‘Ever since I came to your country with Lord Hearn, I have asked myself this question: why do white people never laugh? In my country, we laugh all the time. We laugh when we are happy, of course. But we also laugh when we are sad. The laughter drives the sadness away, you see. And we laugh when we are neither sad nor happy. It’s like breathing. We breathe to keep alive. To us, we laugh for the same reason. Or for no reason.’ Well, I never. She took a big gulp of Holmes’ ale and smacked her lips.
‘Mr Sherlock, he says I can serve myself from his stock any time, but I never drink alone.’ After a short pause, she added, ‘And I know so few people in London.’ She then looked at me, in such a way that I thought that she was weighing up whether to confide in me or not. She nodded to herself, indicating that she had decided that she would.
‘If you knew, you would not say that I had cause for happiness.’ And she wiped an invisible tear from her eyes. Suddenly it occurred to me that the poor dear must have but few friends in this country- if any at all. Surely ever since she arrived here, whatever heartache she might have had, was borne on her own.
‘Dear Mrs Ob-’
‘Mercy please.’
‘But you must call me Irene.’ She shook her head vehemently, and finally conceded, ‘If you don’t mind, can I call you Sister?’ I laughed and nodded to show my pleasure at this, and walked towards her so I might give her a hug. I think she loved it.
‘As you know, Warrington...Lord Hearn was more than my employer. People said bad things about him, but he truly loved and cherished me. When he died I was all alone in the world.
His family never accepted me, and if he had made provisions for me, they must have lost the papers. So I was destitute. I thank the good lord everyday that Mr Sherlock was kind enough to offer me the means of putting some food inside me and a roof over my head.’
‘Poor you, I never knew.’
‘But Sister, you don’t want to burden yourself with the woes of an old woman. The soup must be ready now.’
She put the plates and cutlery out and we sat round the table. I noticed that she planned to eat with her fingers. I dismissed the notion of following suit, being too cowardly. She explained that egusi meant melon. She had saved the seeds from the melons that she served Holmes in the last few months, had dried them and pounded them herself.
‘I am so lucky he loves melon.’ It was this, she explained, that gave the sauce its mellow consistency, to say nothing of its taste. She was serving it with Jolof rice. I admit to being dubious about this strange menu, but one mouthful was enough to win me over. The goat in the egusi fairly melted in my mouth. When I mentioned this, Mercy roared with laughter once more, and explained that Yoruba people loved their meat tough, like leather, but she had learnt that white people have weak teeth. She had added a juju powder her Somali butcher friend had given her to tenderise the meat. He got it from home and said it was made from papaya.
Whilst eating, I got her to talk about life in Nigeria. She was from Oyo. She described her village near Lake Eleyele in such a way that I was able to visualise it, with its huts, its palm trees, pounding implements, its gbedu drums, and goats and chicken running about. Her baba used to go fishing in the lake which in those days teemed with catfish.
‘He was the husband of all the fishermen and always brought home a good catch-’ She stopped suddenly, no doubt noticing my frown. She gave vent to another hearty roar. Shaking her head merrily she explained that the best fisherman was known as the husband of all fishermen. The champion canoeist was the husband of all boatmen.
‘And the woman who made the best pepper soup, was the husband of all cooks.’
Uncle Ade, her father’s one-legged brother, would sell the catch for the family under the strangler-fig tree. Mercy and her brothers and sisters never went hungry. They used to play together in the fields, look after the few goats that they had, and go swimming in the lake. They were so happy.
‘How many brothers and sisters did you have?’ I asked. Mercy laughed. She was stumped. Let me see, she said, and began counting. She stopped at twenty three.
‘Twenty three!’ I exclaimed. She shook her head.
‘No, sister, many more, I am sure.’
‘Your poor mother,’ I said. She laughed and shaking her head explained that the children had many mothers.
‘I see, your father had many wives.’ She positively cackled this time.
