In Dependence

by Sarah Ladipo Manyika

  ‘What of Uncle Kayode?’ Tayo asked.

  ‘No word,’ Baba replied, looking around as though hoping Uncle Kayode might just appear.

  ‘Listen,’ Dele shouted.

  The music stopped and the wives and children came scuttling back in time to hear an announcement by Brigadier Ogundipe.

  ‘As a result of some trouble by dissidents in the army, mainly in Ibadan, Abeokuta and Ikeja, the National Military Government has declared a state of emergency.’

  ‘A state of emergency? Na waa-oh!’ Dele jumped up.

  ‘Shh!’ Baba ordered, straining to hear the voice on the radio. ‘Military tribunals have been considered and accordingly set up. Curfew has been declared in the affected areas from 6.30pm.’

  ‘Curfew!’ someone shouted. ‘Curfew!’

  ‘Curfew!’ others echoed.

  ‘They say the situation is under control, didn’t you hear?’ Baba shouted.

  Tayo could tell by the way the veins stood out on Baba’s neck that his father was anxious. Nobody knew what was going to happen. Tayo, like everyone else, kept his ear close to the radio, waiting to hear more but there was only music, and when he looked up, he found that everyone was watching him.

  ‘Let’s not panic,’ Tayo said as calmly as he could. Then, because people seemed to be waiting for him to act, he suggested, with an authority that surprised even himself, that they return to their homes.

  Chapter 19

  The daily papers carried news of Nigeria’s coup d’état, but it was several weeks before Vanessa received Tayo’s telegram letting her know that he and his family were safe. He didn’t say when he would be back, but she hoped that it wouldn’t be long.

  She thought often of their last day together, when she’d gone to see him, not knowing until she arrived that he’d received a telegram calling him home. She remembered offering to help him pack and how he’d responded by pushing the suitcase aside and reaching for her instead.

  ‘Come,’ he’d urged, pulling her towards the bed. He didn’t seem to care that it was the middle of the morning when anyone might pass by. ‘Shhhh,’ he’d insisted, pressing gently against her lips before locking the door. ‘Better?’ he’d smiled, peeling off his shirt as he joined her on the narrow bed that creaked with the added weight. And soon neither of them cared if anyone heard them or the noise of the bed as it thudded against the wooden floors.

  ‘You won’t leave me, will you?’ Vanessa whispered as they lay cuddling together afterwards.

  ‘Never,’ he’d said, wrapping his arm tighter around her waist. ‘I love you, Vanessa.’

  Vanessa had estimated that Tayo would be back in England by March, but, instead, March was when his letters stopped. She wrote, phoned and sent telegrams but still no reply. And then on a day when she was feeling utterly distraught and not knowing what more she could do, she heard that Tayo had been in touch with Balliol. Why hadn’t he written to her? And of all times to leave her feeling abandoned, he had chosen the weeks just before her exams. It would be another week before she received Tayo’s letter.

  20th May 1967

  Dear Vanessa,

  Please forgive me for taking so long to write to you. I have tried to write this letter many times over the past few months but each time it seems as if the gods have conspired to stop me. First, it was the news of the coup, which by now you must know all about, and then of course the start of the civil war, but in between all of this came my father’s second heart attack. It has been a very difficult time for my family, but Father is pulling through and I now feel an immense sense of relief. We were also worried about Uncle Kayode in the midst of all of these political events and I will tell you more about it when I see you, but at least he too is safe and well at this time. I don’t know when I’ll be returning to Oxford, but soon I hope. I have been in touch with the college and they have shown great understanding. I miss you so much Vanessa and I do hope that you understand the reason for my silence during this time. I may not have written, but you have been on my mind every single day. I have so many half-finished letters that I started to write to you. I’m re-reading one now.

  People have grown up and things have changed. The buildings that I once thought of as large now look so small next to the new constructions (offices, banks, hospitals and schools). And then there is also the heat that I had forgotten. You know how much I hate the cold and yet this heat is too much! Even the food is spicier than I remember. And you mustn’t laugh, but I really think that England has blunted my taste buds. My younger brothers tease me, calling me ‘oyinbo’ (that’s how we refer to expatriates) for forgetting how to take pepper in my food.

