Refuge

by Andrew Brown

  The pastor started to croon, first in low tones and then, as the crowd responded, rising in volume. The song was vaguely familiar, a hymn sung in a different language, but still identifiable. Richard remembered the tune from his childhood days in church on Christmas day, kicking his heels in the silent heat, impatient to get home to play with his new toys. The voices of the celebrants rose and fell together, as if long practised, and although not everyone could sing in pitch, the result was an upwelling of harmony. The hymn ended abruptly and the pastor nodded towards the young father.

  Together the two men lifted the tablecloth up high, exposing the table beneath. Ceramic bowls and plates covered the surface beneath. The crowd murmured appreciatively, as the two men folded the cloth.

  The pastor returned to the head of the table and announced in English: ‘These are the ceremonial foods.’ His voice resonated warmly in the room. Richard was concerned that the pastor felt obliged to explain the ceremony to him, though the man did not look at him as he spoke. ‘We have foods that are meaningful to us,’ he went on, ‘meaningful to the family and will become meaningful to our new child.’

  The crowd nearest the doorway parted, a rumble of whispers breaking out. A young woman stepped into the room, carrying a small blanketed bundle. The woman’s features were as delicate as a skeleton-leaf, perfectly formed in diminutive beauty. Her skin shone as if catching sunlight and she moved like a sculpted fairy. Richard was aware that he was staring at her, but could not avert his gaze. She looked down at the peeping face of her sleeping boy, a Madonna beneath her simple garments. She padded barefoot until she was in front of Richard. He held his breath, as if breathing on her might take something from her.

  She smiled shyly and Richard felt a rising blush. ‘You are welcome,’ she said simply. Before he could answer, she turned and walked with slow steps to join her husband. The young father leant forward and kissed her on the forehead. Then he put his hand on his newborn son’s head and pushed the blanket back, exposing the child’s face for all to see. Richard wondered vaguely whether he had ever looked at Amanda with such adoration or touched Raine with such tender wonder. He felt tears forming and tried to blink them away. When he looked up he saw Abayomi’s face focused on him, a slight frown creasing her forehead. For the first time since meeting her, he felt a full flush of guilt.

  The pastor moved across to the couple, lifted the child and unwrapped the blanket, freeing the child’s left arm and hand. He slowly moved around the table, bending down as he spoke.

  ‘Here we have water, the beginning of all life.’ He touched the boy’s crinkled hand into the water. The boy did not stir and the pastor moved on.

  ‘And palm oil, both good and bad, so that our child should know the difference between good and evil.’ The man dipped a finger into the oil and rubbed it across the baby’s lips. The boy’s tongue protruded to lick some away, his facial muscles flickering. The young father put his arm around his wife and she rested against him, her eyes transfixed by their child.

  ‘Cola nuts, used for healing, and used to make ill. May our child know the difference.’ The pastor pressed some crushed nuts into the child’s hand. Instinctively the fingers closed, grasping the husks for a moment before they slipped out and tinkled to the floor.

  ‘Honey, that our child may be sweet to his people, to his family and his beloved parents.’ Honey was swept across the child’s lips. This time the baby flinched and awoke, his small eyes opening and closing.

  ‘Wine, to bring happiness and joy to all people, to be used with respect and care.’ The baby pushed his tongue out, wetly forcing the wine out of his mouth, dribbling in streaks down his chin.

  ‘Money. May you always use it wisely in your life. Do not let it rule you; do not let it interfere with your love of your people or God. May it work for you. May you never be its slave.’ The coin was larger than the cola nuts and the baby’s fingers curled around it.

  ‘Here is paper and a pen. May you learn and may you use your learning for the good of your people.’ Then the man picked up a small book with red-tinged pages. The coin dropped to the floor, bouncing and rolling between the feet of the guests.

  ‘And last, the Bible. May you learn to read this Book of Books. May you learn to use what is written here. May you use this book to help your people and never to harm them. May this be God’s will.’ The pastor placed the small Bible alongside the baby’s chest and wrapped the blanket back, covering the book.

