by Lola Jaye
That night, she lay with her husband the way a wife should. As Chief lay spent in postcoital bliss, Yomi picked up her dictionary and headed outside. Their home with its accompanying compound was easily the largest in the street, perhaps even the whole area, and their garden patch alone could fit two extra sets of living quarters. Yomi picked up an oil lamp and kept on walking, the bottom of her wrapper flowing as she headed toward the far end of the grounds.
“Ma, is that you?” asked one of the security men, Benson, flashing his lamp in her face.
“Yes, it is. Are you okay?”
“Yes, Ma. Can I assist you with anything?”
“Yes, Benson. Make a small fire, just here.”
“Ma, we will be burning things tomorrow; I can take now what you need to burn.”
“No!” she snapped unintentionally.
“Okay, Ma.”
“I would like to burn some things now, please. Okay?”
Within minutes, a small fire was ablaze on the charred pile of one that had been started days earlier. The staff often burned dead plants and bits of trees if and when they needed to, so the sight of a fire in the far end of the chief’s grounds was nothing unfamiliar—except perhaps that it was lit so late at night.
When Benson turned his back, Yomi brushed her mouth against the cover of the dictionary, opening it up to the inscription and placing it to her chest as if comforting an infant. She ran her finger over the words and glanced at the page for one last time, before gently placing it on top of the burning pile and witnessing the last moments of her beloved dictionary as it warped and melted in front of her very eyes.
For My Yomi.
Yomi achieved a level of happiness that, although it felt incomplete, was happiness nevertheless. Chief was at home more now, and she found her time filled adequately with every aspect of her family. Of course, she’d long since accepted the presence of Chief’s children, but now she openly welcomed them. His wives she could very much do without, though, especially Iyabo, as Yomi always felt an onset of nauseating unease in her presence, like a dark cloud descending over a sunny horizon.
“Yomi,” said Iyabo one day as she walked into the house that up until two years ago she’d shared with Chief.
“Ma, how are you?” asked Yomi courteously.
“Where is Chief?”
“He is working, Ma.”
“Good, because it is you I have come to see.”
Iyabo sat her tiny yet angry frame on one of the large chairs as Yomi sent the house girl for drinks.
“How can I help you?” she asked uneasily as Iyabo’s eyebrows shot up and then her eyelids flickered shut and opened with a quick start.
“It is I who described these chairs to the carpenter to make. It is I who should rightly still be living here.”
In a mixture of Yoruba and English she went on. “I have been patient, but I am patient no more! I want you and any offspring you may bear to leave this house! You have no business with my husband or his money. You will go!”
“Get out of my house, Jare!” shouted Yomi. Gone was the respect she had afforded Chief’s wife. She’d been silent for long enough herself, mute in a marriage she had not wanted. But things had changed now. Yomi had finally found her previously dormant voice, and she intended to use it to express her true feelings. She wanted this marriage and she wanted this life!
“Get out of my house!” she reiterated confidently, placing her hands on Iyabo’s back and guiding her through the door as the house girl stood by in shock, clutching two long bottles of Coke.
Iyabo turned to her, eyes squinted. “So, the bush rat has finally spoken,” she remarked. “I will go … for now. But remember what happened to Abimbola and remember this…”
Yomi’s heart skipped a beat.
“You and any child you have will never be safe!”
Iyabo walked out of the house, laughing in a voice that, to Yomi, sounded evil, as the house girl asked her if she was okay.
“I am well,” said Yomi, her voice loaded with uncertainty. “It is well.”
Yomi stood over Mama, plaiting the last strands of her hair.
“Thank you, child,” said Mama as Yomi placed the head tie securely around Mama’s head.
“You will soon be plaiting your own child’s hair, regardless of the rumors that woman Iyabo has spread in the past.”
“Amen,” replied Yomi.
“I can see it has already happened,” said Mama.
Yomi turned to her mother. “Not yet. But soon, Ma.”
“No, Yomi, you are already with child.”
“Mama, that is not so.”
“You are pregnant, child. I can see it.”
Yomi moved over to the cracked mirror and turned to the side. Her belly may have been slightly more rounded than usual, but didn’t seem cause for immediate concern. Ngozi from across her street had been violently sick for weeks during her pregnancy, yet Yomi had not even felt a tinge of sickness. Mama was mistaken.
“When did you last menstruate?” asked Mama.
“Last month or the month before I think.”
“Eh heh,” murmured Mama as way of confirmation. But Yomi didn’t tell her that her periods had always been irregular; instead she allowed Mama to believe whatever made Mama happy.
Chapter 10
Pat
1979
I’m just not sure the Brits are ready for an Essex housewife singing Roberta-Flack-type songs,” said Robin without much expression. They’d been in an “emergency” meeting for almost an hour, and Pat had stopped listening to Robin’s shopping list of excuses as to why her singles or new album hadn’t worked. The market is changing, everyone’s obsessed with the Olivia Newton-John type. We need to work on a new look. A new sound. Indeed, Pat’s “comeback” single, “Try Me,” had swept into the charts at a modest number forty-eight, the irony of the title not lost on her. The club in Old Compton Street had long since closed, so she’d been unable to rely on that for any extra publicity. Former contacts who’d once hailed Trish as the “next big thing” and the savior of British pop music suddenly weren’t returning her calls any longer. The invites to openings and gala nights dried up just as quickly, with Pat’s only true friends in the industry being Maria and Travis, who themselves weren’t exactly setting the pop world alight. It soon began to feel as if the last few years and a moderately successful first album hadn’t actually happened.