  I think of you all the time and, when I look at things, I try to imagine what you would see. I am even using my sense of smell, like you. Rain, for example, like the smell of sea meeting earth—so sweet and comforting. And all the wonderful aromas of cooking. This morning akara is being fried in the back of the house where the cooking is done, and in the front of our house, there is always the delicious smell of roasted corn. A woman sits out there in the street with her open fire, turning the cobs by hand and selling them to bystanders.

  Vanessa re-read his letter, over and over again, missing him and feeling wretched for what she’d done. Getting drunk out of self-pity had been bad enough, but going off with Charlie was worse. She knew that Tayo would never do anything like that and if he ever found out …Luckily, nothing much had happened with Charlie and at least one thing was now clear to her. She wasn’t going to keep waiting for Tayo to come back. Now that exams were over, she would go to Nigeria and nothing, not even the Biafran war, was going to stop her. Telegrams were exchanged and two weeks later she flew to Nigeria.

  When she landed in Lagos, the first thing she saw were men in green fatigues with fat, black belts and oversized boots patrolling the tarmac with guns slung carelessly across their chests. It brought home to her the fact that here was a war. It was dangerous and it was reckless of her to come to Nigeria at such a time, especially when Tayo had sent a telegram asking her to postpone her trip. She stood for a moment, trying to take it all in, the heat, the blinding brightness of the sun, people milling around. Then she saw him across the tarmac. Tayo, in a crisp white shirt and sandals, looked cool and devastatingly handsome, and just as quickly as she’d thought about the war, she forgot it.

  They checked into a hotel. Tayo said they would stay in Lagos for a few days before traveling up to Ibadan to meet his family. It was a small hotel with ceiling fans and private bathrooms. It was perfect and romantic, but first Tayo wanted to show her around. They took a short walk through Lagos and everywhere they went people turned to stare. Children followed them chanting “Oyinbo pepe” which made her smile. She told Tayo that she felt like the Pied Piper, but Tayo seemed less charmed by the train of followers. More than once he tried shooing the children away, becoming impatient with them. Vanessa had never known Tayo to be impatient, but this was now his country and she sensed that he was trying to protect her; she felt touched by his concern.

  She stared at all the beautiful people, some wearing western clothes, others in more vibrant local attire. Hundreds of them: running, dodging, walking and bicycling, as they wove their way along the busy roads full of polluting lorries and imported cars that honked and beeped incessantly. Market stalls were everywhere with their rusted tin roofs and women sitting outside, spread out on mats or perched on upside-down buckets, whistling for business with their products piled high in front of them. People laughed and shouted, sometimes all at once.

  It was all wonderful to Vanessa but, best of all, she was here with Tayo. Late that afternoon they returned to the hotel. She wasn’t hungry, but Tayo insisted that they go to a restaurant, where they ordered rice and plantain. He ordered for her the mildest things on the menu and yet her eyes still streamed from what the owner claimed to be merely ‘small-small pepe’. Tayo laughed at Vanessa’s valiant efforts to eat, reminding her of the time she’d coughed her way through th
e food at the West African Society in Oxford. He laughed most when they spoke of Oxford but became more serious when they talked about family and the war. She noticed that occasionally Tayo would just stare into space. She knew he was worried about his father and the state of his country, which was why she agreed to go dancing, even though she was exhausted. She knew that music would relax him.

  They went to Bobby Benson’s, the legendary Bobby B’s, where a local band was playing Juju. Tayo was his loose and playful self, and this time she joined him, letting go and not feeling self-conscious even though, as the only white woman, she was watched by everyone.

  Back in the hotel there was no electricity, but it didn’t matter. They fell into bed where they were serenaded by the sound of evening crickets and frogs. There, in their dimly lit room, illuminated only by candlelight and enveloped in the piquant smell of insect repellent, they made love.

  Vanessa woke up early the next morning to find herself alone in bed. Tayo was already up and pacing by the window. She watched him, admiring the curves of his body and the muscles that stood out on his ebony skin, which had grown even darker in the months away.