  ‘Your names from your parents will be Orobola Adamu. Your grandmother in our homeland sends you the name Oluwa. May you wear these names with pride. May you be filled with riches and godliness, as your names are given.’

  The pastor returned the child to his waiting mother. She took the bundle tenderly, half-turning to her husband so that he too could see. Then long, thin candles appeared, as if out of nowhere, and lighters and matches were produced. The room was lit up by twinkling flames. Richard held his candle out in front of him, unexpectedly moved by the ceremony. And grateful to Abayomi for the invitation.

  ‘Now we will bless our child’s bedroom.’ The pastor led the way and, taking it in turns, the guests moved in small groups down the passage and into the tiny bedroom. The room smelt of fresh paint, and flowers were arranged on the windowsill. A collection of plastic mobiles twisted in the breeze from the open window. Some religious figurines were stuck to the wall above a small cot. The pastor remained in the room as guests came and went, reciting prayers of blessing.

  Richard followed, happy to be swept up in the crowd. He watched as each guest stepped towards the cot and murmured something for the child.

  ‘What are the words?’ he asked the pastor, when his turn came.

  ‘No, you must give your own blessing,’ the man replied. ‘A blessing from you.’

  Richard stood for a moment, uncertain, then said, ‘May you be blessed with more wisdom and curiosity than I.’ The pastor patted him lightly on the back as he retreated from the room. Only when the last guests had had an opportunity to bless the room did the pastor return to the lounge. The crowd waited for him in silence, holding their candles as they fizzled and wavered in the light breeze.

  ‘Olomo lo laiye …’ he intoned, his voice rising lyrically and without haste through the lines of a poem. The young mother smiled, rocking the child with the rhythm of the recitation. When the poem was completed, the pastor walked forward and placed his hand on the sleeping boy’s head. ‘Edumare jomo tuntun o dagba.’ The people murmured in assent.

  Then, as if on cue from an unseen sign, the crowd broke into movement, some disappearing into the kitchen, others dispersing into the small garden to smoke cigarettes and talk. Quickly the lounge opened up. Abayomi made her way across to Richard.

  ‘Is it over?’ he asked cautiously.

  ‘No, this is just the beginning. Now comes the party. It will end tomorrow morning. Don’t worry,’ she added when she saw his shock, ‘I won’t keep you here all night.’ There was a suggestiveness to the comment, which lingered as she turned to greet another woman, hugging her. Richard admired her waist and the subtle line of dark flesh that showed above the line of her jeans – until he noticed the pastor at his side. Richard averted his eyes, but it seemed for a moment that the man had joined him in his indulgence.

  ‘I see mama has finally left you alone,’ the pastor said softly. ‘Now is your chance to escape, hey?’ he chuckled, and then quickly pulled a straight face. Richard felt a familiar clasp on his wrist. ‘Spoke too soon,’ the pastor whispered, before slipping away.

  ‘Come with me, my boy,’ the old matriarch said to Richard. ‘You must eat. You need big energy.’ She tugged at him like a child pulling an older sibling. Richard followed, though reluctant to be parted from Abayomi again. He shuffled out of the front door and around the side of the house. The back garden was sandy and unkempt, but the effusive gathering of guests gave the untidy space a festive atmosphere. Trestle tables were lined up, covered in white sheets. The pots of w
armed food were being carried out of the back door and placed next to platters of fresh fruit.

  The young mother presented herself in front of him. The child was no longer in her arms and she stood with her head slightly bent, her eyes looking down, holding a plate of food.

  ‘It was a wonderful ceremony,’ Richard stammered, feeling giddy. She looked up, her face radiant, and held out the paper plate. It was heaped with spoonfuls of brightly coloured foods: it looked like a presentation of cooking rather than a plate of food to be eaten. Richard thought back to the sterile rituals of the dinner parties Amanda planned. He had a sense that the food here had been prepared with heart rather than out of a desire to impress. He thanked the woman and took the plate, and their fingers briefly clashed as he put his palm underneath to support the floppy weight.

