In Dependence

by Sarah Ladipo Manyika

  ‘What do you clever boys know about Nigeria?’ Tayo began.

  A flurry of little hands went up.

  ‘Nigeria is near the desert.’

  ‘The people don’t wear clothes.’

  ‘Boys play with animals.’

  ‘It’s boiling hot.’

  Tayo thanked each boy for their contribution, pleased that children spoke openly which made it easy for him to identify and correct their stereotypes. Instead of giving a simplified version of what he usually presented to adults (an overview of Nigeria’s history, its topography, its main industries, and political parties), Tayo began with stories of his childhood. He could sense that he had the boys’ full attention, but was nevertheless relived to receive confirmation of this with their enthusiastic applause at the very end.

  ‘Bravo!’ Mr. Richardson said, patting Tayo on the back as he led him to his study which reminded Tayo of Mr. Faircliff’s office. It had that same stuffy smell of old books and papers, and the same neat row of trophies and shields displayed within glass cabinets. Even some of the decorations, the Nigerian gourds and masks, were similar to those that hung in his old headmaster’s office in Ibadan.

  ‘Do sit,’ Mr. Richardson gestured to Tayo so that they would sit facing each other across the large office desk.

  Tayo felt pleased with how things had gone and waited for Mr. Richardson to finish fiddling with his pipe so that they could discuss the assembly further. But Mr. Richardson had other things on his mind.

  ‘What are your intentions with my daughter?’ he asked, catching Tayo off guard. ‘My daughter seems very enamoured with you,’ he added, not waiting for Tayo’s reply. ‘And you of her, I imagine.’

  ‘Well, yes, sir. I …’ Tayo stammered, struggling to find his words.

  ‘You see, Tayo,’ Mr. Richardson continued, taking his pipe from his mouth, ‘in many ways you and I are quite similar, aren’t we? I was fond of a woman from a different class in the way that you seem fond of a woman of a different race. My wife, as you know, is from the upper-classes, and her family didn’t approve of me. You understand, don’t you?’

  Tayo nodded, deciding it was easier to let Mr. Richardson talk, for it was obvious that he had things he wanted to say and little that he wanted to hear.

  ‘Well, Mrs. Richardson and I married, but our families have never entirely accepted our marriage. Now, with you and Vanessa, if you ever were to think of marriage, you would face an even greater challenge. One that is, I fear, insurmountable. I hope you understand it is my duty to warn you of this and that I have a responsibility for my daughter’s happiness. You must certainly be aware of the difficulties of a cross-racial union.’

  Tayo nodded, still thrown by what he was hearing. Did Mr. Richardson think he wanted to marry his daughter? And then to go on like this about the challenges that mixed-race couples face with half-caste children – how presumptuous of the man!

  ‘And Vanessa is impetuous, you see,’ Mr. Richardson continued, ‘and has a tendency to dash into things. Not long ago she got all hot and bothered about Lumumba, wanting to go to the Congo. Really, she is most naïve. Always jumping into things, like her mother at that age. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tayo answered. ‘What you’re saying is that I must not think of marrying your daughter.’

  ‘What I am saying, young man, is that the challenges would be great and as someone who is older and wiser, I must advise you against the idea.’

  And that was how it ended or, was supposed to end, but Tayo still had the journey back to Oxford where Vanessa was waiting for him, eager to hear how things had gone.

  ‘How was it?’ she asked, slipping an arm around his waist as they walked back to college from where they’d met in town. ‘You’re quiet. What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, still not knowing what to tell her.

  ‘Oh, come on, something’s wrong. I can tell.’ She stopped and turned to face him just as a policeman cycled past.

  ‘All right, Miss?’ the policeman asked, propping one foot on the ground.

  ‘Yes!’ Vanessa snapped.

  The policeman hesitated, looked Tayo up and down, and then pedalled away.

  ‘What’s the matter? Tell me.’

  ‘I’m fine, Vanessa. Let’s go.’

  ‘No, not before you tell me. What is it?’ She insisted, reaching for his hand.

  ‘I just …’ He stopped as she reached with her other hand to touch the side of his face.

  ‘Tell me,’ she urged.