  ‘What is it, Tayo?’

  He jumped in surprise.

  ‘Nothing, my love.’ He turned to her and lifted the mosquito netting to join her in bed. ‘I’ve just got to buy a few medicines for my father,’ he said, kissing her lightly on her forehead.

  ‘Can I come?’

  ‘Why don’t you stay? I’ll be right back.’

  After he left, she took a bath and then wandered around the hotel grounds, stopping to buy some akara from a street seller. She was considering venturing further when she felt stabbing pains in her stomach and hurried back to their room. The next hour was spent cursing herself for having ignored Tayo’s advice about eating from the streets.

  ‘Did you find the medicines?’ she asked sheepishly when he returned.

  ‘No.’ He shook his head.

  She was about to tell him about her misadventure when she saw the anxious look on his face.

  ‘Tayo, what’s wrong? Something’s not right.’

  He stared past her, looking pained. ‘I didn’t buy the medicine, Vanessa. I just went out for a walk to clear my head, but it didn’t help.’

  ‘What is it?’ She offered her hand, but he wouldn’t take it.

  ‘Vanessa, I don’t know how else to say this, but …’

  ‘What? What is it Tayo?’

  ‘I’ve had an affair.’

  ‘You what?’ For a second she felt relief that she wasn’t the only one who had done something wrong, except that hers could hardly be called an affair.

  ‘And it’s worse Vanessa, it’s worse. The woman is pregnant.’

  Vanessa stared at him in shock.

  ‘I’m sorry Vanessa, I just don’t know what else to say. I didn’t mean to. It was in a moment of weakness and it really didn’t mean anything.’

  ‘It didn’t mean anything! You lied to me about Christine and now THIS?! I come all this way for you to tell me this!’

  ‘I tried to tell you to delay your trip.’

  ‘Because of the war, you said.’

  ‘I just wanted it to go away somehow.’

  ‘Well, it’s not going away. What are you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know, Vanessa.’

  ‘You don’t know! How can you not know?’

  ‘All I know is that I love you, Vanessa.’

  But by then she was gone, slamming the door behind her, only vaguely aware that Tayo was running after her. The heat was making her dizzy, new stabbing pains had seized her stomach, and somewhere off in the distance someone was playing Otis Redding’s Dock of the Bay.

  II

  Some years later

  1970 – 1994

  Chapter 20

  ‘Put your head down. In Wolof we say segel,’ Salamatou explained.

  ‘Tennel se bop,’ Vanessa said, lowering her head so that Salamatou could braid her hair at the back.

  Salamatou started tightly at the scalp, and within seconds Vanessa could feel her fingers flying down the strand of hair.

  ‘Tennel se bop,’ Salamatou repeated, fastening the braid with a small white bead. ‘Alors, now let’s hear the days of the week.’

  Vanessa smiled. Salamatou was determined to teach her Wolof, and she felt grateful. She’d learnt more Wolof with Salamatou in a month than in her whole first year in Dakar.

  ‘Altine, Talaata, Allarba, Alxames,’ she began, stopping on the word for Thursday.

  ‘Non. Regarde!’ Salamatou held the braid she was plaiting with one hand and bent over to show her how to position her lips. ‘Ce n’est pas difficile,’ she insisted, pointing to her throat with the comb.

  Vanessa listened carefully. To her ears, it sounded like ‘Allah may.’

  ‘Alxames,’ she tried again and started to laugh. ‘It’s difficult!’

  ‘Non, ce n’est pas difficile!’

  ‘Aiyee,’ Vanessa squealed as Salamatou tugged at her hair. ‘T’es pas gentille, toi!’

  Salamatou rubbed more Vaseline along the hairline.

  ‘And are you sure I need cream?’ Vanessa asked. ‘I have greasy hair, you know. Grease. Le gras.’

  ‘Si, si! You need it,’ Salamatou insisted. ‘Il te le faut. Believe me!’

  ‘Okay,’ Vanessa nodded, knowing better than to try arguing with Salamatou.

  ‘Is it paining you?’

