A Bit of Difference

by Sefi Atta

  Ivie also mixes with the financial circle in Lagos that is concentric with the government circle in Abuja. She says single women party in Nigeria. They may pray to get married and to have children, but they don’t sit around waiting for God to deliver them. They share men. They don’t deceive themselves as married women do. Are they better off? Deola thinks, as Ivie then demoralizes her with halfhearted gossip about couples who are either separated or divorced, husbands who beat their wives and wives who are having affairs. Some woman has just poured boiling water on her husband and no one knows why. The number of stories about widows who were said to be visiting their boyfriends when their husbands died is disturbing.

  “So someone can’t die without his wife being maligned,” she says. “What scares me the most,” Ivie says, “is that you don’t even know

  what people die of these days.”

  “Na wa for Naija marriages,” Deola says.

  Ivie is her paternal cousin. Ivie’s mother is her favorite aunt who ended up with a man from Benin City who beat her. He beat her so hard she would run into the street to escape him. She relocated to Port Harcourt, where she married an elderly polygamist.

  When they were younger, Deola saw Ivie as her out-of-town cousin who was funny but forward. Ivie would order Deola around and Deola, herself a little bully, would tell Ivie, “You’re not my leader.” They became close when Ivie got a job at Trust Bank during her national service year. They stayed in the chalet and went to work together. They also went to parties together. Ivie looked like a model. Miniskirts and leggings were in, and invariably, guys would approach Deola and ask, “Who is that?”

  But Ivie had no time for Ikoyi guys, especially the Aways. She thought they were immature and trying to impress her, “disturbing her with their nonsense,” as she would say. She had so much parochial pride. Omorege came along and he was a little older. He was a managing director of a finance house, which went bankrupt. The rumor was that he cleaned out his clients, though he denied this. Ivie fell in love with him and no one in the Bello family could believe it. Barely a few months in Lagos, and she was carrying on with a married man, who then disappeared to London for about a year, abandoning his wife and triplets to avoid facing charges under a failed bank decree. For a while Ivie was the bad girl of the family, but now everyone seems to have forgiven her.

  It takes two hours to braid her hair and she drives Deola home afterward. Deola wants Ivie around so she can avoid having the marriage talk with her mother.

  Is it her imagination, or has she been hopping from one luxury car to another here in deprived Africa? Ivie’s is also fairly new, a BMW, which Ivie says is nothing compared to the cars some of her colleagues have.

  “It’s all show in this place,” she says. “We’re all caught up.”

  “Naijas in England are like that,” Deola says. “They’re even worse in America.”

  “Don’t trust what you see,” Ivie says. “A Nigerian may not have a kobo to his name and you will never know.”

  It is not whether people here can afford luxury cars; it is the state of the roads. Ivie has to drive on the sidewalk at one point. Only an army tanker could survive the potholes along the way.

  “But aren’t people doing well in business?” Deola asks. “All I hear is that people are doing well in business.”

  “Don’t let anyone fool you,” Ivie says. “There is no real business here. All we have is oil money circulating in our economy. The whole banking sector is running on laundered money. The whole of Nigeria is.”

  Ivie is the corporate relations director of her bank. Deola has heard that Victoria Island is sinking. She has had nightmares of hurricanes submerging the island, neighboring Lekki Peninsula and Ikoyi, along with their overvalued properties and inhabitants.

  z

  Tonight they get home and Deola’s mother is fussing about the canopies she has rented. She is sure it is going to rain on Sunday. Deola is never indulgent whenever her mother is like this, working everyone up about problems that may not occur. Her mother’s ability to get attention in any given room and have everyone consoling her is astonishing.

  “The canopies are going up on Saturday,” her mother says. “I should have rented a hall instead and had it indoors, given my guests lunch and be finished with it. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that before. They will tear up my grass. The rain falls for one second in this place and your heels just sink in.”

  “Don’t worry, Aunty,” Ivie says. “It won’t rain, by God’s grace.”