  ‘Today your father …’

  ‘My father what?’

  ‘Could we talk about this later, Vanessa?’ he said, trying to pull away.

  ‘My father said what?’ she insisted.

  ‘Your father told me that he didn’t approve of us.’

  ‘What do you mean? He’s always said good things about you. He…’

  ‘No he hasn’t.’ Tayo didn’t mean to shake Vanessa off in anger, but he was tired of her being so naïve. Did she really think her father liked him? And now she was looking innocently at him, gazing into his eyes as she reached again for his hand. He held it briefly, then let go. ‘Vanessa, we can’t have a future together when your father is so opposed.’

  ‘What do you mean? Tell me what he said.’

  ‘He said it would be difficult for us, that the cultures would be too different and that one day if we were to … well, it would be difficult if we had children.’

  ‘Well, who cares what he says?’ she replied, folding her arms defiantly. ‘All that matters is that we love each other.’

  ‘But relationships are also about family, Vanessa.’

  ‘And I would sacrifice my family for you, Tayo.’

  ‘Vanessa,’ he pleaded, placing his hands on her shoulders. ‘You know I wouldn’t let you do that. We must respect your father. You’re young and Nigeria is not a calm place these days. Perhaps it’s God’s will.’

  ‘Oh bloody hell, don’t bring God into this,’ she said, pushing his arms away. ‘So now you think I’m too young? You think I don’t know what I want?’

  ‘Not too young, Vanessa, but just too independent sometimes. Look Vanessa, it’s late, I can’t think straight, and …’

  ‘Too independent? It’s you, Tayo, who needs to learn some independence. You won’t confront these things, will you? You register something, block it out of your mind, and never deal with it. My father is a racist. It’s simple. Don’t you see that?’

  ‘But Vanessa, you just told me that your father didn’t mean it.’

  ‘Well, of course I’d say that. It’s much easier to pretend, isn’t it? But I’m tired of that and wish you’d stand up to it. Don’t just turn the other cheek with my father, or the policeman, or … ‘

  ‘Or what? You wanted me to confront the policeman, just now? And your father? And tell them what? That they’re racist? You confront them Vanessa, if it’s so easy.’

  ‘And it’s so easy for you, isn’t it Tayo? You never wanted to marry an English girl anyway. That’s still what it is, isn’t it? Why don’t you just go and find a nice subservient Nigerian girl who will do exactly what you say and agree with everything you want?’

  ‘Who’s talking about marriage?’ Tayo shouted then immediately regretted it.

  ‘Ma’am?’ The policeman had returned and was jumping off his bicycle with baton in hand. ‘Do we have some trouble here? Hands off her!’

  ‘I’m perfectly fine. Just bugger off, will you!’ Vanessa snapped.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘She’s okay. We’re together,’ Tayo replied.

  ‘I wasn’t asking you,’ the policeman warned.

  ‘I’m okay, for God’s sake. Leave us alone!’ Vanessa shouted. Her shoulders were shaking, and Tayo took off his coat to wrap it around her. The policeman kept watching, but Tayo didn’t care. He took Vanessa in his arms to comfort her, to comfort himself.

  It had started raining as Tayo walked back to
college and only then did he realise that he’d left his coat at Vanessa’s. Usually he would have sprinted to outrun the shower, but the damp and drizzle had already seeped through his clothes the way English rain always did. ‘No point in running,’ Tayo mumbled to himself. Maybe Vanessa was right. He should have stood up to her father and argued with him instead of giving in. He flicked the rain from his face and picked up his pace. If Vanessa really thought he couldn’t stand up for himself, he would soon prove her wrong.

  ‘I love her,’ Tayo spoke to the rain. Damn the rain, damn her father, and damn every racist in England. For once in his life he was going to act on impulse and prove to Vanessa that he was capable of being a man of action. No one — not society, not her father — was going to stop him from proposing now.

  He ran the rest of the way back to college and stood panting for a few moments as he fumbled in his trouser pockets for his keys. He opened the little door that led into the porter’s lodge and ducked, but still hit his head against the top of the door frame and swore silently.