‘No, we were Christians, my father was only married to Mother. It’s difficult for you to understand. I mean my brothers and sisters are the childre born to my aunts. My father had many brothers and sisters. Mother had even more. In the village we call ourselves brothers and sisters.’
‘I always wanted brothers and sisters. Only had a brother, but he ran away to sea at sixteen.
Last time I heard he was in Australia.’
‘I’ve lost so many loved ones.’
‘I’m so sorry to hear that.’ She explained about the epidemics, the malaria, the dysentery, the mysterious death. One day the child is laughing and skipping joyfully, next day he’s as hot as the midday sun and in the afternoon he’s cold like ice. No wonder people believe it’s juju, even if Father Thaddeus forbade his flock repeating things like that.’ For a while we were so absorbed by the food that we munched in silence.
After lunch, Mercy made tea. We sat down in Mr Holmes’ study and continued our conversation. This time, it was with tears in her eyes that she told me how her father had died whilst rescuing some children who were being washed away when the barriers of the lake broke during the mighty floods. He saved five or six, but was himself carried away with those he was unable to save.
She left school, to Father Thaddeus’ dismay, and started working as a maid at the oyinbo’s house. It was the only way to help the family. Mr Angus McGregor was the representative of The Royal Niger Company in Ibadan. The company was not just the biggest trading concern in the area, but was responsible for its administration as well. They were the people who passed laws and punished miscreants. The Yoruba people did not much like foreign rule, but since they were unable to form a single union against white men, they grudgingly submitted to their dominion. In spite of many abuses, more often than not the Company provided a security which the people found reassuring. They arbitrated when the villagers had disagreements. They judged those who broke their laws, but there were many cases where innocent men and women were punished.
‘You see, the accused was brought to the seat of the company where one large room was set aside for this. It was a sort of courthouse. When Mr McGregor was too busy he appointed a young officer to hear the case. Witnesses and translators would have their say and this young inexperienced man would pass judgement. He even had power to get men hanged.’ Mercy gave a little apologetic laugh.
‘I don’t know what started me going, am I boring you?’ I assured her that on the contrary I found it greatly interesting, and urged her to continue. She was not unhappy working for the McGregor household. The children were good-natured and she enjoyed her life at “The Thistle”. This went on for ten years. By now she had married Ayo Obassanju. He was a sweet man, very much like her own much-loved father.
‘Nobody in the whole of Oyo could carve a dugout canoe like my Ayo-’
‘He was the husband of wood-carvers then?’ I chipped in, and this ignited her hilarity fuse.
‘Anything in wood, no one could do better than my Ayo,’ she said proudly after she had controlled her burst. Even the white men of the Royal Niger came to him when they wanted a cupboard or a table made, she explained. He was as good with woodwork as our Mr Holmes is with his detection juju, if the stories of Dr Watson are to be believed.’ This was delivered to the accompaniment of the Obassanju guffaw.
‘I’ve read most of them, you know. Father Thaddeus would be pleased. Dr Watson is always bringing me the magazines.’
When the McGregors left,
Mr Warrington Beadley took over his job. He had no family, but had a fiancée in England. She never knew why everybody seemed to hate him, but nobody treated her with more kindness. People said he was very harsh when he sat in judgement on miscreants. People said that he sent innocent people to the gallows. ‘People tell too many lies,’ she said. Mercy had heard him say, many a time, that the best way to operate efficiently was to put the fear of God in the people he governed. She believed that he was tough but fair. The people at The Thistle used to tease her. The master was in love with her they said. This was something which upset her, for she was devoted to Obassanju. Still, she was not blind. She knew what the white man wanted. She had never shown any interest in him in that way, and he had never put any pressure upon her. Yes, he told her one day that he thought that she was the most desirable woman in Africa, and that the thought of her kept him awake at night. She had laughed, and that was that. Sometimes when he had drunk more than usual, he would try to put his arms around her, and when she rebuffed him, he said sorry and left her alone. This was how she knew that he was a decent man. She believed him when he said that he was in love with her, but it made no difference to her. Truth to tell, at first she did not think that he was attractive. She did not much like the reddish colour of his skin and the smell of whisky on his breath, but she was touched by his kindness to her. Who was she? A young peasant orphan girl who had never finished her schooling. She was flattered that the big oyinbo considered her someone worth falling in love with. Specially when an uncle of his died and he became the Earl of Hearn. He gave a big party and the whole of Oyo got drunk on his beer.
