In Dependence

by Sarah Ladipo Manyika

  Miriam sending money? Tayo stepped back into the apartment, shutting the door noisily. After Kemi had hung up, he asked who she’d been on the phone with. She didn’t want to talk about it, but later that night Tayo found a way to start a conversation.

  ‘You know, Kemi, when I was young, we didn’t talk about our girlfriends or boyfriends to our parents,’ he began, ‘and I forget sometimes that you were not always raised in Nigeria as I was, but I don’t disapprove. And you must understand that I have nothing against white people, nothing at all. Thinking about race is the American way, not ours.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t mind if I married someone white?’

  ‘To be honest, I’d be more concerned if you married a Nigerian. There are so many crooks about these days. And besides, you’re not the first person to fall in love with a white person, you know.’

  ‘You did?’ Kemi looked up, curious.

  ‘It was before you were born, Kemi.’ Tayo shrugged, regretting having brought it up. ‘Vanessa was someone I met at Oxford.’

  ‘Did you think of marrying her?’

  ‘I suppose we did, but then I met your Mum and…’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And then…well that’s all.’

  ‘You don’t have to worry about what I’ll think, Daddy,’ Kemi said. ‘This is Vanessa Richardson, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, it is. Was,’ Tayo added, trying not to show his surprise.

  ‘It wasn’t hard to guess, Daddy,’ Kemi smiled. ‘You’ve mentioned her several times since you’ve been here.’

  ‘Have I? I really didn’t think…Well, she’s married now, so …’

  Kemi looked at him, waiting for him to say more. He met her gaze and when he said nothing more, she nodded with grown-up understanding.

  ‘Sometimes I wonder how Laurent’s parents really feel.’ Kemi mused.

  ‘You’ve met them already?’ Tayo asked.

  ‘They lived for a little while in Liberia, you know. Laurent’s father worked with Médecins Sans Frontières. His father is very nice, but it’s his mother … well, maybe all mothers are protective of their sons. Do you think that’s so, daddy?’

  Tayo shrugged as if to say he didn’t know, but he did. Mama had been that way.

  ‘I’d like Laurent’s mother to accept me.’

  ‘And she should, my love. She should.’ Tayo said, squeezing Kemi’s hand. ‘What parent wouldn’t be delighted to have you as a daughter-in-law?’ He sighed and, resting his head on Kemi’s shoulders, he shut his eyes.

  ‘I hope you know that I didn’t mean any of those nasty things I said this afternoon,’ Kemi whispered, placing a hand on his lap. ‘I love you Daddy, very much. I even respect you,’ she smiled.

  He squeezed her young hand, fighting back the tears. These were his first tears since his arrest. His daughter knew nothing about his arrest, and hopefully never would.

  Chapter 34

  The kitchen table had become Vanessa’s favourite place to write. The house was silent except for the ticking of an old clock. 3am. Tick tock, tick tock, Vanessa rocked her head from side to side in time with the sound as she stood up to make herself some tea. Yes, she thought to herself, this was what happened to mothers later in life; they became nocturnal creatures. She would always go to bed early with Edward, but then get up at these quiet moments of the night — the perfect time to think. Edward would sometimes join her, but only for a minute or two to remind her that she worked too hard and that she needed to sleep. She promised she wouldn’t be long. He knew she’d stay up, and she knew he knew, but this was their script and there was comfort in sticking to it. Now, as she waited for the water to boil, she thought of Tayo. It would still be daytime in California. What would he be doing? At least he was safe now. She sighed and returned to the table with her mug of rosehip tea.

  Everything was laid out: the manuscript, the photographs and Saratu’s letter. Shortly after Father’s death, Edward had suggested that she read her father’s manuscript and consider publishing it. She’d been reluctant to do so at first, given how badly the relationship with her father had deteriorated over the years. For a long period, between Mother’s death and Father going into care, Vanessa had hardly spoken to her father because of his refusal to accept Suleiman as his grandson. She’d thought many times of cutting him out of her life. Instead, she hid her father’s nastiness from Suleiman and visited him in the home as little as possible.

