Inside was a double bed covered in an orange chenille blanket, a nightstand, a fan sitting on the linoleum floor, and in the far corner, Angie’s American Tourister duffel. The room was stuffy, yet Angie liked its cleanliness, its simplicity.
“Is this where Ella and Nigel stayed?” she asked.
“Yeah, they did stay in here,” said Brenda. “I forgot about that. Do you want to stay in our guest room in the house?”
“No, no this is perfect,” said Angie.
“You’re sure it’s not too weird for you?”
“I’m positive.”
Brenda shrugged. “The loo is that little room just outside. Godwin and his wife live in the servant’s quarters next door.” She pulled a key from her pocket. “Use this to get into the house. You’ll need to come inside to shower.” She paused. “You OK?”
“I’m fine.”
“OK. Get a good night’s sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”
After she left, Angie sat on the bed; its mattress caved in slightly. Nigel and Ella slept together in this bed, she thought. Probably had sex in this bed. Hanging from the ceiling were mosquito chasers made of small yellow boxes with pictures of mosquitoes drawn on them, large black X’s slashed across the images. She could hear the nearby sound of a whirring generator. She switched the fan on, and its blades turned. Wild animals yowled in the distance. Angie leaned over, and grabbed her journal from inside her reporter’s bag. It was still new, had gone unused since Ella gave it to her four years before. She’d been waiting for the right occasion to use it. She opened it, and with her gold pen, momentously wrote:
June 16, 1987
I’m on the African continent. Everything is so raw, without filter. And already life is an adventure. I have been stopped by a traffic cop with a gun, been cheated out of my American dollars, and now I’m staying alone in servants’ quarters, nothing between me and the night but a flimsy piece of fabric. I’ll have to stay alert, pay attention to everything, and that’s good. Funny thing: I’m sooooo tired, but I feel more alive than ever.
She lay down and closed her eyes, just as the generator clunked to a halt; the room went dark, the fan stopped its whir. She lifted her hand, couldn’t see it. She was drunkenly exhausted, could feel the dead weight of her own body. Soon enough, she heard the steady patter of raindrops; like white noise, the sound put her to sleep. She dreamed Ella and Nigel were in the front seat of his yellow Firebird and she was in the back, her head resting on Ella’s large, black plastic bag of possessions. They were flying down a highway, men rushing across their path in flowing, pastel robes. Nigel and Ella were laughing and Ella flashed her hand, showing off a mood ring on the finger that was no longer chopped off. She turned around and leaned over, shook Angie’s shoulder. She didn’t know how long the hand had been there, shaking her awake. She sat up, startled to see a kerosene lantern swinging against the darkness.
“Hey, it’s me,” said Chris, his face an eerie chiaroscuro.
Deeply groggy, Angie couldn’t remember where she was and the dream tugged at her still. “Nigel?” she whispered.
“I brought you a lantern.”
“Is she with you?” She rose onto her elbows. “Is she?”
“It’s me! Chris. I thought you might still be awake.”
She shook her head, forcing herself to fully wake. Where was she?
“You know, you smile in your sleep,” he said. The lantern’s light cast elongated shadows on the cement wall.
She sat up, remembering. “What’s wrong?”
“When Brenda said she forgot to put a lantern back here for you, I said, ‘The woman is not camping out in the bush! I better get her some light before she writes back home how backward we Africans are, how it’s the eighties and we’re here living like savages.’”
“I would never write anything like that,” she said.
“I’m teasing.” He put his hand atop Angie’s. “Are you scared to be back here by yourself?”
“Ella stayed back here.”
“Yes, but she wasn’t alone.”
“That’s true.” She was fully awake now. “But I am, so.”
“No you’re not.” They stared at one another for a moment. “You know,” said Chris, “It’s amazing that you found your way to me. I was just thinking about your sister yesterday before you appeared in my office.”
She didn’t believe him. “Really? What a coincidence.”