‘If people in England weren’t so full of prejudice, I’d make you get rid of that useless husband of yours and make you Lady Hearn,’ he said to her that night. That was the only time she had nearly lost her temper with him. She had protested. Her Ayo was not useless. What made him say such things, hein? He had apologised and they had laughed. It was next day that they told her that Obassanju had been found floating on Eyelele.
‘I couldn’t believe it, he was the best swimmer in Oyo. He must have had a spell of dizziness, I had thought.’ It turned out that he had been assaulted by a gang of Hausa thieves and then thrown in the lake. Lord Hearn promised that he would deal with the murderer and make an example of him.
‘Who are Hausa thieves?’ I asked. Mercy explained that there were hundreds of tribes in the country. The Niger Company, who ruled over the people had a policy for keeping law and order. If a Yoruba man needed to be beaten, someone from his own tribe might not do it properly. So the white man used people from other tribes. As an example, this was Yoruba land, so the prison guards were Igbos or Hausas, from other tribes.
‘Traditionally our enemies,’ Mercy said. ‘Very bad people.’
Warrington was true to his word, and got Shehu arrested and thrown in prison. Shehu was the leader of the gang. The white man got him beaten to a pulp by his Igbo guards. As an example to future miscreants. The judgement took place next day. Immediately after the sentence, some Yoruba men were given the task of hanging the man who had killed their kinsman. Mercy felt relieved that justice had been done, but nothing would return her man to her.
She was very grateful to the white man. He had not only punished the killer, but promised that he would look after her. At first she did not welcome his attention, but he ended up winning her over by his concern for her. Mercy felt responsible for her many brothers and sisters in her village, and in her capacity as housekeeper for the Company chief, she was in a position to help them. She was always bringing them foodstuffs from the larder of her employer. Dried fish, si dahun o etu (dried antelope meat), eggs, palm oil, whatever she could. If Mr Warrington- Lord Hearn knew, he never said a word.
‘I knew that my fate was sealed,’ she said with a laugh, ‘when one day I caught myself thinking how handsome he was. It was true, you never saw such beautiful blue eyes. His hair was like gold thread. I got used to his red skin. He wore such elegant clothes. And his shiny knee-length boots. He looked like a white prince from the stories Father Thaddeus used to tell. After he started me drinking whisky, I no longer found his breath offensive. And that man wanted me, the peasant husbandless woman. It did not mean that I did not honour my dead husband. But you see, Miss Adler, I am not made of wood, I am flesh and blood, and I have needs. And I want food inside my body. And I need to provide for them in the village.’
‘Of course.’
‘And I can tell you that I was with him for...let me see, seven years in Oyo, and twenty eight in London. He never once said one unkind word to me. Yoruba men aren’t always tender with their women, but Obassanju never raised a finger to me. He hated violence and never committed any. Warrington was unsparing in his treatment of the bad ’uns, thieves and idlers, but he never once hit me. He bought me presents, he spoilt me. He was always wanting to hold me tight. How could I not love him?’
‘He never married you, did he?’
‘He wanted to, but said that his family would disown him. I wouldn’t have that. When he took me to London, he had to tell everybody that I was his housekeeper. Mind you, they all saw that we slept in the same bed.’ As I expected, this was followed by an explosion of merriment. ‘I didn’t mind that he never introduced me to his friends, but he didn’t treat me like a servant. I had a roof over my head, I never went hungry, and was always treated with love. I was, you know.’
‘Then he died?’ She nodded and wiped a tear.
