Being Lara

by Lola Jaye

  Each time she was asked to sign her name on a crumpled piece of paper, Pat would glance over her shoulder just to check if the person requesting her autograph was indeed referring to her. Even a trip to the corner shop, which used to take five minutes, now needed an hour as everyone and anyone quickly recognized her.

  “It’s Trish!” People, strangers, wherever she went, asked for autographs, a chat, or just a picture. They screamed her name out loud, just wanting to be near her, to touch her, to say they’d “met” her.

  Pat and Barry’s trips to the beloved pie and mash shop were a thing of the past, too, unless they went in disguise.

  Those who’d never once glanced in her direction at school now sent letters through the record company asking for music, advice, or even money. But the best letters came from those she’d never met, especially couples who’d fallen in love to her music. One person even wrote in, describing how he could only get the wife in the “mood” if he played “Do You Want This?,” leaving Pat rather flushed with embarrassment at that particular correspondence.

  Most strange of all for Pat was turning the pages of a magazine only to see her familiar face stare back at her like a stranger’s. She found herself asking who this woman with heavy makeup being called a “star” really was. Were they really talking about plain old, ordinary Pat Smith, youngest of a handful of children, destined to take up a typing course and marry one of the neighbors, if not for that chance meeting in a pie and mash shop with a posh man named Barry? Was this her life now? Her silly, exhausting, amazing life? For Pat, it wasn’t about any financial rewards she (according to Robin) would soon be in abundance of; it was about being a part of something she absolutely enjoyed and knowing that, in some way, she was touching others with her music.

  And perhaps an unexpected reward would be her father turning up on the doorstep wanting to see her.

  That would be nice, she thought, puffing up her hair as Barry opened the door to her small dressing room.

  “You’re on, Trish!” he said excitedly. She smiled, touched his face tenderly, then went out to meet her audience.

  Determined to secure another number one slot, Robin, Barry, and Maria painstakingly pieced together an amazing LP full of soulful songs about love, fun, and life. One of Pat’s favorites, “Your Name,” was picked as a worthy second single, and Pat and her team couldn’t wait to see where it would chart.

  In the meantime, her life continued to change considerably. Her mother’s house was regularly besieged by fans desperate for a glimpse of their idol Trish, or to at least touch a place she’d once touched. Her mother hated the nuisance of it all, complaining about it on the rare occasions they were able to spend time together. Pat was sorry her mother had to put up with the noise and inconvenience of fans standing around outside chanting “Trish!” but secretly hoped her mum was proud of her, if only a little bit.

  On the day “Do You Want This?” finally slipped out of the top forty, Pat opened her mother’s back door into the kitchen, where her brothers, sister, and their assortment of children were seated and standing around the table. Pat had been desperate for a bit of normality, a chat with her mother and perhaps some home cooking, but she hadn’t expected to find the whole brood. The kids immediately ran to their “famous Aunty Trish,” plastering her with kisses and questions as the adults remained seated like a courtroom jury. Pat whipped off her dark glasses and straw hat, sitting down at the familiar wooden table where she’d tucked into so many delicious meals.

  “What are you doing here?” asked her sister, who was heavily pregnant with baby number four and covering the table with a white cotton tablecloth.

  “Hello. It’s a nice day, thought I’d pop over. I didn’t know you’d all be here,” Pat commented. Nobody bothered to reply as her mother bent down to retrieve a bubbling hunk of meat from the oven.

  Pat suddenly felt a surge of anger. “You’re having a family roast and I wasn’t invited?”

  “We thought you’d be busy,” said her brother.

  “Barry and I would have loved to come. I’d never be too busy for my family!” protested Pat.

  “Go and watch the telly, you lot!” commanded Pat’s mother to the younger members of the family.

  As the children scuttled away with their excited whispers, Pat’s brother spoke. “We’re not mind readers.”

  “Neither am I!” she replied, confident he wouldn’t understand her point.

  “None of that matters. You’re here now and there’s enough grub for everyone!” said her mother.

