In Dependence

by Sarah Ladipo Manyika

  When the Barkers left for their holiday, Tayo set himself a strict schedule of work as a way of dealing with things. He used Mr. Barker’s study on the first floor and, for good measure, he took down the egungun mask that was propped up in one corner of the desk. As a Christian he was not supposed to believe in the power of such things, but he wasn’t going to take any chances. The British might be safe messing around with festival masks, but not him. He also removed Mr. Barker’s journals that lay strewn on the windowsill, dusted their faded covers, and stacked them neatly to flatten the curling corners.

  The room was cluttered with history books, but the desk faced the window, away from the mess, overlooking the back garden where he would often find himself staring and thinking of home. And sometimes he would think of nothing in particular as he watched the blackbirds hopping across the lawn, pecking in search of worms. Eventually he’d return to his books and, if he still could not concentrate, he would stand up and wander around the house. He never grew tired of browsing the Barkers’ bookshelves. In addition to history, Mr. Barker owned a large collection of musical scores; mainly classical, and some jazz. Tayo remembered his first visit with Vanessa to the Barkers and the way in which Mr. Barker had spoken to Vanessa at length about his collection. Tayo remembered feeling envious about their intimate tête-à-tête on a subject he didn’t know much about.

  There were other books in the house in German, French and Italian, which were Isabella’s — an impressive assortment of European and Russian literary greats, including a complete collection of Dostoevsky and Tolstoy. Tayo admired this vast assortment of books and the way the Barkers had decorated their house with a mix of Italian and English paintings, as well as the African bronzes and carvings that Mr. Barker had collected over the years. Tayo imagined owning a house like this one day — a home tastefully decorated and filled with books; a home which could be shared with friends in the same way as the Barkers shared theirs. Isabella, like Vanessa, collected beautiful things. Vanessa had transformed his own rooms with her thoughtful touches — the silver candlestick holders, the Spanish mirror, and a warm cashmere blanket.

  On New Year’s Eve, Tayo awoke feeling particularly homesick. He thought of Tunde in Bradford, and Ike and Bolaji in London, preparing for the night’s parties, and he pictured the scene back home in Nigeria. Women would be pounding yam, palm wine would be flowing, and the irresistible beats of Highlife and Juju would be calling dancers to their feet. He began to feel that everybody except him would be in the party spirit and so, to rectify the situation, he took out his favourite I.K. Dairo vinyl and filled the house with his music. Then, on the spur of the moment, he decided to cook. By mid-morning, he was off to buy a chicken from the Covered Market.

  Realising he didn’t know what spices his mother used, he asked an Indian stallholder for advice. She sold him two powders carefully sealed in wax paper: one marked cumin, the other turmeric. Tayo smiled to himself at the thought of a culinary adventure but, as soon as he got back to the house, the novelty of the idea had worn off. He’d never made stew in his life, so what did he think he was doing? Trying to be a modern man? Everyone knew that women were the natural cooks, not men. Besides, even if his chicken were a success, what joy would there be in eating alone? He thought of the time two years ago when Christine had prepared a banquet of his favourite food. She had cooked yam and akara, eba and egusi and had invited all the African students in Oxford, as well as a few cousins from London. And that night, after they’d cleared everything away and were all alone, they’d spent their first night together. But it was still too painful to remember these things, so he tried to concentrate instead on looking for something in which to prepare his pasty-white bird. He looked everywhere but found no black pots of the type his mother owned, so he decided to use the largest stainless steel pot. Now what? How was he going to know when the chicken was properly cooked? None of Isabella’s recipe books contained a chicken stew recipe. There was chicken soup, coq-au-vin, chicken vol-au-vents, coronation chicken, but no chicken stew, which meant he would have to guess. He had just finished chopping the bird into irregular chunks, two of which had slipped off the breadboard and sailed across the kitchen floor, when the doorbell rang.

