In Dependence

by Sarah Ladipo Manyika

  ‘Oga sah!’

  ‘What is it?’ Tayo asked, quickly opening his door and ignoring the driver’s demand for the money that he was owed.

  Miriam was running towards him from the house with brother Remi beside her.

  ‘Where’ve you been since Monday? We’ve been trying to contact you,’ she shouted. ‘Mama is dead,’ she sobbed.

  ‘Mama?’ The words reeled in his head as he gripped Miriam’s arms for support.

  ‘Where were you?’ She sobbed. ‘Everyone was trying to find you.’`

  In keeping with Muslim tradition, the family had buried Mama’s body within twenty-four hours, not waiting for Tayo to return, but they’d delayed the funeral party for him, as well as for others returning to Ibadan from overseas.

  The grieving had taken place at the burial, but the party would be a chance to celebrate Mama’s life.

  Now that Tayo had returned, the party could be arranged and he and each of his brothers and sisters would prepare food in Mama’s house and serve it to the guests who would arrive throughout the day.

  Miriam had already chosen the special aso ebi for the family to wear, which bore a picture of Mama. Musicians would come and they would write a song for Mama, singing her praises and reflecting on the life she’d lived, as well as on her good fortune to be blessed with many children. There would be dancing, but Tayo would not dance.

  Mama had died on her way to Lagos. That Sunday night she had asked her driver to take her there, and as they made their way on the darkened highway they hit a pothole, and the driver lost control. Nobody knew what had made Mama travel to Lagos at night and Tayo blamed himself, even when Uncle Kayode took him aside and urged him not to. Over and over again, he replayed the events of those days in his head. If only he had not listened to the conversation with Kemi and the artists, he would never have been tempted to leave. If only he’d listened to Miriam. If only he’d put family first. It didn’t help when people told him not to blame himself; the more they told him this, the more he did.

  Chapter 24

  Six months after Mama died, the coup that most Nigerians were expecting came to pass. All across the nation, heavy glass frames were taken down from walls and pictures of the President were updated. Out came the man in white civilian robes, and back went the green military fatigues. White and green — Nigeria’s colours. This routine was well-known by now, and would grow all too familiar in the years to come, but at first people celebrated the return of a strong military that promised to stamp out corruption. At that time, anything promised to be an improvement upon the nation’s failed experiment with democracy. Soon the optimism vanished, however, and university students took to the streets in protest.

  Months turned into a year and, with each successive wave of discontent, students demonstrated, campuses were closed, people were arrested and some died during the protests. Many professors tried to stay out of the fray, but Tayo empathised with his students and refused to be intimidated. He vowed that as long as he lived, he would work to make things better, even if it meant giving clandestine assistance to student activists which he did whenever students demanded explanations for controversial government policies. Armed with their professor’s notes, the students wrote convincing arguments against government plans, printed them on flyers and plastered them all over campus. For Tayo, it became a surreal existence, leaving no time to focus on his academic research. His days were spent either with students or in his office preparing documents such as the one he worked on now for the British Council conference.

  The theme of the conference was the future of Nigerian universities and the point that Tayo wished to convey was simple — universities were collapsing and urgent help was needed from the government. The challenge was how to frame his message in such a way as to be taken seriously by government officials as well as by donor agencies likely to be in attendance. Tayo was tired of walking a diplomatic tightrope in front of his nation’s army officers, many of whom were half his age, but what else could he do? If the army officials perceived that he was criticising them, they could become recalcitrant and then little progress would be made, not to speak of the possible personal danger it might put him in. And so, without explicitly allocating blame, Tayo intended to address the real and potential damage brought to a nation’s economy by dysfunctional universities. He placed the lid on his fountain pen, squeezed it shut and stood up, ready to rehearse his speech, when he heard a knock.

  ‘Are you busy?’

  It was Miriam.

