering how it was that English people never seemed to feel the cold. He concluded it must be genetics, as he pulled out the chairs and pushed the tables against the wall for food and drink. College rules limited refreshments at these meetings to hors d’oeuvres, but nobody ever took this seriously and Tayo had started to dream of spicy jollof rice with fried chicken when Christine arrived with Ike and Bolaji, carrying the food he was dreaming of. They exchanged animated greetings in Pidgin, which was their language of fun — a verbal jazz of broken English interspersed with Yoruba and Igbo, and a good dose of gesticulation.