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ Vanessa replied, even though her scalp felt like it was on fire. But she wasn’t about to admit it, not when little girls routinely had their hair braided and never complained. She tilted her head to better see the children playing their hopping and clapping games outside. It was a sunny Dakar day, and the children seemed happy. Beyond the main road, others would be diving off rocks into the brilliant blue waters of the Atlantic. Vanessa thought of writing an article on these Senegalese children’s games and comparing them to the English games of hopscotch and skipping. She wished that all children could be happy, remembering her interview with Flora Nwapa and the heartbreaking stories she’d told her of the Biafran orphans.

  ‘You not talk? Tu parles pas?’ Salamatou asked.

  ‘I’m watching,’ Vanessa gestured in the direction of the children.

  ‘That’s why you need to marry and have one of your own—like your godson.’ Salamatou twisted her hips for Vanessa to see the baby.

  ‘Fast asleep.’ Vanessa smiled at the tight little bundle. All that was visible of Suleiman were the tufts of hair on the back of his head and two pink feet sticking out from under the wrapper which Salamatou used to hold him to her back. The cloth stretched tightly round his back and bottom and was tied in a secure knot beneath Salamatou’s breasts. He was a beautiful child, and yet the father had never seen him. Jean-Luc had promised Salamatou that they would be married. He had sworn to take her back to France, but as soon as she fell pregnant, he had abandoned her, not wanting to be the father of a half-caste child. If Jean-Luc could see his son, Vanessa felt certain he would change his mind, but Salamatou refused to discuss the subject. She said that if Suleiman wanted to meet his father one day he could do so, but until that time she would manage just fine on her own. And that was Salamatou. If she felt sad or sorry for herself, she never showed it. Vanessa looked at Suleiman again, and imagined him as her child. She and Tayo could have had a child like Suleiman; this gorgeous, mocha-brown baby.

  ‘So how is Abubakar?’ Salamatou asked.

  ‘Ahh!’ Vanessa slapped the air dismissively with one hand even though there had been a time when she had quite liked him; Abubakar had been generous and a good companion, and she had learnt a lot from him on their long walks down the Route de la Corniche. She was grateful to him for what he’d taught her about West African politics, for introducing her to people who helped her find stories, as well as contacts with the local paper, Paris-Dakar.

  ‘You know you could have been his deuxième wife,’ Salamatou remarked.

/>   ‘No way!’ Vanessa exclaimed, pulling her head forward so that Salamatou lost her grip.

  Salamatou laughed, pushing Vanessa’s head back into place. ‘Cultures are different, non? Maybe two wives is too hard for your culture.’

  ‘And you? Would you be a second wife?’ Vanessa challenged.

  ‘No, but I’m not a Muslim.’

  ‘Nor am I.’ Vanessa said.

  ‘But you don’t practice Christianity either so ça va, non?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Bon, alors, then you should marry Edward,’ Salamatou suggested.

  ‘Edward?’

  ‘Oui!’

  ‘Aiy Salamatou, you never give up. You’re almost as bad as him!’ Vanessa laughed.

  ‘But he’s good, non?’ Salamatou insisted.

  ‘Yes, he’s good, but I’m happy as I am. Toute seule,’ Vanessa said, for here in Dakar she was doing what she’d dreamt of: writing about African art and culture. She wrote about that warm edge of life — Africa’s laughter, the celebrations, the rituals and people’s generosity. Nobody who came to Africa could miss these things. In the mornings she wrote and after lunch she took the articles to the Reuters office to be telexed to London or Paris. In the late - afternoons she did things such as this—chatting, sipping mint tea, and watching the world go by.

  ‘So you never had a lover before you come to Dakar?’ Salamatou asked.

  ‘Si,’ Vanessa replied.

  ‘Then what happen? He go with another lady?’

  ‘Oh I don’t know. Maybe.’

  It had been two years since Vanessa had last heard from Tayo. After she’d left Lagos he had written to her, but she hadn’t replied. His letters hadn’t said whether or not he was going to marry the woman. And he hadn’t mentioned the baby.

  ‘C’est un Anglais?’ Salamatou asked.

  ‘Non, Nigerian,’ Vanessa replied.