  ‘Look at you,’ Tayo exclaimed, admiring the results of his wife’s hair appointment which he knew must have taken several hours in the salon. The fine black braids hung in a perfect semi-circle around the back and sides of her head. ‘You look beautiful, my darling. No cooking tonight. I’m taking you out.’ He was about to suggest Hill Station for a special meal and a romantic night when she interrupted and asked if he knew who else had decided to leave the country. ‘Who?’ Tayo enquired cautiously, knowing that with each new departure Miriam became more convinced that they should also leave.

  ‘The Gordons.’

  ‘Really? Is this to go and look after her parents?’

  ‘No. She has sisters in England.’

  ‘Maybe her siblings aren’t too responsible,’ he replied, tapping the desk impatiently with his notes.

  ‘Even Kwame is leaving, Tayo.’

  ‘Well, I always suspected he was bogus — always running away from problems,’ Tayo replied, curtly, irritated by the direction of Miriam’s conversation. He didn’t like her using the example of others to try changing his mind.

  ‘Tayo, all our friends are leaving. The Adewales, the Wisemans, the Shahs — even your beloved writers, Soyinka and Achebe, have left. Everyone is going, yet still we stay. Why?’ She stepped away from the door, planting both hands on her hips.

  Tayo shook his head, quietly placing his notes back on the desk. Why now, Miriam? he thought. It was an important speech. Why couldn’t she just allow him to finish it? In the old days, Miriam used to listen to him; she’d looked up to him, trusted his judgement, but not anymore.

  ‘Omotayo, look, just go and look in the kitchen. There’s no rice, no bread, no eggs, no sugar,’ Miriam spoke quickly, rapidly ticking off the items, one by one, on her fingers. ‘There’s nothing. Nothing! You can’t even teach because of rioting and strikes.’

  ‘Miriam, please,’ he pleaded, watching as she raised her hands above her head and shook them in a gesture of despair. ‘We’ve discussed this so many times before. Times are hard, but we can’t all run away. It’s not just the students. I also have responsibilities to the Union.’

  ‘And responsibilities to us? What of your responsibilities to your wife? To your child? To our relatives?’

  She did not mention her nephews by name, but he knew what she was thinking. It was one of those issues that they would never resolve. He was doing all he could to support both extended families as well as so many of his students, but she didn’t see it this way. She wouldn’t even let him finish explaining.

  ‘The hospital hasn’t paid me for months,’ she interrupted, ‘and you? When did the university last pay you? When was the last time lecturers received a salary? When was the last time you were given a sabbatical, or even a little money to present work at your beloved international conferences?’

  ‘But it’s not about pay.’ He struggled not to raise his voice against hers.

  ‘Isn’t it? So when are you going to start driving a taxi or selling dodo and garri in the market just like your colleagues in order to support us? And what happens when Kemi’s school is closed? All the time you’re thinking only of your students, or of the past.’

  Tayo brought his fingers to his temples. Her nagging and shouting were like a scene from television, straight out of Village Headmaster. Why couldn’t they just have calm, reasoned discussions?

  ‘Miriam, you know it won’t come to this. You know that the money from my books provides for us.’


  ‘And that’s supposed to last forever? Omotayo, why can’t we move? Just for a short time at least, until Kemi is settled. You could be writing abroad, teaching abroad. You would even influence things here at home more by being out of the country, but you get so obsessed, as though you’re married to this cause.’

  ‘Miriam, I can’t go yet, not yet. Look, I’m trying to write this speech, to show the government what has happened to the universities. Everything is crumbling and this is our last chance. We can’t let our country sink into self-destruction. It’s our last chance, don’t you see? Just look at the state of the universities! Ever since 1974, the budget for higher education has fallen, yet the number of universities has been expanding. Is it any wonder that …’

  ‘Why?’ she interjected.

  ‘Why? Because they’re following IMF guidelines and…’

  ‘I’m not talking about that. I don’t care about IMF, World Bank, whatever! All I want to know is why can’t you move? Remember what you said when Buhari came to power. What did he achieve?’

