Vanessa brought her knees to her chest and hugged them. The park cleaners had gone and, down by the station, stick-like figures scurried in and out. Rush hour had begun and some of those returning from work would leave the station and walk back to Brixton, or up to Herne Hill and Dulwich. She and Edward lived on Herne Hill Road, not far from St. Paul’s church.
‘Goodness,’ she gasped, suddenly remembering. Today was their anniversary. She’d never been good at remembering these dates, but it was strange that Edward had also forgotten. Eighteen years of marriage, she contemplated, and not to Tayo or another African as she had once envisaged, but to Edward. Edward Maximillian Barker.
After things had ended with Tayo, Vanessa had deliberately stayed away from all of Tayo’s old friends, including the Barkers, but one day in the autumn of 1968, she’d bumped into Edward in London and they’d had lunch together. Edward had seen how miserable she was and encouraged her to return to Dakar. The problem with returning, however, was that she had no job to go to. When she first went to Senegal, she’d gone on a whim and stayed with one of Uncle Tony’s friends in Saint-Louis. There was no thought of finding a job; it was just an escape from England and from her family, with the desire to be somehow closer to Tayo, despite her anger. Then, when she couldn’t escape her despair in Senegal, she’d returned to England thinking she’d throw herself back into her studies, but she hadn’t been able to do that either. Instead, she’d drifted for a year doing casual jobs in London until the day she met Edward. He had given her names and addresses of friends at Chiekh Anta Diop and, thanks to him, she’d left her job and returned to Senegal to start a new life. In Dakar, nobody knew about her sadness and only Salamatou was aware of Tayo, and she only knew a little. And then she, too, was gone, killed in a car accident on a treacherous stretch of road between Dakar and Saint-Louis.
For weeks afterwards, nobody could console Vanessa, although Edward on his many visits tried his best and his presence did bring her comfort. For a time, Edward became like a father to Vanessa — a man far wiser, gentler and more self-possessed than the men of Vanessa’s own age. Above all, he listened. And yes, she knew that he was attracted to her in more than just a friendly way, but she chose to ignore it. He also wasn’t her type — too old and far too English in his way of speaking, his dress and his mannerisms. She had said no the first time he asked her to marry him. But several months later, when he proposed again she’d managed to convince herself that her initial reservations were foolish. He was, after all, her closest friend and it seemed only natural that they should marry.
July 15th, 1977. Eighteen years. She’d grown to love him, but those things that she hadn’t liked in the beginning never went away and the attraction of his older age soon disappeared. Now he was forgetful and prone to repeating stories. In his retirement he spent hours in his men’s clubs with his very English friends. He smoked and drank and talked incessantly of holiday homes in the south of France. He no longer thirsted for Africa. And then there was something else, so small and trivial that it bothered Vanessa that she even noticed it, yet it was worse than all the other irritations, and always there. His smell. It cloaked the house and seeped into everything they owned: clothes, curtains, the bedding — a horrible, acrid smell like old, musty books, only worse — the smell of old age and far too similar to that of her father.
‘Darling Vanessa,’ someone called.
‘Anthony!’ She smiled, turning around to find her friend from Sketchley’s standing before her. Something about Anthony reminded her of Abubakar. Both were charming and she knew they found her attractive but only in an exotic sort of way. In Abubakar’s case, she’d been the young English visitor to Senegal. In those days, she could be considered beautiful but, surely to Abubakar, the greatest attraction had been her naivety. She’d been too stupid to realise that he was already married.
There was no naivety with Anthony, at least not on her part, but she could see that he was taken by the idea of an older English woman with an interesting past life in Africa.
‘What’s up, beauty?’ Anthony dropped the plastic bag that he was carrying and sat next to her on the grass. ‘Were you here yesterday? I was looking for you, babe.’
‘I was here, for a while,’ she smiled.
‘And what you thinking today? What you gonna write?’
‘Right now, I’m working on a piece about recent immigrants to London. African immigrants.’
‘And what about their Jamaican brothers?’ Anthony joked. ‘We is the original diaspora y’know. Besides, you need to use my name in one of your articles. Do me some free advertising. Anthony’s Sketchley on Railton Road — best dry cleaners in London!’
She laughed and tugged at his Walkman, asking him what he was listening to as he removed his headphones and placed them around her head.
‘Hugh Masekela,’ she smiled, recognising the song.
‘Yeah man,’ he nodded, lying back in the grass and closing his eyes.
His shirt had risen above his stomach, revealing a ladder of taut muscles. His hands were linked across his chest and the long, dark fingers reminded Vanessa of Tayo’s, but Anthony was young, not much older than Suleiman. Therefore, however much this man might thrill her, she had to stop imagining things. She listened to Masekela’s song for Mandela, remembering the year it first came out and how she’d played it continuously on the day Mandela was released. She smiled and looked down the path to where a couple were walking slowly up the hill. The man pushed a pram and the woman hugged the man’s waist, leaning gently on his side — a black and white couple. Vanessa turned away so that she wouldn’t have to nod and smile as the couple walked by. Hearing her move, Anthony opened his eyes and sat up.
