In Dependence

by Sarah Ladipo Manyika

  ‘Wetin you cook?’ Tayo asked, circling his hands above the food that Christine had brought. ‘Na jollof and dodo I dey smell so?’

  ‘Comot!’ Christine slapped his wrist.

  ‘Ehen. Na so e be? Okay-o!’ Tayo surrendered, laughing as he walked back to the film projector. It was a good sign that Christine was joking with him.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she called after him, ‘I’ve made special jollof with dodo and moin-moin.’

  ‘Special for who?’ Ike asked.

  ‘For you, my darling,’ she said, not looking at anyone in particular.

  ‘For me?’ Ike crooned, draping an arm across her shoulder. Tayo stared in shock for a moment before lifting the reels from the steel containers and attaching them to the projector, willing himself to be calm. A few seconds later, casting another glance their way, he saw that Ike’s arm was gone, and Christine had started laying out the food, her back turned to him. She wore a grey woollen dress, long-sleeved and tight across the hips. He thought of the times when he’d placed his hands around that tiny waist and spread his fingers over the curve of her hips. How dare Ike! Tayo continued to stare, watching Christine balance on her stiletto heels as though they were a natural extension of her legs.

  She turned and he looked away, knowing she’d sensed him watching, even though the room had filled with people. After a few more moments of tinkering with the projector, Tayo stopped to mingle and welcome new guests. As usual, several pretty women smiled at him, but he wasn’t in the mood. Let Bolaji entertain the women while he talked to the men. He greeted a Nigerian, some West Indians, and several English students before the meeting began. At least the turnout was good, which served as a temporary distraction from thoughts of Christine. The President made the initial introductions, and then Tayo played the film on Nigeria.

  Tayo had not had time to review the reels beforehand, and so it was a relief to find that the film played smoothly. It started with a brief history of Nigeria’s colonial rule, which served as the backdrop to a much longer treatment of the country’s recent independence. There were shots of artisans and village life, as well as modern scenes depicting technological advancements, including aerial shots of the Kainji dam and the new Niger Bridge soon to link the commercial town of Onitsha with the ports. Tayo felt satisfied with the film, which ended on a positive note for Nigeria’s future. As the credits rolled and lights were turned back on, it was Ike, as usual, who spoke first.

  ‘That film is a disgrace! Where were the Nigerians?’

  Tayo raised his eyebrows, only somewhat taken aback as he knew where Ike was likely to go with this. Ike had lived in England longer than most of them and now had a tendency to interpret British pronouncements on Africa as racist or, at best, patronising. In his first year, Tayo found Ike’s reactions extreme but he was used to them now and the longer he remained in England, the more he saw Ike’s point of view. Had it not been for Ike’s behaviour with Christine, he might have nodded in agreement.

  ‘And I don’t mean showing photographs of Nigerians, as in some anthropological study of Africans in their natural habitat,’ Ike continued. ‘I mean, why aren’t Nigerians directing these films? Or, at the very least, why aren’t we narrating them? And why must film-makers always start with the colonial period as if that’s where Nigeria’s history begins? Why not the 10th century with the Benin and Hausa kingdoms or, if one must start with whites, how about the slave trade?’

  ‘Okay, Ike, we all know our history,’ Francis interrupted.

  ‘But we don’t!’ Ike retorted. ‘I’m willing to bet that you know English history better than your own Ghanaian history. You spout English law, but what can you tell me about the Akan and their legal system? And if colonialism is finished, why do British people still speak for us as though we are children?’

  Tayo glanced at Christine, wondering what she thought of Ike’s tirade, but her face gave nothing away.

  ‘What do you propose?’ Francis challenged Ike. ‘You want Nigerians to seize control, just because they’re Nigerians. You can’t just take Africans with no experience of Westminster-style democracy and expect them to step in overnight. If you ask me, independence came far too early.’

  ‘Well, the question surrounding the timing of independence is certainly a topic for future meetings,’ Simon interjected.