  ‘Ah, Mr. Ajayi,’ the porter called out. ‘Glad to see you. I’ve just popped a telegram under your door. Stayed here to make sure you got it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Tayo nodded, walking faster to reach his rooms. Porters rarely worked late at night, especially not during the summer when college was less busy, so Tayo was worried. He jogged the last few yards and found the slip of paper sticking out from under his door.

  Baba is in hospital, recovering. Return home immediately. Mama

  Chapter 18

  Allahu Akbar!

  Allahu Akbar!

  The shrill voice of the muezzin pierced the morning’s silence with calls to prayer, jolting Tayo from sleep. He rolled over on his mattress and stretched his arms high above his head onto the cool cement floor, brushing his hand against the transistor radio. He reached for Vanessa but she wasn’t there. It took him a few moments to remember that he was back home, in the small room normally used as storage space for rice and millet which had been cleared out so he could have a space of his own. Everyone else, with the exception of his father, would be sleeping in crowded quarters. The older boys shared one room, as he had done when he was their age, and the girls and babies slept in their respective mothers’ rooms. The whole of upstairs had been given over to Baba, and Tayo could hear him calling. It reminded him of the days when he was the one ordered to fetch water for his father, polish his shoes, or take him tea first thing in the morning. Now it was the younger ones, wife Amina’s children, who cowered at the sound of Baba’s bellowing. His father was a disciplinarian and a firm believer in corporal punishment. It was an approach that made children obedient, but at what cost, Tayo often wondered. From somewhere else in the house, he heard a woman scolding a child for taking too long to get ready and he wondered which wife it was and whether she’d been the one to sleep upstairs the night before.

  These days it bothered Tayo to think that his Father preferred the attention of the younger wives to his mother. When Vanessa had asked him how things worked between wives, he’d hardly given it a thought, but now he wondered. His mother seemed her usual jovial self, but maybe it was all a façade. He sometimes wished he could talk to Mama about her life, but there was never a moment when she was alone. Now, for example, she was outside chatting to the other wives as they drew water for morning baths. The standpipe was close to his room and the metal buckets clanged against his wall. The smell of paraffin used to light the outside fires had already seeped in and that, combined with the sticky heat of the new day, made him get up.

  He wiped his brow and stretched his arms again before reaching for his briefcase in search of writing paper. Soon his brothers and sisters would be knocking on the door, begging for more stories about England, and there would be guests to greet, places to visit and people to see, so he needed to write to Vanessa before getting caught up in the day’s events. As he took the paper from his case, he noticed two separate black lines running from his suitcase to the ceiling. Ants. What could there be in his case that had drawn them? Earlier he had emptied it of the melted Black Magic chocolates that were supposed to have been gifts for his brothers and sisters. Tayo sighed as he brushed them away, watching the black dots scatter, then regroup, persistent in their march. As a child he would have played with them, throwing them off course with chalk, but he didn’t have time for that now.

  ‘Remi? Tope? Bayo?’ Tayo heard his father bellow and guessed that he was standing at the top of the stairs, having spotted one of his sons, but unable to remember his name. Sure enough, he then shouted ‘Kí ni wọn ń pè ẹ pàápàá?’ which made Tayo laugh. It was a phrase he remembered well from his own childhood. Even then, when there were fewer names to commit to memory, Baba invariably forgot who was who and would bark in that same gruff voice, ‘What do they call you anyway?’ There were so many children in the house these days; so many that Tayo could not keep track either. He had even found it hard to recognise his own immediate brothers and sisters at first. Bisi had grown tall and thin like sugar cane and brother Remi, who was just a boy in 1963, was now a young man, stylishly sporting the latest Nkrumah haircut. Apart from Baba who was still convalescing, they had all been at the airport to welcome Tayo home, dressed in their finest, and some of the women were dancing as he came through customs. There was so much that he wanted to describe to Vanessa.

  29th July, 1966

  My dear Vanessa,

  I miss you so much and can’t wait to see you again soon. I have been trying to write ever since I arrived in Ibadan, but each day I am besieged by family and friends. I barely have time to myself, so I am rising early this morning to write before time is whisked away. How are you? And your mother and father?