  ‘It was a bloodless coup, Miriam,’ he replied, wishing she didn’t always have to bring it to this with her drama and her shouting, ‘and a successful war against indiscipline. You remember how the neighbourhoods were clean? People queued up in an orderly fashion and arrived at work on time, and …’

  ‘Omotayo! What are you talking about? Listen to me! I’m not your student. I don’t care about that.’

  ‘Well, you should care, and you asked the question.’

  ‘What question? I didn’t ask you to tell me about Buhari.’

  ‘Yes you did,’ Tayo sighed, just waiting now for her to start crying to make him feel guilty.

  ‘I asked you why you couldn’t leave this place.’

  ‘Miriam, how can you expect me to walk away from everything—from my work, my students, our country — and establish myself abroad?’

  ‘Why not?’ she shouted, clasping her hands above the braids and squeezing her face between her elbows.

  Tayo shut his eyes, and in that moment despised her.

  ‘Look, I belong here, Miriam. These are the things I care about and must fight for. I don’t have any other choice.’

  ‘And you think Babangida is suddenly going to change his mind on the adjustment programme?’

  Miriam let go of her head and shook her hands angrily in the air.

  ‘No, but I’m more useful here than abroad. Everyone is running away. I’m not going to join them!’

  ‘And you believe these military men won’t touch you because you’re a professor, Chair of History, and a big Oxford man? Look at what they did to Dele Giwa.’

  ‘Miriam, Miriam, please!’ he begged, walking towards her.

  ‘No, don’t touch me. Don’t touch me! There’s nothing for us here. We’re wasting our time. And if it weren’t for you and your stubbornness, if it weren’t for that, if we’d left earlier, we wouldn’t have lost the baby.’

  ‘Miriam,’ he tried pulling her gently towards him. ‘Miriam, you know we don’t know that.’ She too had heard the doctors say that the chances for such a premature baby would have been slim anywhere in the world. Still, she insisted that access to first-world equipment would have saved the child. At the very least, had she not been living under so much daily stress she would not have gone into early labour. He stroked her arms and kissed her gently on her forehead.

  ‘You’ve never been good at moving,’ she sighed, pulling away. And with that, she rubbed out all the goodwill and love that he was trying to show her.

  ‘Didn’t we relocate here, to Jos, because of you?’ he shouted. ‘Wasn’t it you who argued that Jos would be better for the family — a more temperate climate than Ibadan, a good international school for Kemi, and on and on and on. Moving wasn’t my choice and you know that. I moved for you!’

  ‘You make it sound like a sacrifice.’

  ‘Damn you Miriam! I’ve always sacrificed for you, from the very beginning. Have you forgotten who stuck with you when you fell pregnant? I didn’t blame you, and I didn’t leave you when you lost the baby. So don’t talk to me about sacrifices.’

  ‘You’re telling me about sacrifice? How dare you!’

  ‘Miriam, look, I’m sorry, I don’t, I just …’ but she wasn’t listening. She slammed the door, sending his neat stack of notes flying. One sheet escaped and fluttered off the desk, skimming his bare foot. He reached down for it and shook off the coating of harmattan dust, before scrunching it into a ball and tossing it angrily at the door. What was wrong with the woman? Wasn’t it good enough that he’d promised to stay for just another year? Why did it always have to be so difficult?

  Chapter 25

  Tayo sat at the Hill Station bar, remembering a night early in his marriage when he and Miriam had come here for drinks before going to the Chinese restaurant next door. He remembered sharing hot spring rolls, and each of them claiming to be better than the other with chopsticks when in fact neither of them had managed to bring food to their mouths without it falling off the sticks first. They’d laughed a lot that night, like new lovers, and then went home to make love so passionately that it had given him hope. But that was then. Now Kemi and Miriam had left him for a life in England. Tayo sighed, pushing aside the saucer of groundnuts and shaking his head to the offer of another beer. Music pulsated from speakers half-hidden by fat bottles of Bacardi and Scotch, and the barmen sang along to a tune that Tayo recognised.