  ‘Oh no!’ This would be one of Isabella’s friends sent to check on him. He must make sure nobody came into the kitchen and saw the mess. He picked up the chicken pieces and tossed them into a pot and ran to open the door. He expected to see either Fiona or Anne, but instead there was Vanessa. In his excitement, he forgot that his hands were slimy with chicken pieces. As he reached to kiss her, she turned her face and the kiss landed clumsily on her cheek.

  ‘Come in,’ he said awkwardly. She sniffed the air and so did he.

  ‘Yeeeah-oh!’ He panicked, running back to the kitchen. He pulled the pan of cumin and tumeric water from the ring, tipping it dangerously and nearly scalding himself. He stood helpless wondering what to do next. Vanessa had followed him in.

  ‘Mr. Ajayi,’ she smiled, ‘what are you doing? And what does ‘yeaho’ mean?’

  ‘It means, oh bugger,’ Tayo laughed. ‘And this is my lousy attempt at cooking.’

  ‘But who are you cooking for?’ The smile left her face. ‘Are you expecting someone?’

  ‘Only you, Vanessa.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, tossing her a tea towel. ‘And now you can dry the dishes.’

  ‘But I’m not staying,’ she added quickly.

  ‘Then I’ll have to entice you with a cup of tea,’ he said, knowing without looking that she was smiling. She could say what she liked; he knew she hadn’t come all this way simply to say hello. He filled the kettle, switched it on and returned to the stove to fiddle with his pot, all the while watching her from the corner of his eye. The heat from the oven had misted the kitchen window, and she’d taken off her cardigan. Static made her blouse stick to her body and each time she tried to pull it away, the material leapt back, clinging to her breasts. He smiled and stepped closer, pretending to need a spoon in one of the drawers near where she stood, and when he brushed against her back she stopped what she was doing. He waited for a moment before gently pulling her hair from her shoulders to plant a line of kisses down the back of her neck. Slowly, she turned towards him, and then, to bring her to his height, he lifted her up onto the counter, knocking over one of Isabella’s teapots. Soon they were tugging clumsily at each other’s clothes. Nothing else mattered; not the teapot, not the whistling kettle and not the angry chicken spitting bubbles from its ill-fitting lid.

  Later that evening, they devoured a box of Ritz cheese crackers, a jar of Heinz pickles and the rest of Isabella’s Christmas fruitcake. They were clearing the plates when Vanessa reached for his arm and made him sit.

  ‘Tayo, we can’t keep doing this. Making up and patching things over.’

  ‘I know,’ he said, but he wished she hadn’t brought it up, not now, not after what they’d just shared — not on New Year’s Eve. ‘But you said you wanted a break and now you’ve come back, and we’ve done all this, so I’m confused.’

  ‘I didn’t want a break. Couldn’t you see that?’

  And then she stood up again and began gathering the plates.

  ‘No wait, Vanessa.’ This time he reached for her arm. ‘I’m sorry for being insensitive, and I’m sorry for burying myself in my work.’

  ‘But it’s not about work, Tayo, it’s about the way we talk to each other and me not being able to trust you. It’s about the way you’re sometimes so critical of my views. Yes, you are, Tayo. Every time we talk about religion, or women’s rights, you’ve always got something negative to say. It’s as if I’m always saying something wrong.’

  ‘But can’t I tell you how I see things?’

  ‘Yes, but don’t judge me at the same time.’

  Did he judge her? Maybe she was right. Perhaps in an unconscious way he did judge her. He thought a lot these days about how his family would view Vanessa. He’d also wondered ho
w she’d feel in a context where everyone was expected to believe in God, whatever God, at least a God. Back home, women were expected to put children before profession and do the womanly things like cooking; something he knew Vanessa did not agree with.

  ‘Aren’t you going to say something?’ she asked.

  ‘We’ve talked about Christine, Vanessa, and I’ve told you I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lied to you. I’m sorry. And if I come across as critical it’s not because I intend to. It’s just that sometimes I think of home, and when you talk about women having professions and not having children I just worry that …’

  ‘Is that it? You think I don’t want to have children?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Then why don’t you just ask? You never ask. How am I supposed to know if you don’t tell me what you’re thinking? Just because I defend a woman’s right not to have children doesn’t mean that’s my own choice. Of course I want children.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Of course I do, silly you! Come,’ she tugged at his arm, dragging him away from the mess in the kitchen, leading him to the lounge. ‘I love you, you know.’