  ‘You are most welcome,’ she said, half-curtseying. She looked up at him and smiled, a flashing brilliance of cuteness and warmth. Richard had that dull guilty feeling that enveloped him when he caught himself looking at his daughter’s friends lying around the pool. It was unforgivable, but unavoidable.

  The old woman clucked something sharply and the young mother scuttled away, but her smile lingered on Richard’s skin.

  ‘This is kokoro,’ his companion announced, ‘made from cornflour and sugar, fried in oil.’ She pointed to a golden-brown dumpling. Her crooked finger almost touched the food and Richard involuntarily lowered the plate a little, but she followed it down, pointing to the skewered meat. ‘And that is suya, made with ground kulikuli. Do you like beans? We call them ewa – that is them there.’ She swept her finger across the top of a pile of reddish beans, stealing a taste. She put her finger in her mouth and sucked it hard. ‘My youngest daughter made them. She is very good in the kitchen. But not so good in bed, hey? No husband. No children.’ She grinned with darkened teeth, poking him teasingly in the ribs.

  ‘Come, you must eat. Tell me how you like it. Come on.’ Richard obeyed and dug a plastic fork into the beans. His nose picked up the sting of peppers as he brought the food to his mouth. The taste was pleasant and familiar, like a variety of a Mexican dish, but somehow more earthy. The old woman nodded encouragingly, watching every mouthful. The dumpling was rich and the oil spicy, but the inside was sweeter than he had expected and the combination was delicious. He finished his meal with small rings of fresh pineapple sprinkled with lime juice. When his plate was scraped clean, the paper stained with oil and juice, his companion grunted in approval and finally detached herself from him.

  ‘He is a good eater,’ she said, passing Abayomi as she walked up to him. Inside the house, music started to play, a heavy bass beat thumping from the open windows. Voices were raised and shouted laughter rose up from everywhere. The party had started and the noise quickly became dominant. Richard raised his eyebrows to Abayomi.

  ‘You think this is noisy?’ she said. ‘Well you must come to Lagos to the market. There we have a principle: gba wèrè, ng ògba wèrè, lojà fi nhó. It is the way we bargain. The buyer tells the seller: accept that, you are foolish and take my offer. The seller responds: no, accept that, you are stupid and take my price. It makes the marketplace noisy with shouts and insults and laughing, and sometimes fights. It is deafening.’

  ‘Is it a market for tourists, though, like we have here? Or would you go to the market to buy your food for the day?’

  ‘There are no tourists in Lagos,’ she replied, shaking her head. ‘There is everything you might need there – we do not have shopping like here, where it is all clean and quiet and expensive. There, everything is cheap, but not everything is okay to buy. You know what I mean?’

  They stood together in the garden watching the guests fill up their plates. Bottles of beer and whisky were brought out and the tempo of the music increased. Richard felt strangely at ease, despite the unfamiliarity of his surroundings. Abayomi handed him a tumbler with whisky and a block of ice. She unwrapped her headpiece and refolded it. He watched, mesmerised, as her braids fell onto her shoulders. He felt a sudden urge to touch her.

  ‘Do you know what I realised today?’ he said instead, the alcohol coursing through him. ‘I understood something for the first time. I don’t know why it struck me only now. But here it is: I realised that what I lack most is simple curiosity. It is my biggest failure. When I became an adult, my curiosity died. And I was left with suspicion. And fear. I don’t have the curiosity to try to understand the people and things around me. Meeting you has taught me so many things,’ he said, reaching for her hand. ‘But most of all, I think you have shown me that.’

  Abayomi shifted her weight and looked around at the other guests. She seemed uncomfortable with the brief show of affection, and he released her hand. ‘In my country,’ she said after a while, ‘we have a saying. It is this: the stars are always there, even in the daylight, shining as brightly. But you need to turn off the brightness of the sun to become aware of their beauty.’

  With that, she walked to the table and poured them each another generous measure of whisky. He watched her, still nodding his head in appreciation at her response. It was his epiphany. Finally, he thought. He had been living in indifference. He saw a blandness cast across his adult life, a suffocating fear of intimacy. He felt a surge of regret, even of anger, at the time wasted and the experiences forgone. But at the same time, it felt like a moment of pure insight that could cut through the clamour and distraction. It was a realisation that could direct him forward and which could change his path. It was like entering adulthood again, only with a new wisdom. Like being sucked along the top of the wave, just before it broke.