He looked insulted. “Africans do not believe in coincidence. It’s fate.”
The tone of his voice concerned her. But then Chris removed his hand from hers. “Soon I’ll take you to the old newsroom.” He was friendly again.
“I’m looking forward to that,” she said.
“And I think I can even scrounge up some old copies of the paper, the ones with your sister’s page.”
She could hear the faint howl of those same wild animals. Were they coyotes? Wolves? “I can’t thank you enough.”
“I’m sure you can find a way,” he said before setting down the lantern beside her bed. “Sweet dreams.”
The curtain in the doorway arced as he passed through. She laid her head on the pillow, unsure whether she was going back to sleep or had been dreaming all along. She returned to the same dream, only this time Ella was driving, and they were going fast, laughing hard because of course Ella didn’t know how to drive. She’d fooled the Nigerians.
A mosquito buzzed close to her ear as sun sliced through the slatted windows. She could smell wood burning. She rose, grabbed the key and pulled back the curtain. Just outside, a woman sat eating gari with her hands. She was heavy with child, had a toddler wrapped tight against her back. Angie walked into the small courtyard, said hello to the woman, who looked up, nodded. Angie saw that she was barely more than a girl. She headed to the house. The night’s rain had left shimmering wetness on the concrete. In the kitchen, she found Godwin, the houseboy; he was short and lithe, hovering over a pot. He wore a shirt and matching pants in a swirling golden and black print, feet bare. Angie said hello. He bowed, said nothing.
“Can you tell me where to find a towel?” she asked.
“Make I get for madam,” he said, putting emphasis on the second syllable, and disappeared through an archway. Within seconds, Godwin returned with the towel and washcloth and showed Angie to the bathroom. The shower felt restorative and she stayed there a long time, making up for the shower she’d avoided at the hotel, where two inches of water pooled in the stall, stagnant and dank.
She brushed her hair back into a bushy ponytail and slicked it with more gel. Back in her quarters, she dressed. As she made her way to the main house, giant flies swarmed around her head. She swatted them away, yet they followed her, persistent. Slipping into the back door, escaping the flies, she found Brenda at the kitchen table, sipping tea. She wore a flowing, embroidered caftan and silk house slippers.
“What would you like for breakfast?” she asked. “Eggs, toast, semolina?”
“Eggs and toast sounds good,” said Angie.
“Tea?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“I don’t have any lemon, just milk,” said Brenda. “I got into that habit in London.”
“I’ll try it with milk.”
Brenda placed the Lipton tea and tin can of Pet milk in front of her. “Sleep well back there?”
Angie hesitated. “For the most part.”
“Yeah, it’s something to get used to. I was surprised that Chris put your bag back there, instead of in the guest room upstairs. That’s where we usually have visitors stay. Especially since you’re alone.”
Brenda pushed the box of Domino’s sugar cubes toward Angie. “If you want, you can still move to the guest room.” She rose, went to the stove, grabbed a kettle, poured hot water into a cup and gave it to her.
“I don’t mind it back there.” Angie dipped he
r tea bag in and out. She wanted to stay where Ella had stayed.
“Well, see how it goes over the next few days,” said Brenda. She reached for a skillet. “Guess it depends on what you prefer most, privacy or proximity.” Her back to Angie, she said, “You strike me as the privacy type.”
“Do I?”
Brenda ignored her as she cracked eggs into the skillet. “It’s that stuff on your hair that’s doing it you know, attracting flies.” She scrambled. “These African flies are sensitive. They can smell the perfume in it.”
“How’d you know about the flies?”
“I saw you through the kitchen door.”
Angie wondered what else Brenda could see.
“If you don’t want a weave-on, you could try a perm,” said Brenda.
“A perm?”
“That’s a big thing in Lagos right now.” She stirred the eggs.
“Perms?”