  ‘How much? How much do you love me?’

  ‘Too much,’ she smiled, holding him tightly. ‘I’ll find some music and then I’ll show you just how much. And you can make a fire.’

  She chose Nina Simone and before he’d found the matches she was already dancing towards him. Love me or leave me, she sang. He reached for her, but she pushed him away.

  ‘Vanessa,’ he pleaded, trying again to hold her, but she wouldn’t have it. She sang in a whisper, flirting with him until she drew close enough for their hips to touch and only then did she let him rest his hands on her waist. She kept on dancing, lifting her hips from side to side as she led the way, backwards, to the sofa.

  Chapter 16

  The New Year brought with it an unexpected visit from Tayo’s uncle and the first chance for Vanessa to meet someone from Tayo’s family. They were all to have afternoon tea at the Randolph Hotel, which was where Vanessa now waited for Tayo and his uncle Kayode. She sat in the lounge next to an open fire feeling uncomfortably warm but this, she guessed, was where Tayo would prefer to sit.

  While she waited, she watched people serving themselves tea from fat china teapots while sampling scones and cakes. This was Oxford’s finest hotel, but Vanessa did not care for the musty, stuffy feel that came from the large upholstered armchairs and the carpet in sombre shades of green and mustard. The walls were wood-panelling and several large chandeliers hung low from the ceiling. She wondered what Tayo’s uncle would make of the Randolph and, more importantly, what he would think of her. This wasn’t just any old family friend, but Tayo’s favourite uncle and, while she looked forward to meeting him, she worried.

  Tayo had once told her (though she suspected he might now have forgotten) that in his culture one never introduced a girlfriend to family unless the relationship was serious. So this was surely a good sign for her, but what if she disappointed his uncle? What would Tayo think of her then? Everything had been going so well since the New Year and she desperately wanted it to stay that way, especially now that Tayo only had a few more months left at Oxford. She secretly hoped he might propose before leaving. Nervously, she ran through her list of greetings. ‘Ekaasan. Salafia ni.’ She was still practising when Tayo arrived with his uncle.

  ‘Ekaasan. Salafia ni,’ she said, curtseying as she’d seen it done.

  ‘Vanessa, my dear, lovely to meet you,’ the uncle said, in such a reassuring tone that it made her feel at ease. He was taller and younger than Vanessa expected, and more effusive too.

  ‘Splendid!’ he exclaimed when the waitress arrived with their Darjeeling tea, scones, sandwiches and cake.

  Uncle Kayode had insisted on ordering everything.

  ‘Now Vanessa, do tell me, what does one begin with? Scones, sandwiches, or cake? I’ve never known. And does one put cream on these things first, or jam?’ He waved at the plate of scones.

  ‘Whatever catches your fancy, I think,’ Vanessa smiled.

  ‘Ahh, but everything catches my fancy and that, my dear, is the problem,’ he laughed as he peered eagerly at the top tray. ‘Now, here we have a most exquisite collection of gateaux, a little almond marzipan, shortbread, some macaroons, petit fours, and what do you suppose this is?’ He pointed to a rectangular slice. ‘Something German, I think, to render the platter a true representation of Europe. A Bavarian torte, or some such thing, wouldn’t you say? But just look at these other two trays — so quintessentially English!’

  ‘And crust-less sandwiches like the ones we were served at school cricket games,’ Tayo added.

  ‘Indeed,’ Uncle Kayode winked conspiratorially at Tayo. ‘For what is good for the English, must also be good for their protégés abroad, and especially at those elite institutions like Fiditi Boys. Vanessa dear, did this chap ever tell you about the first-class schools he attended?’

  Tayo tried to interrupt, but his uncle was keen to boast of his nephew’s academic achievements as well as his sporting prowess.

  ‘I wasn’t captain of every team,’ Tayo laughed.