  ‘Who’s this artist?’ Tayo asked.

  ‘Michael Jackson, sir,’ the barman answered.

  Tayo nodded. Yes, it was Kemi’s music, although now that he was a frequent visitor to bars, perhaps it was more accurate to say that 1990’s pop songs had also become his music. He presumed Kemi still listened to Mr. Jackson, but that too might have changed.

  Two businessmen sat next to Tayo, sipping their lagers and debating, in hushed tones, the likely pros and cons of starting an import-export business. Tayo guessed they were speaking quietly so that no one could swipe their ideas, but at times their excitement seemed to get the better of them, and Tayo caught snatches of conversation. One believed in importing electric generators on the basis of predicted increased power shortages. This begged the question: how could Nigeria’s Electrical Power Authority possibly get any worse? Already NEPA was off more than on, and hence the joke, ‘Never Expect Power Always.’

  ‘By 1994, I’m telling you,’ the man exclaimed excitedly, wagging an index finger in front of his friend’s nose, ‘I’m telling you that so many people … In fact, I can even say ninety per cent of Nigerians will be begging for generators.’

  The friend seemed unconvinced, arguing instead for the importation of Mercedes Benz spare parts and the export of Nigerian curios and thorn carvings. Tayo smiled sadly to himself at what their conversation suggested about a country in which continuing chaos and greed were taken for granted. Had Father still been alive, he would have been shocked. Father had always thought that the best investments were in land, so much so that Tayo remembered this featuring in their last conversation. They had been touring the family farm, walking slowly because of Father’s weakened state, past the rows of maize, yams and sweet potatoes. Tayo missed his father. Now there was no one older and wiser to look to for advice. But perhaps it was better that Father had not lived to see his country fall apart while the rest of the world emerged from the tyranny and fear of the Cold War.

  Of course, there were always a few things Nigerians could feel proud of. Soyinka had won the Nobel Prize, Okri had claimed the Booker, and Father would certainly have enjoyed all the sporting successes. Who could forget that splendid African Cup final of 1980 when the Green Eagles creamed Algeria 3-0? But such glories could not compensate for all that was wrong with the nation, and it wasn’t just Nigeria, but the whole continent that seemed to be suffering.

  Tayo looked wearily beyond the bar to the open doors leading to the pool. The sky was a dark backdrop for thunder and menacing claps of lightnin
g. Outside, families were hurriedly gathering their towels and belongings before the first raindrops. Waiters dashed about, collecting abandoned deckchairs before sprinting back through the bar to the main foyer. Some of the guests would be staying at the hotel, but many, a mix of Africans and Europeans, would be locals visiting for the afternoon, the way Tayo used to come with Miriam and Kemi. He watched people running from the rain and spotted a teenage girl whose confident stride reminded him of Kemi. He smiled at her, but she didn’t see him, or else had been taught to be wary of strangers. All day long it had been like this — one event after another, causing him to seriously doubt the wisdom of staying on while his family had left for England. It began in the morning with the broken water pump which the mechanics insisted could not be fixed without spare parts from China. The next headache came when the houseboy announced that he would be returning home to Kafanchan for the burial of a relative. Then, as if this were not enough, Tayo had just wasted precious time with Mr. Peters.

  The meeting with Mr. Peters had come about after Simon wrote to Tayo at the beginning of the year. Tayo hadn’t been in touch with Simon since their Oxford days, but Simon had kept abreast of Tayo’s news through the Balliol Record. When Simon was appointed Chairman of a prestigious London foundation, he’d contacted Tayo and Tayo had, in turn, been thrilled to receive the letter with its mention of possible funding for his university. Foundations generally marched to the tune of the World Bank and IMF, arguing that what Africa needed was vocational and not academic education, so Simon’s Foundation offered fresh hope. Contacts were eagerly established and arrangements made for Mr. Peters, Simon’s Africa Director, to visit Nigeria.