“All these salons have sprung up inside little shacks on the roadside,” explained Brenda. “Nigeria just discovered Ultra Sheen Permanent Relaxer, it seems. The only kind they get here is extra strong. You have to tell the girl who does your hair to leave that stuff in for just ten minutes, so all your hair doesn’t fall out.”
“Hmm, doesn’t sound too appealing.”
Brenda placed the freshly cooked eggs in front of Angie. She was famished and devoured them while Brenda watched.
“So, lucky you!” said Brenda when Angie was done eating. “I’ve arranged for you to meet Lola.”
“Lola?”
“She was the assistant editor slash reporter under Ella. Now she covers women’s issues for The Punch. Ella adored her, treated her like a little sister.”
Angie felt a tinge of jealousy, quick as a flash. “I look forward to meeting her,” she lied.
After breakfast Brenda invited Angie to join her in her bedroom. “I’ll show you my newest pairs of shoes.”
Angie followed her, grateful for this instant friendship. It was, she decided, the best part of travel. Within minutes, Brenda was leaning against her bed’s headboard as Angie perched on the edge, holding a jelly glass of palm wine. This room was styled with off-white carpet and sleek, blond Scandinavian furniture.
“The furniture in each of your rooms is so different!” said Angie.
“That’s because we can only get what somebody will ship here. That’s the key to Nigerian decorating. Choose your style based on what you can get.”
Earth, Wind & Fire’s “Shining Star” played from the built-in speakers, their voices demanding exuberance. Brenda lifted the top off a shoebox and dug beneath the tissue paper, unearthing a two-toned, turquoise-and-cream, high-heeled pump. “This is one of my favorites,” she said, balancing it in the palm of her hand. “I love shoes that show toe cleavage.”
“Toe cleavage?”
Brenda kicked off a leather sandal, slipped her foot into the pump, and pointed to the baseline of her toes peeking through. “That’s toe cleavage!”
Angie laughed. “OK, I get it.” She sipped the palm wine. It was tangy and strong and she didn’t really like the taste, but it seemed rude not to drink it.
All morning, Brenda gave her a mini trunk show. She showed off designer skirt suits and silk party dresses and high-end jogging suits, many of which still had their price tags. And then there was the myriad of shoes–all spiky heels with a few flats for driving.
Angie picked up a stray shoe from the bed. This one was fire-engine red, with a leather flower and a slender, four-inch heel.
“How do you even walk in these?” she asked. She recalled the few Nigerian women she’d seen on Lagos Island wearing heels. Their bare feet seemed stuffed into the shoes like the feet of Daisy, Donald Duck’s girlfriend.
“I try not to walk much on the streets,” admitted Brenda. “If I’m not driving myself, I’m with a driver. You can get caught in a thunderstorm. Or at least drenched. And in the hot months, you can get sunstroke. So this is not a place for walking.”
Angie surveyed the mound of footwear on the bed. There must have been two-dozen pairs. “Boy, you do have a major shoe fetish.”
“Well, it’s what I do when I go to London,” said Brenda. “I basically shop for shoes.”
“How often do you go? Once a month?”
Brenda laughed. “No. I go twice a year. It’s only a six-hour plane ride from here and a lot cheaper than a plane ticket to the States. It’s my consolation prize from Chris. A reward for staying in Nigeria.” She fingered a shoe. “I think Haymarket Street has the best shops I’ve ever seen.”
Angie drank more palm wine. The pungent taste was growing on her. She picked up an open-toed pump. This one was black and tan leather with an ankle strap.
“So just where do you wear all these shoes?”
“To formal functions, to anniversaries, to parties. Stuff like that. Girl, Nigerians love to give themselves titles and awards and honors. There’s always a reason to dress up. I’m forever heaping on the gold jewelry and lace cloths and going to some honoring ceremony.” She sipped her wine. “I’m co-chair of the Ikeja Women’s Auxiliary for Prenatal Care. We have dinner-dance fund-raisers twice a year.” She leaped off the bed. “I’ll show you my absolute favorite party shoes, the ones I wore to the dance last year.”