‘So you wanna get a drink?’ he offered.
When Vanessa got home, Edward was playing Rachmaninoff at a deafening volume.
‘Oh for God’s sake, you’re worse than Suleiman!’ Vanessa shouted above the music, before switching it off.
Edward wasn’t in the lounge, which meant he was upstairs having a bath. Sometimes he fell asleep there.
‘One day you’ll bloody drown,’ she muttered, stomping up the stairs.
‘Hello, darling.’ He met her on the landing.
‘Will you please not play your music so loudly, Edward!’
‘But I thought you rather liked Rachmaninoff, my love.’
‘Frankly, I’d much prefer Hugh Masekela, any day,’ she snapped.
‘Who’s that, my love?’
‘Never mind,’ she said, brushing past him. He was growing deaf as well.
‘Darling, let me give you a kiss. It’s our anniversary.’
‘I know,’ she said, flinging open the windows in their bedroom.
‘Are you hot, darling?’
‘No. It’s stuffy!’ She strode out of their room back to where he stood. He was slouched a little against the banister, and that was when she noticed the bruise on his head. ‘What happened?’ she asked, reaching to touch.
‘Oh, just a little bump. I couldn’t find my glasses and tripped on the carpet. But it’s nothing. Come, I’ve got something to show you.’ He held out his hand, and she followed him to the study. She slipped an arm round his waist, ashamed of herself for being so sharp with him. ‘I went to the bookshop while you were out and brought this for you.’
‘Oh darling!’ she exclaimed, seeing the photograph of Mandela on the book’s cover and knowing immediately what it was.
‘I thought you’d like it.’ He smiled.
‘Long Walk to Freedom,’ she read the title. The book had only just come out. Where had he managed to find a copy so quickly? She opened it, and read on the inside cover, the note that Edward had written: ‘To the woman I love, and with whom I have walked the best 18 years of my life.’
‘Oh Edward!’ She put the book down and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist.
Chapter 29
He still found it hard to believe that after all these years they’d seen each other ag
ain. But their time had been too short. He’d wanted to say more, to have talked about what happened, to have tried to explain. He tried now to say these things in a letter, but couldn’t find the words, so what was he going to do? He would just have to try harder, write without worrying how it came out, without the emotion being burdened by explanations. The most important thing was to stay in touch, so perhaps he would start by telling her about Nigeria, about how things had gone from bad to worse. He would tell her about the schools and hospitals that were closed and the civil servants that had not been paid. But this was all too depressing. He would perhaps try to make light of the situation and joke about the fact that the two most lucrative businesses were theft and security; only this wasn’t much of a joke. So what would he write? Write, he told himself, just write.
July, 1995
Dear Vanessa,
Since our meeting, I have given further thought to our discussion on the role of the artist, finding myself going back to some of the readings we debated at Oxford, in particular James Baldwin and Ezekiel Mphahlele. Do you remember those long nights when we used to talk about their ideas? I have found it so interesting to re-read their works and to discover things I had missed on a first read. I was particularly struck this time by Baldwin’s musing on what constitutes a healthy society. What is the role of the maverick or dissenter in a cohesive society? A question I ask myself. Where exactly do I fit? So often I feel out of place and, by this, I’m not referring to my stance against the government. I consider my political dissension to be a necessity rather than the actions of a misfit, given that the majority of us believe the same thing. What I mean, when I speak of not fitting in, has to do with a cultural sense of non-belonging.
Would she think him crazy to be writing this? Would she understand?
For example, I don’t always comply with the demands of extended family and I’m no longer certain about the existence of a god. These are both fundamental elements in our culture that one is not supposed to question. I also find that I tire of social interaction in a way that is deemed unacceptable to most people here, and this is where one of Mphahlele’s essays seemed particularly insightful to me now. I refer to ‘The Fabric of African Cultures’, which is an exposé of the so-called elements that make up the ‘African personality.’ These characteristics are obviously generalisations, but I believe they still ring true for much of the continent, even now, twenty years after the essay was written.
Mphahlele speaks of the importance we attach to extended family, communal responsibility and reverence for ancestral spirits (all of which I fail miserably on), but it is his last observation that particularly struck me this time round. Mphahlele speaks of the cultural tendency to gravitate toward other people rather than toward things and places. This is something I was only subliminally aware of until I read the essay. In a way, ‘things’ (such as books filled with ideas) and ‘places’ (memories of places and destinations yet to be visited) are what captivate me more than people. I am not saying that people are unimportant (especially friends like you), but I notice that I do not automatically seek company in the same way as those around me when they have something on their mind. What, then, is my African personality?
‘Goodness,’ Tayo muttered.
I’m not sure if I’m making much sense, and to be honest I’m not sure I know what I want to say. Perhaps I simply wish to express how much I enjoyed our conversation and to share with you how it has set me thinking. If only daily life in Nigeria left more time for tranquil reflection!
What he did not say, and what he was only just realising, was that he had missed having someone to talk to. Sometimes he would talk with his colleagues and some of his students, but it had been years since he had shared ideas about life so openly and honestly with anyone.