  When Father died, she’d wanted to get rid of all of his papers, but Edward had encouraged her to read them first which, after much procrastination, she did. She found, as she’d feared, a manuscript full of racist and patronising comments about Africans, but the manuscript also contained many interesting details of the colonial period and this presented something of a dilemma for Vanessa. While the racism was deplorable, she couldn’t deny that the writings were of some historical significance. The manuscript included detailed notes on what was accomplished in the course of a District Officer’s day and descriptions of journeys made on the Aureol. All that was missing was the perspective of the Nigerians who worked with her Father. In the end she had written to friends in Nigeria, hoping that some of Father’s former employees might still be around to give their stories. At first nobody replied, but then she received the letter from Saratu.

  Dear Mrs. Barker,

  Praise God that I obtained your letter dated 7th March, 1997. I am now living in Gindiri and so the letter took some time to reach me. I am happy to hear you are writing about Africa. God bless you. Mama would be very happy to know this. I am sorry to inform you that Mama passed away on 5th August, 1986. Until her death, she was talking of your mother, who was her favourite Madame. She was still angry with the gardener for causing irresponsibility for your mother to leave our country when you were a child. I am hoping that you return to Nigeria again very soon. I would like to see you. God has blessed me with six children. Four boys. Two girls. Praise God. The eldest is named Elizabeth, the same as your mother. I am sending you a picture of your mother that Mama used to keep. Also, I am giving you one picture of myself. I am in the maternity ward at St. Teresa hospital, where you can dispatch future correspondence.

  MRS SARATU JANU c/o Mother Theresa Hospital

  P.O. Box 16, Gindiri, Nigeria

  I wait to hear from you sooner rather than later. God bless you and your family.

  Vanessa smiled as she placed the letter back in a pile. She would have loved to see Saratu again. The photograph was a Polaroid and the colours were faded, but the resemblance was clearly there. Saratu was looking like her mother now. She was round and short with the same beautiful smile as her mother and dressed in the pale blue nurse’s uniform with a wide, navy blue belt and silver buckle. Vanessa remembered the times when she and Saratu had played like sisters, climbing trees, running, jumping or playing at being mothers. How different their lives had now become. Saratu was a competent mother of six and she the somewhat failed mother of one.

  She put the photograph down and touched the second photograph of Mother. Then she picked up the picture of Danjuma and held them side-by-side. Danjuma’s photograph was one that Mother had kept in a drawer along with other pictures from Nigeria. Danjuma was posing in a smart shirt and formal trousers. He stood at an angle, looking across his shoulder at the camera. ‘Where did you take this picture?’ Vanessa murmured. ‘Did you send it to Mum? And what is this ‘irresponsibility’ that Saratu speaks of?’

  As a child, Vanessa had always believed that the reason she and Mother returned to England before Father was for her education, but last year when she’d broached the topic with Uncle Tony, he’d told another story. Something had happened to upset Mother in her second year in Nigeria, but nobody knew quite what. All Uncle Tony knew was that Father travelled a lot, leaving Mother behind, and he speculated that Father had had an affair. So if Father had had an affair and mother was close to the gardener in a way that had always seemed to rile Father, what if … Vanessa began to s
cribble what she knew as the facts on her notepad.

  June ’46 — Mother and Father marry.

  March ’47 — I’m born.

  June ’47 — Our family sets sail for Nigeria.

  Mother excited to go to Nigeria — her first time. Mum’s parents alarmed that she’s leaving with young child but can’t dissuade her. Mum strong-willed (she married man her parents disapprove of).

  1948 — Difficult year. Mum and I get malaria. Father thinks it’s a bad idea to keep wife and daughter in Africa. Why? Mum wants to stay. She loves the sunshine, the outdoors, the locals. She makes friends at the market, at the clinic, with the house servants. Not what Father expected. Embarrassed that wife befriends locals, esp. house servants.

  1949/1950? — Father tours Mambilla plateau without Mother and I.

  Mother’s closest friends: maid (Rose) and gardener (Danjuma).