  “I hope not,” her mother says to Ivie. “I have my gardener coming in tomorrow. But surely, one shouldn’t pray for no rain.”

  “It didn’t rain on the day of Uncle’s funeral,” Ivie says.

  “Oh, it did,” her mother says. “That morning and that night, remember? We were spared in the afternoon. This time of the year is no good for any type of outdoor function. Remember Jaiye got married this time of the year and it rained so heavily?”

  “It didn’t rain that much,” Deola says.

  “I remember,” Ivie says.

  “You remember? We couldn’t get out of church that morning, and the ushers with the umbrellas. We were all wet. We had the reception at that restaurant on the lagoon.”

  Deola’s mother is intentionally ignoring Deola and as for Ivie, this is typical of her. She grovels to her elders. Deola remains silent as her mother goes on about the likelihood of rain, but she snaps when the subject turns to her trip to Abuja the next morning.

  “It’s in and out with this one,” her mother says.

  “I have work to do,” Deola says.

  “She comes in on Sunday,” her mother says. “Now, she’s off to Abuja.”

  Ivie laughs. “Aunty, Aunty!”

  “In and out. That’s your cousin. She comes home and moves straight into a hotel.”

  “You don’t have a driver,” Deola says.

  “You could have borrowed your brother’s driver,” her mother says.

  “He needs his driver and I had to e-mail my boss. You don’t have e-mail.”

  “She will be back on Friday,” her mother says to Ivie. “On Sunday, after the memorial, she takes off again.”

  Deola shrugs. Her mother stayed home and raised children. Now, she controls shares. She dresses up for meetings at Trust Bank, walks into the boardroom and everyone stands up and calls her “Madam.”

  “If you’re going to Abuja,” her mother says, “you might want to check up on your father’s land to see what has become of it. The government has given us a certain amount of time to fence it; otherwise they will seize it.”

  “I won’t have time,” Deola says.

  “You might want to make time,” her mother says. “The land is worth a considerable amount, as you well know.”

  z

  They eat shrimp curry and coconut rice for dinner. Ivie drives Deola back to the hotel. There Deola e-mails Kate to say she has reviewed Dr. Sokoya’s NGO and will be in Abuja tomorrow. She has two scam messages in her inbox, which she is sure came from an Internet café somewhere in Lagos.

  In the foyer, she passes the receptionist, who asks, “Is everything okay, madam?”

  “Yes,” she says.

  “You’re still checking out tomorrow?”

  “I am. Thank you for taking care of me.”

  “You’re welcome. I was worried that something was wrong.”

  Deola thought she had a smile on her face. The receptionist was probably worried that she was annoyed about the bartender, who was on the computer, surfing the Internet before she got online. She was busy thinking of her conversation with Ivie on the way here. Ivie asked her to be more understanding, as her mother was upset at having lost the love of her life. Deola thought that was typical of Ivie, to completely romanticize a tense family situation, then she conceded for a moment. Then she went back to seeing her mother as a manipulator, taking any opportunity to interfere in her life.

  She can’t bear her mother’s disappointment
. Her mother’s enduring disappointment. She wants to distance herself from it. She doesn’t even want to rebel against it because it might end up defining her, if it hasn’t already.

  The young businessman is in the lounge, speaking French on his cell phone.

  “Oui, oui,” he says. “D’accord.”

  She can’t understand what he says after that, but she enjoys listening to him. He is probably in marketing or some other trendy job.

  She is suspicious of the term “brain drain,” which she first heard at LSE. For her, it was a polite alternative for people who might want to say “Go back to Africa.” She has always thought there are enough brains in Africa, at least in Lagos. People who may not do much for the common good, but they achieve so much for themselves. She runs into old friends, most of whom are married with children, and marvels at their accomplishments—lawyers who are jewelry designers on the side, doctors who just happen to be manufacturing beauty creams, accountants who produce Nollywood films. They make the opportunities overseas look like a joke.

  In her room, she recalls her father’s reaction when she resigned from Trust Bank after Ivie did. “You as well?” her father asked, as if Ivie’s behavior and hers were on par. Then he concluded, “You children are too flighty.”