  Oh Simon! Tayo thought to himself. When Simon spoke like this, it made Tayo think that Ike had been right to object to Simon’s nomination as President on account of his being British. At the time, Tayo had supported Simon, as a friend and also as a matter of principle. But Simon was naïve and out of touch with what Africans were thinking about their continent. No sane African would waste time revisiting the timing of independence.

  ‘We could invite Margery Perham back for a debate with Sir Hugh Trevor-Roper,’ Simon continued.

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ Tayo answered, remembering his first and only encounter with the history professor. Ike had warned him not to bother with the man, but Tayo had been new to Oxford and thought he could win the professor over by the power of his argument.

  ‘What you’re suggesting, Simon, is precisely what I’m talking about,’ Ike snapped. ‘Why must we always invite British people to talk about Africa’s future? Don’t we have enough brilliant people of our own? And as for brilliance, this certainly doesn’t apply to Trevor-Roper. Anyone saying Africa makes no contribution to history or culture is not only racist, but stupid. And by the way, Perham’s no better with her patronising nonsense.’

  ‘That’s not a fair assessment,’ Simon protested, reddening around the collar. Everyone knew that he was related to the woman.

  ‘Perham may be conservative in her politics, but surely not patronising?’

  The question dangled in the air for a few uneasy moments. ‘Any other ideas for speakers?’ someone asked.

  Names were proposed and the discussion moved on, but as soon as someone suggested the topic of Négritude, Ike was back. ‘And this is the other problem. Négritude is an ideology of the elite, devoid of meaning for the masses. No, you must listen,’ he insisted, responding to grumblings from the floor. ‘Négritude is an ideology suggesting that Africans are blessed with a soul and not reason. They would have us believe that Africans can sing, dance, and feel, but not think. To merely emphasise the supposed African capacity to hear rhythm only supports the racist views of people like Trevor-Roper and Gobineau.’

  ‘Hence an excellent topic for discussion.’

  Everyone’s eyes turned to the female speaker with the long brown hair swept over one shoulder. She had not said a word until now, but Tayo had noticed her earlier and had the feeling that he’d met her somewhere before.

  ‘I think it could be argued,’ she continued, ‘that proponents of Négritude, like Césaire and Senghor, don’t just see African culture as Africa’s only offering to western civilisation, but rather one of many contributions. Also, isn’t it Senghor who speaks of the importance of cross-cultural breeding?’

  Tayo smiled at the look of shock on Ike’s face and wracked his brain for where and when he’d seen this woman previously. She had to be from St. Hilda’s, but what did she read? A historian perhaps, or a classicist? He would have to find out after the meeting.

  ‘I don’t believe we’ve met.’ Tayo extended a hand.

  ‘Vanessa Richardson. Pleased to meet you.’

  She stood a few inches shorter than he, but fixed her gaze on him so that he found it impossible to let his eyes wander down the rest of her body. He had to content himself with her face and eyes, which were blue and clear like a child’s. The colour of her hair, he now noticed, was more golden than brown.

  ‘My name is Tayo. Tayo Ajayi. Ty, if you like.’

  ‘Yes. Tayo Ajayi.’

  ‘You pronounce it well.’ He smiled, liking the fact that she opted for his full name. ‘And thank you for your contribution to the discussion. We need people like you to take on our radicals.’

  ‘But I didn�
�t add much. Besides, I thought the other speaker made some valid points. What do you think?’

  As she slipped her hands into her pockets, Tayo admired her dark brown coat with its large chestnut buttons, and thought how stylish it was.

  ‘I thought I should give others a chance to expound,’ he said. ‘Although I was going to take you up on your point about crosscultural breeding.’

  ‘Oh, were you?’

  ‘Yes.’ He laughed, remembering now where he’d seen her. It was at Charlie’s place. She was the woman in the little red dress, but too engrossed with the Indian man for him to have paid much attention because he, unlike others, would never dream of taking someone else’s girl. Not that Ike had really taken his girl, given that he and Christine had already broken up.