  And then it struck Vanessa. What if Danjuma was the man that had told Mother the sticks-and-sandals story? If so, might there have been some personal significance in him being the one to tell her? Were they lovers? Vanessa looked again at the two pictures. She wished she’d asked her mother more about life in Nigeria when she was alive, but she’d always felt too scared to. She was afraid of dredging up memories that would trigger Mother’s depression. But now she wondered if talking about Nigeria might have helped her mother. Father definitely held something against Danjuma, something personal. Vanessa began to put the pieces of stories together. She imagined.

  Danjuma, a young man, nineteen or twenty-years-old. Only a few years younger than Mother. Danjuma is strong and muscular and easy-going by nature. He laughs a lot and teaches Mother all that she wants to know about gardening. He offers to take her around the Jos Plateau, to show her the waterfalls and lush forests that she has not seen, and it is on these trips, perhaps, that something starts between them? His youthful spirit and good looks attract her. He finds her beautiful and he likes the way she makes an effort to speak Hausa and to understand his culture and religion. Soon they are doing things in secret. For months they enjoy each other’s company, until Father returns and their secret is discovered. Father refuses to believe that Mother loves a local servant. He wants Danjuma punished, flogged and imprisoned, but perhaps this is when Mother tells Father that if he tries to do this then she will reveal the truth. She will say that she loved Danjuma. And so they compromise. Mother returns to England with young Vanessa, and Father remains in Nigeria. Danjuma is sacked.

  Then what? Would Danjuma and Mother have corresponded in secret? She would like to find Danjuma to ask him his side of the story. Vanessa looked at the pictures again and thought of Tayo.

  ‘Mum!’ Someone shook her shoulders. ‘Mum, why are you crying?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Vanessa sobbed.

  ‘Mum, you’re shaking. What’s wrong? It’s Grandad’s writing, isn’t it?’ Suleiman rested one hand on the table and the other on her shoulder.

  ‘Yes,’ Vanessa nodded, thankful for this excuse. ‘Can’t you sleep, darling?’ she asked, sliding her hand over his. She looked up at him and smiled.

  ‘I’d got up to read and I heard you crying.’ He squeezed her shoulder gently. ‘Look Mum, don’t let Grandad’s stuff get to you. You know what I’ve been thinking?’ He let go of her shoulder and walked to the fridge. ‘One day I’ll run a sort of literary agency for African writers.’

  Vanessa watched Suleiman pour himself a drink — her grown-up son who was so kind these days. It made her happy to see him excited about ideas and particularly about Africa, which was a passion they now shared. All they had talked about since his return were his business ideas and his desire to promote African art by setting up an arts shop. She and Edward still wanted him to finish university, but Suleiman had inherited some of Salamatou’s stubbornness and his mind was set.

  ‘Well, if you’re interested in books, you should speak to my friend Tayo.’ Vanessa said, watching the way her son was standing, drumming his fingers against the fridge.

  ‘You talk a lot about him.’ Suleiman returned with a glass of water. ‘You know, mum, I’ve always wondered what it might be like to have a black father.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It was just something I used to think about, you know. I got so tired of everyone always being surprised that my parents were white. You and dad, you know. So, tell me, were you ever in love with Tayo? Was he in love with you?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask him.’

  ‘You’re blushing, Mum.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘You are now.’

  ‘Oh Suleiman!’ She reached across the table and tapped him playfully across the head.

  ‘I’m just teasing, Mum. I know you love Dad and all that, but you’ve always been so passionate about Africa that I reckon you’ve still got some feelings for your African ex. Yeah? That’s what he was wasn’t he, an ex?’ Suleiman winked as he left the room.

  ‘Oh, did you remember to wash my sweater?’ he asked, popping back.

  ‘Suleiman!’

  ‘Just checking Mum, just checking.’

  Chapter 35

  A few weeks after her father arrived, Kemi had introduced Tayo to John Harris, Professor of Ethnic Studies at San Francisco State University and grandfather to the children Kemi nannied. Professor Harris was delighted to meet Tayo and eager to get him to the university once he had convalesced. Very soon after, it seemed, Professor Harris was offering Tayo a part-time job in his department. Tayo was surprised and grateful for the offer, but at the same time, he had little desire to interact with people and a teaching job, he felt, would force him to do just that. Moreover, what would he teach? He would have politely declined had it not been for the fact that he knew Kemi needed the money.