  Her mother called her friends and told them Deola was going back to England. She gave every relative that came to the house a full report. Aunty Bisi stepped in to mediate telling her, “Stay, stay,” until Deola finally said, “Oh, come on, you people. I’m going to join an accountancy firm, not a pop group.”

  They treated her as if she were still in boarding school and at home on vacation. But she was twenty-two and still living at home. Even if her parents approved of her moving out and renting a flat, she couldn’t afford to rent in any decent part of Lagos. On her salary, her options were to find a sugar daddy or hustle for a government contract, which would probably not be awarded without a sexual favor. That was not the Nigeria her parents returned to, a Nigeria where they were feted just because they were graduates and offered jobs with housing and car allowances. She had all that at Trust Bank, but she couldn’t sustain herself with an out of control inflation rate to contend with, so what was the point of staying? What sort of privilege was it to live off her parents?

  Some of her colleagues found her decision to leave Trust Bank predictable. It confirmed what they thought of her: pampered and sheltered. What was all this talk about independence? Why couldn’t she just ask her father to pay for an MBA? Then, after she left, circumstances changed for a minority of them. Their salaries became higher than hers in England, despite an exchange rate that was unfavorable to them. They climbed out of the recession and up the corporate ladder and the longer she stayed in England, the more difficult it was to return and compete with them. She held on to her independence there, even as her independence began to look more like loneliness.

  Her father wanted her to work for Trust Bank after she qualified as an accountant, but she was reluctant to: her colleagues would never give her credit as the chairman’s daughter. “I don’t know why you care,” her father said. “There isn’t a single one of them who wouldn’t want to be in your position.”

  His family was farm folk. He grew up with a hoe in his hand. He bragged about how he would walk miles to get to school, wearing hand-me-down plimsolls and carrying books on his head. He had two khaki uniforms to his name. When he washed one, he wore the other. His parents couldn’t read or write but they managed to send him to Durham University. He left for England on a cargo ship. He was not interested in starting a practice when he returned to Nigeria as a qualified accountant. He worked for United Africa Company and acquired shares in foreign companies during the indigenization era in the seventies. He went into banking when that sector was privatized in the eighties. He told her he was a millionaire when the value of the naira to the pound was one to one. He was badly hit by the devaluation of the naira, but he recovered by capitalizing on foreign exchange deals. He might have sensed what she didn’t know at the time, that she was unwittingly in competition with him. She wanted more than he could offer.

  “You can never rise to the top as an African overseas unless you do exactly as you’re told,” he used to say.

  “I will, Daddy,” she would say. “You’ll see.”

  She packs Pride and Prejudice in her suitcase. When she first read it, the Bennets were fascinating to her. Now, they could well be a Nigerian family. She pulls out Wale’s card from the pouch where she keeps her underwear. His full name is Adewale and his middle initial is also “A.” She wonders what the “A” stands for as she transfers his card to her wallet. Her mother would like him. A good man from a good family.

  z

  The next morning, she takes the first flight to Abuja. The air is drier there but with the hills, palm trees, cornfields and red soil she could be anywhere outside Lagos. On the way from the airport, she passes bundles of sticks, laundry laid out to dry, bungalows with corrugated iron roofs and dwarf goats. A group of girls carry pots on their heads and a lone elderly man sits under an umbrella to protect himself from the sun. This is Islamic territory. In the villages, men wear skullcaps and women are wrapped up.