Brenda slipped into her closet, came out seconds later modeling a pair of royal blue, sequined stilettos. Draped in front of her body, still on its hanger, was a matching, sequined dress with a jagged hemline, Wilma Flintstone-style. The shoes showed off Brenda’s shapely legs to great effect and the sequins sparkled in the afternoon light pouring in from the slatted windows. Standing there like that, she reminded Angie of Denise—those same strong-calved legs—even though she couldn’t imagine her middle sister in such an extravagant dress. Brenda twirled around a couple times before she slipped back into the closet.
“I taught secondary school when we first got here,” she said from inside the closet. She reappeared holding a shoebox. Looking down, she studied her own feet, still sporting the sequined pumps. “I sat behind my desk a lot on that job, so the heels were OK.”
“And now you don’t teach anymore?” asked Angie.
“No.” Brenda slipped out of the dressy pumps and gently placed them back into their box. “Now my job is trying to have a baby.” She carefully covered the shoes with the tissue paper. Angie kept quiet, unsure what to say.
“Chris is freaking out that it hasn’t happened yet, to put it mildly. They say a man without children is a child himself.” Brenda put the lid back onto the box. “That’s what the trips to London are mainly for. They have this procedure there that helps women get pregnant.”
“But how old are you?”
“Twenty-nine and counting. So close to thirty, it ain’t funny.”
Just a year younger than Ella would’ve been. “You’ve still got plenty of time.”
“No I don’t. This is Africa.”
“Oh.” Angie paused. “I’m sure it’ll work out.”
Brenda lifted her jelly glass to Angie’s and they clinked. “Hope so.”
On the anniversary of what would’ve been Ella’s thirtieth birthday, she’d gone to the gravesite and released thirty balloons in different colors. She was often sad about the things Ella would never get to do, but funny how having a baby wasn’t one of them. Sure, she knew her sister had that option, like most women, but she never envisioned Ella as a mother. It was strange to her that any of Ella’s friends here in Nigeria could be parents. She’d mentally frozen everyone in time—kept each stuck at New Year’s Day 1984.
Shining star for you to see, sang Earth, Wind & Fire. What your life can truly be.
Brenda placed her shoebox back into the closet, returned to the bed, plopped down, and arranged the pillows behind her head. The song was over. They drained their glasses of wine.
“So what do you think you’ll do with your hair while you’re here?” Brenda asked.
Back home Angie used a mild relaxer, a texturizer, which worked well enough in Detroit’s weather. Not so in this humidity.
The wine made her feel impulsive. “Maybe I’ll cut it off, wear a short Afro.”
“Or get it braided. Ella’s braids were so pretty.”
Angie was startled. “She had braids?”
“She did,” said Brenda. “She got them right after she came. I can’t remember whether she kept them the whole time but she had them.”
“I never knew that.” She hated that tidbits about Ella that had escaped her could never be fully retrieved, like loose pearls from a broken necklace rolling in every direction across the floor.
“I may have some pictures somewhere of her,” said Brenda. “I’ll look.”
“Could you?”
“Sure I will.”
“And can you help me get my hair braided too?”
“That’s easy,” said Brenda. “I can set it up for tomorrow if you want.”
“By the same woman who did Ella’s?” She knew as soon as she said it, how desperate it sounded.
“It doesn’t work like that,” explained Brenda. “The Fulani gypsies do it. They don’t stay around. You just catch one where she sets up.”
“I see.” Angie gathered together her courage. “Brenda, can I ask you something?”
“OK?”
“What was it about my sister that you really liked?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“I just want to learn as much as I can.”
Brenda’s eyes flashed understanding. “Well, I liked that we had a lot in common. Both black American women in Nigeria, the same age. She was from the South, so was I.”
Angie corrected her. “She was born in the South but she grew up in Detroit.”
“Oh I know all about her migration,” said Brenda. “She told me the story of taking that train ride up north.”
Into the Go Slow Page 15