  Tayo paused, thinking of his last encounter with Mr. Richardson. He despised the man for his bigotry and yet, now that he was back home, he could see that persuading his own family to accept a white woman might prove more of a struggle than he’d originally imagined. Yesterday, when a family friend announced that his son would be marrying an Englishwoman, Father had been sceptical. ‘How will the woman fit in?’ he had asked, in a tone that Tayo found unnervingly similar to Mr. Richardson’s. The only difference was that Father’s main objection lay in the fact that the woman’s parents were divorced while Mr. Richardson’s objections were based on race. Both seemed wrong to Tayo, but there was at least one relative who had been enamoured by his talk of Vanessa and this was Uncle Bola. Yesterday, they’d sat together under the shade of a mango tree, chewing kola nut and sipping coconut milk. Uncle B had given up drink while Tayo had been away and while his desire for booze might have diminished, his interest in women remained as strong as ever. When Tayo showed him photographs of Oxford, Uncle Bola spotted Vanessa straight away. He insisted on keeping the photograph, staining it red with the residue of kola nut. ‘Bring de lady come my house when she come Nigeria,’ he said, beaming a toothless smile. Tayo was thinking of how best to describe his uncle to Vanessa when he heard people calling, running up and down the corridor.

  ‘Brother Tayo! Brother Tayo!’ The knocking sounded urgent, so Tayo stood up quickly to answer the door.

  ‘Brother Tayo. Ẹ káàárọ,’ Remi said, dispensing with what was usually a much longer string of greetings.

  ‘Kílódé? What’s going on?’ Tayo asked.

  ‘They say “Na coup”,’ Remi answered, waving his hands like a crazy man.

  ‘Coup? What do you mean?’ Tayo dropped his pen and tucked his singlet into his trousers as he ran with Remi to the front of the house. Normally, at this time of the morning, the front courtyard would be quiet, but now there was a crowd of women and children, neighbours, street sellers, and even the cripple who sold groundnuts two streets down. And in the middle of the crowd was someone he almost didn’t see because of the commotion.

  ‘Modupe!’ Tayo exclaimed, his jaw dropping as he saw the size of her stomach. ‘I didn’t know,’ he said, hugging her clumsily.

  ‘Yes,�
� she smiled, ‘and this is my husband, Olu.’ She gestured towards the tall man standing next to her.

  Tayo did not recognise the man and felt suddenly grateful for the chaos around them. Baba stood in the centre of the crowd clutching his radio as he spoke with Dele, the neighbourhood drunk.

  ‘What is it?’ Tayo asked, pushing his way to where his father stood. ‘Ẹ káàárọ Baba,’ he added, remembering he had not yet greeted his father.

  ‘Dele is telling us they tried to kill Ironsi last night,’ Baba replied, and then everyone started talking at the same time with Dele repeating what had just been said, others disputing the facts, and Modupe’s husband blaming it all on the Northerners. Tayo took a good look at Modupe’s husband this time. Suit and tie - Barclays Bank tie even - but ugly nonetheless, and not very educated by the sound of it. What did Modupe see in him?

  ‘Dele, what did you hear exactly?’ Baba was asking.

  ‘I hear the shots-oh. Pa-pa-pa-pa-pa.’

  ‘What shots? Are you sure? What were you drinking?’ Baba shook his hands in exasperation.

  ‘No sah! Na shots, real ones-oh! I no dey lie-oh. Yes sah, na shots. They wan kill am.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘What about the BBC, what are they saying?’ Tayo asked, surprised that his father was looking to him for advice.

  ‘Nothing,’ Baba replied, twiddling the radio’s knobs back and forth. ‘Go inside, go inside! Go on!’ Baba shouted, suddenly irritated by the children who had grown bored and were playing clapping games.

  The women ushered the children back into the house, leaving the men in the courtyard. Modupe left too, and Tayo watched her go. He didn’t care for her husband but at least she looked happy. He knew he should be happy for her but still couldn’t stop feeling a twinge of sadness and jealousy.

  ‘It’s not a good sign that they’re playing military music,’ Father muttered as the men gathered around. ‘This is something we learnt from the first coup.’