  She thinks of her old friend Fatima, who lives further north in Kaduna. Fatima was known as a cool Hausa chick, a forward-thinking Muslim because she drank beer and smoked cigarettes in private. They were classmates at Queen’s College. They met up during national service and have since been out of touch. Deola was surprised to hear that Fatima agreed to an arranged marriage after national service. Her wedding was a seven-day affair attended by sultans and emirs. Her bridesmaids got their hands and feet dyed with henna. The president made an appearance at the wedding prayers. The marriage didn’t last. There was some talk that Fatima’s husband discovered she wasn’t virgo intacta, but people said he wouldn’t know the difference because he drank too much—so much that he would wet himself in bed. Fatima had a daughter by him and moved out. She started a law practice in Kaduna and became an advocate for underage Northern girls who were forced into arranged marriages. The girls she represented were in their early teens. Her NGO was Daughters of Islam, Women for Islam or some pro-feminist, pro-Islam name that didn’t quite add up. She started covering her hair, which may have been a ruse to continue her subversive activities, but people laughed at her and called her a born-again Muslim.

  As the city approaches, there are more motorcycles, vans and lorries. In the distance is a cluster of houses with blue roofs. The taxi driver points out Millennium Park and Aso Rock, where the president lives. There are rumors that the president, a former military head of state, is seeking an extra term in office. Lanre claims he is sweetening the Senate and House of Reps and money has been moving around mysteriously in banks. She understands what Wale means about Abuja lacking in character. Close up, the buildings are new and incongruous. Some look as though they belong somewhere in Florida.

  At the Hilton, she checks in and takes another taxi to the office of Widows In Need. She is early for her meeting with the CEO, Mrs. Nwachukwu, and her vice president, Elizabeth Okeke.

  Elizabeth seems friendly. She wears a shin-length flowery dress and is possibly in her thirties. Mrs. Nwachukwu is definitely in her fifties, portly, and her glasses are perched on the tip of her nose. She is dressed in an elaborate up-and-down.

  “From where are you?” she asks.

  Deola’s first instinct is to say “Nigeria,” as she does in London. Then she remembers that here, she is from whatever state her father is from. She has never lived in Kwara State, so she says, “Lagos.”

  “Are you Yoruba or Hausa?” Mrs. Nwachukwu asks.

  Deola smiles. “Does it matter?”

  “Just out of curiosity. ‘Deola’ is Yoruba, but ‘Bello’ could be Hausa.”

  “It’s not Hausa.”

  Mrs. Nwachukwu shrugs. “As I said, it’s just out of curiosity. If you hear my surname, you will be right in eh, assuming I am Igbo, but Elizabeth her
e is not. She is from Plateau State. Okeke is her marital name. You see? So I thought ‘Okay, Bello must be her husband’s name, then.’”

  “I’m not married,” Deola says, keeping her smile intact. “I consider myself Nigerian and I hope we can be united in the face of this epidemic that threatens us.”

  She is always thrown by ethnic distrust, though she has read enough newspaper editorials about the next elections to understand how much ethnicity still matters politically. Pressure groups are vying for equal representation in the government. She suspects she sounds just as bombastic as the editorials. What did any of that mean? I consider myself Nigerian. United in the face of this epidemic.

  Predictably, Mrs. Nwachukwu is noticeably offended, taking in Deola’s pearl earrings, black linen dress and pumps as if the overall understated effect is a plot to undermine her flamboyant, traditional look.

  “Kate Meade is your director, eh?” she says, stroking her gold pendant. “Yes. I’ve been communicating with Kate Meade.”

  Mrs. Nwachukwu’s cell phone rings a cheerful calypso tune. She indicates she needs privacy and Elizabeth ushers Deola out of her office as Deola scolds herself. She and Mrs. Nwachukwu have one Nigerian trait in common, the tendency to jeopardize an opportunity out of sheer arrogance and still expect a suitable outcome.

  The friction works in her favor. Outside in the corridor, Elizabeth whispers, “Don’t mind her. She is a difficult woman. You know she was a midwife?”

  The corridor is empty but for the two of them. Deola steps away from the door and keeps her voice low.

  “I know.”

  “I’m her in-law. She is well known within the family for being troublesome.”

  “I’m just here for a review.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. She collected money for HIV education to start WIN.”

  “So…”

  Elizabeth pats her chest. “So I’m saying the women are from my town. I was the one who told her about their predicament. Their husbands drove lorries. They traveled up and down the country. They followed prostitutes. Everyone knew why they died. No one needed any education.”