  “It’s a good thing you’re here anyway, coz I’m gonna need a favor from you, little sister,” said another brother.

  This particular brother hadn’t called her “little sister” in years, so it felt nice to hear this touch of familiarity, especially with all the madness that existed in her life.

  “No problem,” she replied freely, earlier anger subsiding. Pat enjoyed helping out her family, whether it was arranging free concert tickets or a bit of cash here and there—anything she could do as a result of her good fortune and growing contacts in the music industry.

  “I need money for a car. Now we’ve got the second kid, it’s hard for Mel to carry the shopping in without moaning, you know…” As he explained his plight, her heart sunk, not because she begrudged him asking, but because she definitely didn’t yet have the type of money he was requesting. People far removed from the music business always expected her to suddenly be swimming in cash. But the little she’d made from appearances had gone on a deposit for a house in Essex, and royalties from the single had yet to come through. The truth was, getting a single out there cost money and, to be honest, the contract she’d signed with Robin had been “weaker than cat’s piss,” according to Maria. But since Barry had taken a business course and hired a lawyer, their second contract was a huge improvement.

  “I’d love to give you the money but I won’t be able to just yet.”

  “When then?”

  “A few months’ time maybe. I’m not quite sure—”

  “But you’ve just bought a house!” he countered.

  “I know, but—”

  “But you think you’re too good to help us out now, is that it?”

  “No, that’s not it…” Pat turned to her mother for support, but nothing.

  “When the next single comes out—if it does well, of course I’ll give you the money. I’ll even buy Mum a house!” she said grandly.

  “I don’t need a house. I’m happy here.”

  “I just can’t splash out at the moment,” said Pat, turning back to her brother.

  “That’s not bloody good enough, Pat! All I need is a few hundred pounds,” he said, shaking his head. The others stared at her with a distaste she’d never seen before.

  “Are you staying for dinner?” asked her mother.

  “No… As I wasn’t invited in the first place, I think… I think I’ll just go,” she replied, welling up with emotion.

  Nobody attempted to stop her as she stood up, slipped out, and closed the door behind her.

  Chapter 7

  Yomi

  1975

  Papa poured the palm wine, Mama slipped into her brightest gold sandals, and Ola fetched their fanciest crockery in the form of slightly chipped pieces of Queen Elizabeth II commemorative china. It was a special day for Yomi’s family.

  “This is all very lovely,” commented Henry, taking his place beside Yomi where she hoped they’d be able to secretly hold hands under the table. She enjoyed the fizzles of pleasure that would race through her body whenever they held hands, something they of course could never do in the street. What would Mrs. Apampa and Mama Lanre say? Yomi and Henry had been together over two years but were yet to marry, so it would not pay to be so public about their love.

  When they were apart, Yomi literally ached for him, mulling over the inscription resting tantalizingly on the first page of her beloved dictionary, For My Yomi, missing the poetic silkiness of his voice, his u
nusual intellect, and his obvious desire for her. Being in a room together, watching him—yet not being able to touch him—was a bittersweet pleasure she’d never experienced before and something that made her love for him more robust each and every day.

  Although no one had voiced it, everyone knew what an honor it was for Henry to be asked to eat with her family when the mighty Chief Ogunlade was an invited guest. Henry had eaten at the house many times, but the current significance was certainly not lost on Yomi.

  Chief Ogunlade was a distinguished man who had many wives. He owned most of the surrounding area as well as the land that Yomi and her family lived on. He drove a very large car and was often referred to as a fierce businessman who always shook hands with a smile. But double-cross him and the consequences would be unthinkable. To Yomi and her family, he was always pleasant—a well-respected elder and friend of the family who liked to drink a bottle of Guinness with Daddy and discuss politics and business. So, clearly, in inviting Henry to eat with them all, Daddy was certainly in the midst of accepting Henry into the family as a suitable suitor.