‘Yes. It was very sudden. I was not allowed at his bedside, but I carried him in my heart.’
She was quiet for a while, then suddenly she began crying. Tears dripped from her eyes and she sobbed like a child. I rose and walked towards her and put my arms around her. I patted her and said a few comforting words. She stopped suddenly, raised her head and looked at me in the eyes.
‘Miss Adler, when I die, and Shango axe me who I want to spend my afterlife with, Obassaju or Warrington, how shall I decide?’
‘Tell him you want both of them. One on alternate weeks.’ This got her laughing until tears began rolling down her cheeks. Strangely, her mood changed accordingly.
‘You know, all these years, I never axed questions, but after such a long time, I am being troubled by nightmares.’ She explained that in Ibadan, shortly after it became known that she had become the white man’s woman, people began coming to her with stories. ‘Bad people who jealoused me. They told so many lies.’
‘After Shehu was hanged, a man told my sister Comfort...my auntie’s eldest...that he was at the killer’s hanging. The condemned man could barely stand on his legs. He had been beaten senseless by the Yoruba guards. He could hardly speak, but this man claimed that as they put the rope under the strangler-fig tree round his neck, Shehu had said, “He made me do it, now he hangs me. There’s no justice.” He swore to Comfort that he was telling the truth. She was silent for a while, but by her heavy breathing I knew that she was deeply upset. Suddenly she burst out laughing.
‘That Comfort was the world’s biggest liar,’ she said, ‘she jealoused me so much ever since we were children.’
‘I’m glad,’ I said. I didn’t want to spoil her good memories. It did not take long for another cloud to appear in the sky above.
‘On the day we were preparing to leave for London, a man I knew from the village arrived at The Thistle. He said he had something for me. And he gave me something wrapped in dried palm fronds.’
‘What is it?’ she had asked.
‘I think you are dishonouring the memory of your murdered husband.’
‘I honour my husbands. Both of them. My oyinbo husband is an honourable man, why are you so unjust to him? He keeps peace in this country of ours, he punishes criminals and thieves. He makes the land safe for us.’
‘I’ll tell you this, Sister Irene, the white man, he loved me. It’s true that over the years I had heard many stories about how badly he treated o
ur people. I know that he liked slapping people or even lashing out at them with the back of his arm. He swore at them a lot, calling them bad names. I know all that, but he was dealing with the rotten eggs. What was he supposed to do? Reward them with goats and honey?’
‘Keeping the peace isn’t easy brother,’ she had told the busybody. ‘You often have to resort to violent methods with bad people. I trust him. He had a job to do. He’s a fair man. He loves me.’
‘Yes, he loved you so much he killed Obassanju.’ She did what she had never done in her life. She slapped the man. She had to exert self-control not to kill him with a stone which was within reach. But the man had not finished.
‘I saw him, with my own eyes shoot Obassanju in the back. There were these three Yoruba guards holding him. Your husband was bleeding, and the oyinbo ordered them to beat him some more and throw him in the lake. I swear by Shango and by our Lord Jesus Christ. As the near dead body began drifting away, he produced the gun and shot him in the back. Twice. Take this. That’s what he shot him with. I think he regretted shooting a man and threw the gun in the bush. I saw him. I picked it up and have kept it. I said nothing all these years. I was afraid that if he found out that I had spoken he would come for me. He’s a very bad man, I tell you.’ I wouldn’t take the packet, so he left it behind when he went.
‘What did you do with it?’ I asked. She said nothing for a while, then stood up and left the room. When she came back she had this leafy package in her hand. She made a sign for me to take it.
‘I don’t know how guns work, but I know you and Mr Holmes know gun juju. See if you can make the gun talk.’ I took it and turned it round in my hand.
‘In my village, I could have taken it to the Medicine Man, and he would have axed the spirits for the truth. Here there’s nothing we can do.’ Obviously there was.
‘Do you trust me, Mercy?’
The Adventures of Irene Adler : The Irene Adler Trilogy Page 20