  ‘Come and eat.’ Tayo pointed to the table at the back and winked at Christine. ‘My friend here cooks the best Nigerian food. I’m sure you’ll like it. We have moin-moin made from beans and what else?’ He paused, realising he had no clue what else went into the preparation of such things. ‘We also have plantains, which we call dodo. They’re tasty and sweet like bananas. I’m sure you’ll like them. Try some,’ he urged, handing Vanessa a plate, and catching the pleasant fragrance of her hair. He liked the way she helped herself to good-sized portions, not the cautious amounts that English people usually took.

  ‘So, did you come with a friend?’ he asked, as they moved from the table.

  ‘Is that a requirement?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ he said, bemused by her wit.

  ‘I came on my own.’ She smiled.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You sound surprised.’

  ‘I am. How can such a beautiful lady be without an escort?’ It was meant to make her blush, but it didn’t.

  ‘And why is that strange?’ She held his gaze. ‘Don’t tell me you’re one of those men that believes women need protecting.’

  ‘Oh no, it’s the men, Vanessa, who need protecting from fighting over you.’ He smiled but then sensed he’d gone too far with the fighting bit and adopted a serious tone to ask about her interest in Senghor.

  ‘It’s the combination of poet and politician that appeals to me,’ she replied, resting her fork on the plate. ‘He’s different, and I like that. I suppose that whether being in touch with one’s feelings is African or not, I’m all in favour of it, be it Senghor or novelists like Forster or Woolf.’

  ‘Ah, the Bloomsbury group. So you must also be an admirer of Maynard Keynes?’

  ‘Absolutely. And you?’

  ‘I admire his economics, but not …’ He paused, distracted by the noise coming from the other end of the room.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I seem to be keeping you.’

  ‘Oh, no. They’re just being too loud, and I don’t fancy seeing the Dean. I’m sorry, now I’ve forgotten what I was saying.’

  ‘It was your hesitation concerning Keynes.’

  ‘Oh yes, I was going to say that I questioned his lifestyle, perhaps his morals.’

  ‘But that has nothing to do with his economics,’ Vanessa replied.

  ‘True, and no doubt you’ll tell me that Keynes was a man in touch with his feelings.’

  Tayo found himself staring at the fullness of her lips. God had definitely blessed this Englishwoman with some other country’s lips. A shame though, that the rest of her was covered up. This was the other problem with England being so cold — women always bundled themselves up. Just as he was about to say something to that effect, she started coughing.

  ‘Here,’ Tayo reached for a glass of water. ‘I’m sorry, our food is spicy, isn’t it?’ But before she could respond, another uproar of voices burst upon the room.

  ‘Oh goodness! Here’s the Dean. Will you excuse me for a moment, Vanessa?’ Tayo put down his plate and gently touching her arm, told her he’d be back. Once the Dean had left, Tayo berated his friends.

  ‘Cool down Tayo! Noise never hurt anyone,’ Ike replied, dismissively.

  Tayo shook his head, mildly irritated. He looked for Vanessa and found her buttoning her coat.

  ‘You’re not leaving, are you? I was just beginning to enjoy our conversation.’

  ‘Just beginning?’ She smiled.

  ‘Well, yes,’ he laughed. ‘Actually, I was clinging to your every word, even as you coughed, so you must at least allow me to walk you back to your college. As a believer in feelings, I’m sure you wouldn’t want to hurt mine, would you?’

  ‘No,’ she smiled, ‘but I’ve got my bicycle so I’m not sure how to accommodate your request.’

  ‘Then I can at least walk you to the porter’s lodge. This is a dangerous college full of crazy Marxists, including our Master.’ He was keen to make a good impression, but seemed incapable at that moment of anything but a silly grin as he extended his arm and guided her out of the door.

  They stepped out into the damp and foggy evening, and crossed the main quad, passing in front of the dimly lit Junior Common Room where a student band was playing dreadful music to a drunken audience of freshers.

  ‘Well, at least that should keep the Marxists out.’ Vanessa laughed.

  ‘Terrible!’ Tayo winced. They walked from the old building, past the porter’s lodge and onto Broad Street, where Vanessa had left her bicycle.

  ‘It was nice talking to you, Vanessa. I hope you come back.’ He steadied her bicycle as she got on and waved goodbye, watching for a moment as she pedalled away.