  They greeted Chief fondly. His white agbada—a wide-armed piece of clothing—brushed lightly against the floor and was embroidered with a shiny lime-green thread. His forehead had always reminded Yomi of the large loaves of bread she collected from the market every morning, his teeth the color of corn Ola would grill on the fire.

  “Yomi, how are you?” he asked in Yoruba as she stood up from kneeling in greeting.

  “I am well, sir,” she replied in English.

  Ola had designed the table immaculately with a choice of glistening white rice, or ẹbà red bubbling chicken pepper stew, and egusi prepared with stark green spinach. The bright yellow corn on the cobs and small bowl of fried plantain added to the colorful display.

  Yomi’s younger siblings sat in another room where Ola would join them after she’d served the elders.

  Just as Chief formed his palms together in preparation for grace, Yomi imagined the moment frozen in time, acknowledging it as one of her happiest. The man she loved, eating with her family and the chief—the most respected man in the area. It was all too much and she was just so happy.

  They began to devour Ola’s feast.

  “So, Henry, what is it you majored in, again?” asked Daddy.

  “English, maths, and philosophy, sir,” replied Henry, between a mouthful of ẹbà as Yomi swelled with pride at the two men in her life conversing happily.

  “What is it philosophy can do for you in the working world?” asked Chief as he held on to a large chicken leg midair.

  Henry sipped some water before answering. “Sir, I am of the belief that it broadens my mind, sir. Allows me to ask questions about life, sir.”

  “No, the real subjects are accounting, law, and medicine,” countered Chief, with Daddy guffawing and nodding his head in stiff agreement. Yomi hid her displeasure, suddenly irritated at this apparent ganging up against Henry. Daddy had always been so nice to Henry, and such questioning was so unlike him.

  “May I pour juice?” asked Ola, oblivious to the undercurrent of bad feeling lurking in the dining room. Yomi was desperate to avert the dangerous route the conversation had taken, yearning instead for Mama’s words of support. But none came.

  “Yes, please,” said Henry. As Ola obligingly stood by to fill Henry’s glass, Yomi dismissed her with a wave and poured the juice herself. It was a clear message to all assembled that Henry was more than just a friend, a near future husband and the man she loved.

  “Yomi will make an excellent wife,” said Daddy.

  “Thank you, Daddy.” Yomi smiled back at him sweetly, glad the conversation had switched and that someone was at last acknowledging her beliefs. Perhaps this was why Daddy had been questioning Henry so. He had been assessing his suitability as a husband! Yomi placed her hand to her chest, as if that would contain her rising excitement. She turned to Henry, who smiled back at her, forking fried plantain to the sound of Chief loudly sucking residue soup from his large index fingernail.

  After Henry had left, Yomi helped Ola clear up the dishes, as Daddy and Chief sipped on Guinness in the sitting room. As she bent down to close the cupboard door, Yomi was startled to feel a slight brush against her buttocks.

  “Hello, my dear,” said Chief, a half-full bottle of Guinness in his hand. “I came to get a glass, I broke the other one.”

  “Oh, Chief, I will fetch you another glass and Ola will clean it up. A man should not be in the kitchen,” she said, having decided the hand incident must have been an accident.

  “Thank you, my dear.”

  She reached her arm up to the top cupboard to reach the glasses, aware of his eyes following her every move.

  “Thank you, my dear,” he said as Yomi poured the remaining Guinness into the glass, his eyes still and very watchful, drinking her in, almost devouring her, the room eerily quiet with the absence of Ola. Just Yomi, Chief, and a large cockroach, which ran across the counter. She suddenly wished she could run, too.

  “Sorry you had to wait,” said Yomi.

  “I am a patient man. I will wait,” he said, slowly taking the glass from her hand, their skin slightly contacting.

  On her way to bed, Yomi tied her hair up into a scarf and heard raised voices float in from the sitting room. Chief and Daddy talking business no doubt. She turned in the direction of her room but what Chief said next and how he said it disturbed her.

  “I cannot keep bailing you out, Soji. I have a business to run, and you have not been paying your way!”

  “I will, Chief. I just need extra time. Please, sir.”