“I’m sorry, love, we’ll get there. We’ve done it before and we can do it again!” said Barry optimistically one morning as he held on to Pat’s waist, her body still heaving after having just puked half of her breakfast down the toilet.
“I’ll make it better, I promise,” soothed Barry, holding on tightly.
Beads of sweat formed on Pat’s forehead; she felt weak, tired, a bit fed up—but not because her latest single was a flop.
“Trish, say something,” said Barry, voice tinged with worry as he tenderly stroked her hair. Her response was to attempt to wriggle out of his embrace, but he just held on tighter, restricting her escape. She wanted him to let go, set her free. Too late, she thought, as an avalanche of sausage, egg, and lukewarm tea erupted out of her mouth and straight onto his beloved suede shoes.
The little boy had a shock of brown hair sticking up like half a Mohican, as well as an excellent pair of lungs.
“Can you believe it?” said a beaming Barry as Pat looked down at the six-month-old they were babysitting for the couple next door, nestling in her arms.
“Can you believe that in a few months, we’ll have our own?”
In truth, after five years of marriage, she never dared to think it would ever happen for them. Instead, she allowed herself to be consumed in other areas of her life and had given into the saying “If it’s going to happen....” She tolerated the looks of “sympathy” on the faces of her siblings or neighbors like Kieron’s mum whenever she dropped him off for an hour or so. Pat was partly convinced her neighbors only let them look after Ki
eron out of sympathy anyway. That was okay with Pat as he was such a joy.
While the fame and perceived fortune were in abundance, people never questioned Barry and Pat’s lack of children, happy to focus on Pat’s success. But now that her career had stalled, so had the focus on that side of her life—and then came the baby whispers, especially from her family.
Isn’t it time?
What is she waiting for?
Barry got no lead in his pencil?
So Pat couldn’t wait to tell everyone about her pregnancy, eagerly wanting to shout it from the rooftops. But that could wait, she smiled. And in the meantime, the little boy in her arms would have to do.
“Kieron, I’m having a baby and you two are going to be such good friends, you hear?” she said, her heart singing with joy as she found herself unable to stop kissing the top of his head, marveling at the shape of the little nose, the curves of his eyes; she wondered if her child would look similar. Blue eyes or brown? Auburn hair like hers or just like Barry’s?
Weren’t all babies just a miniature version of Winston Churchill, anyway?
Kieron looked up at her and smiled, and it’s then she knew. Pat knew without one shred of doubt that never having another top ten single would be just fine, that the child inside of her already owned her and was all that would matter from now on. He or she had already changed her as a person, altered her being, changed who she was and who she’d become. She was going to be the best mum she could be because she bloody well owed it to the little miracle inside of her.
She was having a child. A child of her very own!
Pat laughed at the now-outdated belief that her entire future lay only in singing if she was ever going to be more than ordinary. She was able to see a lot differently now, to rationalize that her pop failure was perhaps a sign that further success just wasn’t meant to be hers, that this extraordinary person inside of her tummy was exactly what made her not ordinary by a long shot.
What a thought.
Barry had never been one for shopping. But he spoke not one protest as they rummaged among the neatly displayed baby paraphernalia—Moses baskets, bottles, rattles. Pat wanted a huge pram like the one her mother used for each and every one of her children. She’d even considered asking her sister for it but wanted to resist a row.
“How about this, love,” said Barry, clutching a tiny brown bear dressed in a blue bow tie.
“Oh, Bar—” she began, just as a shot of pain gripped her abdomen.
“Pat? Pat?” called Barry with increasing alarm. Pat clutched her belly and slid to the floor slowly, knocking down a whole pile of feeding bottles, her body in complete and utter agony. Her eyes squeezed shut as an agonizing pain, a type she’d never felt before, coursed right through her.
Yomi
In a small outbuilding with a roof made of aluminum, just off a little road about a mile away from Ogunlade Street, Lagos Nigeria, little Omolara Abidemi Omoronke Ogunlade was born.
As soon as Ola handed the freshly cleaned, newly born infant to Yomi, she braced herself for that indescribable love Mama had spoken about, wishing she was here and not in Ondo visiting relatives. But Mama and Daddy had left two days ago, safe in the knowledge their daughter wasn’t due to give birth for at least another ten or so weeks.
Ola spoke. “Look at her. A beautiful child! Not too small small!”
The child was beautiful, her mouth making short suckling movements.
“She is perfect,” said Yomi, mournfully.
Ola went to fetch water, sworn to secrecy, and Yomi was glad of the time alone with her child in that lonely, dark, and alien space. Yomi knew already that Omolara, at less than a day old, was a quiet child who slept well and ate heartily. She’d be lucky with Omolara, and even though she wasn’t a boy, Chief would possibly be happy too as it would perhaps go a small way to easing the gaping pain he felt over the loss of Abimbola.