  ‘Tayo! Tayo! Tayo!’ Ike grinned when Tayo returned. ‘Quite a stunning girl you found there.’

  ‘You dey craze!’ Tayo tapped Ike on the side of his head.

  ‘And a white woman, too,’ Christine added.

  ‘Anything wrong with that?’ Tayo asked. While he’d hoped to make her jealous, he was now annoyed with her accusation.

  ‘Yes, so what’s wrong with white women?’ Bolaji asked. ‘I want to know, too.’

  Everyone else had gone and it was just the four of them now, tidying up.

  ‘I didn’t say anything was wrong,’ Christine replied.

  ‘But you implied it,’ Bolaji added.

  ‘Well,’ Ike laughed, ‘I certainly think something’s wrong with black men always going for the so-called English honey.’

  ‘Hey, I was just doing my job by talking to the new members,’ Tayo replied. ‘Don’t vex me now, abeg.’

  ‘So you’re feeling guilty as charged?’

  ‘Don’t mind him.’ Bolaji dismissed Ike with a flick of the hand. ‘But Christine, I think you need to explain what’s wrong with English women.’

  They had finished straightening the furniture and were sitting around the film projector. Tayo was putting away the reels.

  ‘I never said anything was wrong with English women, I just don’t understand why you men always fall for them, that’s all. When do you ever see white men coming for black women?’

  ‘So you want a white man?’ Tayo asked.

  ‘No,’ she snapped, glaring at him. ‘Not everyone’s like you, Tayo.’

  ‘Ohhhhh!’ Bolaji whistled.

  ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ Tayo persisted, ignoring the laughter from the others.

  ‘Well, you obviously noticed her.’

  ‘Meaning what? That you never notice other men?’

  ‘Look,’ Ike interrupted, placing a hand on Christine’s shoulder. ‘Let’s carry these plates outside. We don’t want to get locked out of college.’

  Tayo returned to fiddling with the films that he’d already finished packing.

  ‘Tayo,’ Christine called, lingering after Bolaji and Ike had left. ‘Why don’t you come to my place for some coffee and we can talk.’

  ‘That sounds nice. A happy threesome— you, me, and Ike?’

  ‘Are we jealous?’

  ‘What’s there to be jealous of?’

  ‘Well, it’s your choice,’ she shrugged. ‘And for your information, Ike won’t be there.’

  Whenever he stepped into Chris
tine’s flat, Tayo thought of home. Perhaps it was the smell of Christine’s cooking that reminded him of Mama, or the fact that she frequently played Highlife and Juju music. Perhaps it was now simply nostalgia for what used to be. Whatever it was, he’d missed it, and by the time he arrived, Christine had put the kettle on, and the flat felt warm after the cold and wet of outside. They exchanged news of their summers and while she got the mugs and the milk, he stared around the room.

  ‘You can sit if you like.’ She waved at the table.

  He sat and picked up one of her books.

  ‘I think you might enjoy that one,’ she said, watching as he flipped through it.

  ‘And I suppose that this Lonely Londoners will tell me why I shouldn’t look at English girls?’

  ‘Oh, don’t be silly.’ She laughed, handing him a mug and sitting down at the other end of the table.

  ‘So why am I here, Christine? Why me and not Ike?’

  ‘I wanted to talk to you, Tayo.’

  ‘Why can’t you talk to Ike?’

  ‘Why do you keep bringing up Ike?’

  ‘Well, it looks like you and he are …’

  ‘Are what?’

  ‘Are some sort of couple.’

  ‘And if we were?’

  ‘Well, are you?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I really don’t care.’

  ‘Then why do you keep asking?’

  ‘Why do you keep avoiding an answer?’

  ‘Because Ike has nothing to do with this. I just thought I could talk to you as a friend.’

  Tayo waited for her to finish speaking, watching as she stared blankly across the room.

  ‘I feel scared,’ she said. ‘I’m scared about my next tutorial, I’m scared about exams, and I’m scared about what my parents will think if I don’t do well.’

  He stood up and went to sit in the chair next to hers. He felt moved that she had come to him, that she still needed him, and that it was he rather than Ike that she wanted. He understood the pressures she was under, they all did.