  He took the tumbler and drank the entire contents in one gulp, grinning boyishly as he handed it back to her. ‘Your friend should be out on bail by now,’ he remarked, glancing at his watch.

  Abayomi stiffened, looking away towards the children playing with pieces of cloth, waving them above their heads like flags. ‘It did not go well,’ she said, sipping at her drink. ‘I could not be there, but another friend paid the bail money. Still they would not release him. I do not understand why. I do not know why.’

  Richard frowned and turned to face her. ‘No, that’s not right. They can’t take the money for bail but not release the … accused. Who took the money? Did you get a receipt?’

  Abayomi did not answer.

  ‘Abayomi,’ he urged, ‘that’s not the way it works. Something’s not right.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ she said, almost to herself.

  They stood in silence for a while, the music booming across the small garden. Then she took a large mouthful of whisky, grimacing as she swallowed. It was as if she was preparing herself for something. She placed her hand on his shoulder, her mouth close to his ear so that he could hear her above the rising tumult.

  ‘I need to ask you a favour.’ Her breath smelt like spiced coffee; the physical closeness was exhilarating. ‘I have the key to the studio. I’ll give you a massage and then we can talk.’

  FIFTEEN

  I FASEN HAD EXPECTED the cell to be empty. The space was narrow, with two wooden benches on either side. Three men were sitting talking, smoking cigarettes, two on one side and one on the other. They looked up and fell silent as Ifasen appeared at the door. The prison warder shoved him inside.

  ‘Hello,’ Ifasen said benignly, as the metal gate clanged behind him. The inmates were silent and one sucked hard on his cigarette, deliberately blowing a thick stream of smoke towards him. Ifasen sat down on the edge of the bench, close to the door, keeping his eyes on the ground. He felt the movement of the man sitting next to him on the bench. They said nothing. The smoke plumed around them, slowly drifting towards a thin crack between the window and frame, and then sucked out quickly as it reached the open air. All three of the men had closely cropped hair. One was almost entirely bald, his skull disfigured at the back, jutting out like a ledge. The man sitting furthest away had a softer look about him, almost sad in the way he slumped into his body, his stomach s
ticking out. Ifasen did not look at them more closely, anxious that any engagement might provoke a reaction.

  He had tried to make sense of the proceedings in court. There had been a mistake, of this he was sure. Somehow Abayomi had missed his appearance. He had been taken down to the cells so quickly that he had not been able to alert anyone to the problem. No one was interested in his pleas. He had been abandoned, lost within a monstrous machine that would grind through its processes and throw him out when it was done. He tried to feel indignant at the injustice, but the horror of returning to Pollsmoor overwhelmed him. He could not cope with another week of prison. His hands had started to shake during the journey from the court and by the time they had arrived at the prison he was shivering with cold sweat. He had gripped the arm of the warder and pleaded to be put in a single cell. The warder, a thickset man with orange hair and freckles, had seemed surprised by his request, even vaguely amused. But he spoke to the senior member of the shift. After some discussion, Ifasen was separated from the waiting group and led down a walkway to the single cells.

  But he realised now, in the claustrophobic tension of the room, that a smaller cell did not mean that he would be alone. Ifasen thought of banging on the door to ask to be moved again, but he knew that this would be useless. There were no mattresses on the floor and there would not have been enough space for them all to lie down. Perhaps this is just a holding cell, Ifasen thought, trying to keep his hands from shaking.

  They sat in silence, waiting for something to happen. The bench rocked again as the man shifted his weight. As if on some unspoken cue, each of them carefully placed their smouldering cigarette butts on the cement floor and ground them flat with their heels. Ifasen’s eyes flicked to the smudged ash and back to his own feet. One of them muttered something under his breath to the others. Their feet scraped on the concrete floor as they rose. Ifasen felt one of them take hold of his arm, gripping him tightly.