Yomi stared at her baby for the longest time as she lay on the woven mat beside her. Omolara was wrapped in Yomi’s favorite material, possibly the prettiest cloth she owned. Yomi drank in her perfect features: smooth skin, wavy mass of jet-black hair, willing herself not to pick her up and hug her too close. This baby, who had lived inside her for months. The baby she’d spoken to when no one was around. Sang to, discussed plans with while still in the womb. Yomi had been anticipating this birth ever since she’d found out she was indeed pregnant—waiting for the birth and the moment that would define her as a person and complete part of her quest here on this earth.
Yomi glanced toward the baby now fast asleep, innocence masking the complexities her conception, birth, and existence had brought about. Yomi could never blame the child—everything had been of her own making.
The terrible things she’d done.
Yomi blinked back tears, her heart feeling heavy, her body racked with fatigue and soreness. A smile appeared to form on the child’s lips as she slept, and instead of joy filling Yomi’s heart, all she knew for certain was that something terrible had just happened.
Chapter 11
Pat
1982
Since her pregnancy three years ago, it still hadn’t happened again. Barry was now used to regularly fumbling for suitable suggestions to keep her mind off the blindingly obvious. She could take up singing again or maybe even teach singing, anything. Something. But Pat vowed the next time she sang another note would be to her little boy or girl as he or she fell asleep in her arms. That was her dream now.
Tiny amounts of royalties trickled in from past album and single sales, with Pat and Barry managing to pay off the mortgage for their house in Essex, satisfied they’d at least have a permanent roof over their heads, come what may when they had children, if they had children. Barry settled into a lower-paying job after becoming newly qualified, with everything feeling settled and “right” as they waited for “it” to happen. Knowing, hoping, wishing it would.
One Saturday morning, an unexpected surprise, in the form of a brown windowed envelope and airmail stamp, flew onto their doormat.
“Oh my gawd, Barry!” Pat’s South London accent heightened at the shock of it all. “A check for fifteen thousand pounds!”
Barry took the envelope as Pat covered her mouth in disbelief. Apparently the album had performed better in a couple of other countries. Who knew?
“Brilliant!” shouted Barry, taking her hand and dancing about the room.
“This is absolutely brilliant!” He continued to crow.
Although it was nice to have it, Pat didn’t feel they really actually needed the money. Over the last three years something inside of her had changed, and certain things had lost their value. All she really wanted now was a child.
“I’d like to give the money to my brothers and my sister,” she said.
Like a deflating balloon, Barry sunk into the chair. “Right.”
“We now have most of what we need, the house, the car… I’d really like to give them something each. Mum doesn’t want anything so it should be clear-cut. I’ll understand if you want to split the money first…”
“No, that’s okay. Agnes, Brian, and Rob are sorted when it comes to cash, so if you think your lot will benefit from it, okay. But I’d like to take some out for a little something.”
“Thanks.”
“As long as I buy my shed, then you can do whatever with the rest. I’ve always wanted a shed in the garden.”
Pat smiled to herself, final confirmation that even Barry had said good-bye to the rock-and-roll lifestyle that had almost been theirs—within catching distance but with a big fat hedge in the way. Barry just wanted a shed and she, a house full of children.
On Sunday Pat rushed over to her old home knowing her sister would probably be there with the kids, face like a wet weekend, moaning about how hard motherhood is and not knowing how lucky she was. Pat hoped her gift would at least help soften her sister’s perma-scowl.
She’d give £2,500 to each sibling and force a treat onto her stubborn
mother whether she liked it or not. The thought of treating her family to some money, whatever their differences in the past, felt pleasing to Pat and she couldn’t wait to see their expressions when they each got their checks. Giving definitely felt better than receiving.
All her siblings were home.
“To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?” said her sister in a mock posh accent. “Got another single out?” she added sarcastically. And her sister had just reminded Pat of why her visits were less than frequent. One of the reasons anyway.
“I just wanted to see you all together. I know I haven’t been round as much as I’d like, what with living in Essex—”
“That’s your choice,” said her brother.
Under the kitchen table, Pat reached into her handbag that was balancing on her knee, an act unseen by her three brothers, sister, four of their children, or Pat’s mother. Because if it had been, she was sure the next sentence would not have entered the ether; instead it would have been all smiles, cups of teas, and a slice of her mother’s yummy Victoria sponge with the mouthwatering raspberry-and-cream filling.
The conversation started off well and then headed into a totally unexpected direction.
“I’m not surprised we never see you, if you choose to hang around with those music toffs. We can’t expect to get a look in, can we?”
“I’ve been … you know, busy … what with Barry and the house.”
“Oh really? Busy doing what? You’ve got no kids!”
“Think you’re better than us. Always have, since the day you made that record.”
“You even speak different now. All proper!”
“Stop it, kids, will you?!”
“No, she needs to hear it! She never even wants to help us out with a few measly quid, either.”
“I just don’t know you anymore, Pat! Not sure I want to!”
“I said stop it! I won’t have this in my house!”