  “Make sure of it!”

  Yomi hated the way her daddy sounded, so defeated, not the masterly man who ruled his household. This was not the man she’d grown up with or looked up to, and all at once, she hated the chief for reducing him to a mere boy.

  That night, instead of beautiful thoughts of Henry, Yomi thought of the ugliness of Chief as she drifted into an uncomfortable sleep.

  Months floated by, and Henry had yet to speak to Daddy and Mama about Yomi’s hand. They had mentioned it between themselves a few times, in between kisses, with Henry playfully referring to Yomi as his “wife” when they were among his friends. In fact, everyone in their street knew his intentions. Even Mrs. Apampa had made references to their “wedding” attire, with the neighbors discussing possible colors for the aso-ebi (uniformed handmade garments) that every member of the Ogunlade family would wear for the wedding. In fact, everyone appeared to have an opinion on it except her own family, and one morning, just after the cockerel woke her from a troubled sleep, she decided she was unable to keep quiet any longer.

  “Mama, can I please speak with you?”

  “What is it, child?”

  Yomi sat beside her mother. “Oh, Mama, I wanted to speak with you about Henry!”

  “Okay…”

  “I am so happy, Mama, so very happy—” Yomi bounced up and down on the chair as her mother remained still, the flickering of her eyelids the only sign of life.

  “I am so very happy. I love hi—”

  “Do not say anything else. Not until you have heard me,” said Mama quietly.

  “Mama, what is it?”

  “What I am saying is this: you cannot marry Henry.”

  The words were like poisoned bullets, expertly aimed at her chest. Yomi could hardly breathe, let alone respond. Instead, she choked back a mouthful of tears as her words managed to tumble out in quick succession. “Mama, I don’t understand why, why is this so? What has he done … please, Mama?”

  When Mama took her hand, Yomi began to sense the seriousness of the moment.

  “Your father will never allow it.”

  The tears welled up in Yomi’s eyes, and she wanted to scream loud enough for everyone to hear. Loud enough to frighten the bats from their sleep. Loud enough to shake the leaves of the banana tree in the yard.

  “Why? Mama? I do not understand this.” She tried not
to raise her voice to her mother but it was hard, so very difficult as her heart shattered bit by bit into tiny pieces. This could not be happening to her, she thought. Please, no.

  “Listen to me, child. This boy has no prospects. What can he provide for you?”

  “Love, Mama, love.”

  She almost raised her voice, but a look from Mama put a stop to that.

  “Mama, please…” she pleaded quietly.

  “Love, ke? What is love? Listen, when I was introduced to your father to marry, I did not know him, but I soon loved him. Do you think if I did not marry him I would be living in a house with iron gates? No. I would be selling pepe on the road like a bush woman and not drinking from cups with Queen Elizabeth’s face on the front!”

  “Mama, please,” was all Yomi could manage.

  “Listen,” she held on to Yomi’s shoulders. “You must marry someone who will elevate you to higher than you are now, okay?” She placed her finger under Yomi’s chin and slowly pulled it upward. “Are you listening?”

  “Y … yes Mama…” Yomi’s tear plopped onto Mama’s painted red nail, making it shine.

  “Will you do as I ask?”

  Yomi had never disobeyed her mother in all her life.

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “Good girl. Now go and clean yourself up and we will hear no more of this Henry Bibimsola.”

  “I am loath to deceive your parents like this,” said Henry as he pulled Yomi in closer to him. She’d really no idea what loath meant but would look it up in the dictionary later. All she did know was that curled up together on an old mattress in his room, with the dull glow flowing out of the kerosene lamp in the corner, thanks to another power cut in the area, she felt nothing but complete, loved, and protected. And regardless of what her mama or daddy said, she’d never let Henry go, ever.

  “But what else can we do? I cannot lose you! I would rather die!” she said.

  “Yomi, do not speak like this. We are not part of that wonderful novel Romeo and Juliet. This is our life, and we must live it in a way that will not disgrace our families.”