London,
July, 1995
Dear Tayo,
It was lovely to hear from you, but I’m alarmed to hear of your detention. You do not mention it in your letter, but I have heard from others. Is it true? Promise me, Tayo, that you will be careful for your sake and your family’s. The fact that you are known abroad may offer you some protection from military interference, but not much, Tayo. Look at what is happening to Ken Saro-Wiwa. You must be careful. I am so concerned by what I hear from Nigeria these days, and angry that our government won’t do more to condemn the corruption and human rights violations. Please, Tayo, promise me you’ll be careful.
You asked about work and, yes, I’m still with The Guardian, but finding the job increasingly frustrating. When will serious attention ever be given to Africa? There was so much optimism when the Cold War ended and I had such hopes that African nations might finally be treated with respect, but this hasn’t happened and it continues to be a struggle here publishing articles on Africa. I’m forced to play silly games (writing at weekends or at times when certain difficult editors are away) to ensure publication.
I’m nostalgic for the days in Dakar, and restless here in England. Perhaps I’m also a misfit. I live here, yet don’t feel particularly English. What then is my ‘personality’ — African, European, or Afropean? Is this restlessness the price we pay for having lived in other countries and tasted other cultures? And yet there are many people who’ve lived and travelled in various places who still seem most at home in their country of birth. I don’t know what it is, Tayo. Do people like us just think about these things too much?
I also wrestle with the question of who can write about Africa. Do I still have the ‘right’ to report on African affairs now that I no longer live on the continent? Did I earn the right when I was there? I often think back to that Oxford Union debate and what Malcolm X said about foreign correspondents in Africa. I also wonder about this notion of the insider and outsider that we once discussed in France. Do you remember? To what extent does being an outsider allow a person unique insights into a culture? To what extent might the outside status blind rather than illuminate? And then at what point does one cease to be an outsider? So now you have set me thinking too!
I would like to hear more about your views on faith and the church. I find it ironic that we seem to have moved in opposite directions on this topic. I now attend church regularly. It gives me a sense of belonging and a feeling of peace. You say that Nigerian society expects one to believe, whereas British society almost presumes the opposite. Could it be that our societies have driven us to our respective points of belief and unbelief?
My son recently joined the Muslim faith, which has grown increasingly popular here among young black men. They say that Islam brings a sense of purpose and discipline, but I have yet to see it in Suleiman. It has been a difficult year. Suleiman left University in April, just before finals. We don’t know why and he won’t talk to us about it. He was doing so well, but now he’s unemployed and living with friends in north London. Edward thinks we should let him do as he wishes, but I find it hard. We used to be so close and now it’s as though we’re strangers. I feel guilty for not being a good enough mother. Perhaps I’ve focused too much on my career and not spent enough time with Suleiman.
It’s at times like this that I miss my own mother. I miss her all of the time of course, but especially now. I would have gone to her for advice or perhaps simply sympathy or empathy… I don’t know, Tayo. Perhaps it’s always hard for mothers and fathers.
Please be careful Tayo and stay in touch.
Love,
Vanessa
November, 1995
My dear Vanessa,
You are a wonderful mother, and Suleiman knows this. It is just a stage that he is going through and it will pass, you will see. You must not feel guilty. I know that finding the balance is hard, but I am very proud of you — proud of you for being so good a mother as well as a writer dedicated to this continent. I am also touched that you are concerned for my wellbeing, but I’m fine. You mustn’t worry. I was detained for the so-called offence of showing my students Perry Henzel’s film, The Harder They Come. It was deemed subversive but
I was released shortly thereafter. It was no big thing, and I promise you that I am taking care of myself.
Since I last wrote, Miriam has been back, but things have sadly not gone well. We both tried in our own way to see each other’s point of view, but it wasn’t enough. Last month I decided that I must move to England for the sake of the family, but by then it was too late. Miriam is asking for a divorce. The very word ‘divorce’ makes me feel so ashamed. How could I have failed my wife and daughter like this? If anyone should feel guilty about placing profession before family, it is me.
He wanted to tell her more, to tell her about Hawa and how she had been the last straw for Miriam. He wanted to tell Vanessa, as he would any close friend, how he’d struggled with the affair, not wanting to start it from the very beginning. But what was he thinking? He couldn’t possibly share this with Vanessa.
I only wish I had faith, Vanessa, I really do. I still pray sometimes, but I lack the conviction that anyone hears, let alone answers, my prayers.
Kemi blames me for what happened, and no doubt rightly so. When she was a child, we discussed all sorts of things together and I would tell her stories, but now we hardly speak. Things have certainly been difficult for her even without the added strain of what has happened between Miriam and me. Kemi did her degree in African Studies and Art History which, I’m afraid, has made it hard for her to find a good job. For the time being, she is working as a secretary in London. She says she wants to return to Africa to teach English as a second language, but this is not the time to do such things. Nowhere, with the exception perhaps of Zimbabwe and Botswana (and neither of these countries need ESL), are conditions in this continent stable enough.
In Dependence Page 19