  So Tayo started teaching and, to his surprise, he enjoyed it—the students, the easy access to materials from the library and the opportunity to work on his own writings. He taught two classes: one on the political history of West Africa and a second on oral histories in Northern Nigeria. A few weeks into the semester, as he was walking from the department to the library, someone tapped him on his shoulder.

  ‘Professor Ajayi, I do believe!’

  ‘Yes?’ Tayo turned, expecting to see a student.

  ‘Ah ah!’ Tayo exclaimed. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Kwame laughed as they embraced.

  Kwame had been teaching at the university for seven years and had only just heard of Tayo’s arrival. The meeting felt like a homecoming to Tayo and from that day on he had a friend with whom he talked about Nigeria as well as his experiences in America. It was with Kwame that he would soon rekindle his love for jazz, occasionally going to Rasselas in the city or to Yoshi’s across the bay. Tayo’s leg soon began to show signs of improvement and then came the news that General Abacha had died, and this gave Tayo some hope.

  Tayo stopped minding when Kemi stayed out late at her boyfriend’s and even looked forward to Laurent coming to the apartment, as he did more often these days, to cook them a decent meal. Tayo bought himself a radio, listened to the BBC and NPR, and stopped watching television. He began to take buses to Grace Cathedral and he listened to the boys’ choir on Sundays. He bought music now, feeling better that he was earning some money. And as his leg steadily healed he became more adventurous with his walks. He went to the water every day, sometimes more than once, for the exercise. His route was down Franklin Street to the Wharf, across to Fort Mason and on to the Marina.

  As he walked, he liked to look at the houses and imagine who lived in them and where the people came from. Most of those on the stretch of Franklin Street between Lombard and Bay were split into apartments where young people lived. He would see them sometimes jogging or carrying their washing to a laundromat. Sometimes he would smell their food from open windows — eggs, bacon and cinnamon. He presumed that most worked in the computer industry. He would see them in shops with their cell phones, beepers and laptops.<
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  There were not many children in this part of town, but a few elderly people would venture out from time to time, accompanying or accompanied by their funny-looking dogs. He sometimes walked back along Bay through Fort Mason, where the houses looked quintessentially American — pretty little box-shaped homes with white picket fences. Military personnel owned these, or so he thought, but never knew for sure. Then there was the Safeway supermarket and the long stretch of stunning houses that stood behind the Marina. Occasionally he would see fancy cars parked in the driveways and bright lights glowing in some of the rooms, where curtains were never closed. But many of these mansions looked uninhabited, like holiday homes for the rich.

  By the water’s edge, Tayo watched the boats and the fishermen. It was where ordinary people, even the poor, mingled with tourists and the neighbourhood locals. Tayo always paused to watch the fishermen. Some would be squatting and fixing bait to their lines, others would be standing about casting their rods, while others sat, waiting patiently for a bite. Sometimes they caught big fish but mostly just little ones. Tayo chatted to the fishermen and surprised them with his smattering of Cantonese that he still remembered from a past visit to Shanghai. He practiced the language with them, gradually adding a few more words to his lexicon. Back in Kemi’s apartment, Tayo began to cook. He prepared rice and a rudimentary tomato and onion stew. He discovered, to his surprise, and with Laurent’s encouragement, that he was not a bad cook.

  Time went by more quickly now that he was due to return to his home country. Obasanjo was back in power and Tayo looked forward to participating in a new Nigeria. He was in touch again with Vanessa and had even taken the time to track down other old friends. Bolaji had been appointed Professor of International Law at Nottingham; Francis had acquired an American accent and citizenship, and was working for the State Department in Washington D.C.; and cousin Tunde was the pastor of the fastest-growing Nigerian church in London. Yusuf was still in Jos and had started, of all things, several Christian television stations. Tayo supposed that Yusuf had converted to Christianity, but it might simply have been one more opportunistic ‘Yusufian’ move. When Tayo went on his walks he held imaginary conversations with these friends. He usually walked for an hour, or longer if his musings needed more time, as was always the case when he thought of Vanessa.