  ‘Yes, but nobody’s talking about silly sports like table tennis or hockey!’ Uncle chuckled, adding something extra for Tayo’s benefit in Yoruba. ‘But look, let us partake of this wonderful tea.’ He opened a scone and spread it generously with clotted cream. ‘I don’t think there’s anything that beats warm English scones with a dab of butter, a dollop of cream, and strawberry jam. So, I say, what’s the good of touring dusty old barracks when some other occupation would allow me to travel, and visit my nephew and his charming young lady over this most civilised afternoon tea? Enough of army life!’

  ‘Are you really thinking of leaving the army, Uncle?’ Tayo asked.

  ‘Indeed, I am,’ Uncle Kayode nodded. ‘Engineering is what I’m considering and I would do it at the Institute Français du Petrole in France. What do you think, Vanessa?’

  ‘Why engineering?’ she asked, flattered to be asked for an opinion.

  ‘Ahh, now that’s what I like, a woman who asks questions,’ he said, leaning forward in his chair to explain that the future of Nigeria was no longer in its army, as some used to think, but in the oil business. ‘Of course, there are many places here in Britain where I could study, but who can turn down an offer from France? Ce pays de liberté, égalité et fraternité.’

  ‘Ahh, vous parlez français?’ Vanessa replied.

  ‘Mais oui!’

  ‘I think that’s enough of the French,’ Tayo interrupted.

  ‘Absolutely!’ Uncle Kayode laughed. ‘In any case, I’m afraid that was the limit of my French. But Tayo, didn’t your mother teach you French?’

  ‘Does my mother speak French?’ Tayo looked surprised.

  ‘Why of course! How do you think she conducts her business? Let me tell you, Vanessa. Tayo’s mother is the most successful trader along the West African coast. Tayo hasn’t told you? She regularly visits Benin, Dahomey and Ivory Coast, and she’s chief of all the textile traders in Ibadan – which is a very revered position in our Yoruba culture.

  ‘But Uncle …’ Tayo protested.

  Vanessa smiled at Tayo, for it was obvious that Uncle Kayode was enjoying telling the stories and she was enjoying listening.

  ‘But do tell me something about you now, my dear. Tayo tells me that you write beautifully, so tell me about your writings and those writers you admire.’

  She didn’t know at first how much of her work might be of any real interest to him, but as she spoke it was clear that he was listening closely. Twice, he let his tea go cold. It was only when Tayo reminded them that Uncle Kayode had a train to catch that they noticed how much time had passed.

  ‘How unfortunate,’ Uncle Kayode grumbled. ‘With Vanessa’s talk of women’s issues, I was going to impress you both by telling you about my recent encounter with Anaïs Nin.’

  ‘Anaïs Nin!’

 
; Uncle Kayode nodded, smiling at their joint surprise.

  ‘Then we can’t possibly end the conversation,’ Vanessa insisted.

  ‘So come with us to the station and I’ll tell you about the lovely Anaïs.’

  ‘The lovely Anaïs,’ Vanessa smiled to herself, wondering how much Tayo knew about Anaïs and what he thought of his uncle, who seemed not at all embarrassed by this writer of erotica. She didn’t know much about Anaïs Nin herself, but enough to find it surprising that an African man, whose training had not been in the arts, would not be critical. With an uncle like this, Vanessa felt certain that she would love the rest of Tayo’s family.

  Chapter 17

  It came as a surprise or, more accurately, a shock when Tayo received an invitation from Mr. Richardson to lead the Bellamy Boy’s School assembly with a lecture on Nigeria. Tayo had given many talks about Nigeria while in England, often to schools and sometimes to churches, but this request was the most important thus far. Not only because of the school’s excellent reputation, but because the invitation came from Vanessa’s father and it couldn’t have come at a better time. Tayo had just received news of his first-class degree and of a graduate scholarship. There was a time when Tayo told himself that he didn’t care what Vanessa’s father thought of him, but that had never really been true. It was certainly not true now that his relationship with Vanessa had grown more serious, which was why Tayo had taken extra time and care to prepare for the talk. He made sure he had all the necessary facts and had practised his delivery so that on the day all would go well.