In turn this led to arguments about Yetunde’s profligate spending habits. Ebuka was furious at how depleted their reserves had become while he was in hospital. He didn’t care how wretched Yetunde had been after Abiola’s disappearance. He called her greedy and stupid, saying only a fool would indulge her appetites on a solicitor’s promise to win a lawsuit. Had she no sense? No restraint? Must her happiness always come first?
Such confrontations never ended well for him. He was left to hurl insults at a closed door after Yetunde walked from the room, taunting him for being a cripple. He grew fonder of Muna each time this happened, mistaking her quiet resumption of his exercises for kindness rather than a desire to avoid Princess. Yetunde’s rage was always worse when the nurse said Ebuka was showing improvement.
Yet why this was so, Muna didn’t know. With her own ears, she had heard Jeremy Broadstone tell Yetunde how important it was to follow the regime she’d been given for Ebuka. The doctors would become suspicious if they didn’t see a slow but steady improvement in his mental and physical condition when the legal suit argued that Mrs Songoli had put her life on hold to provide full-time care. She must prove how dedicated she was, how many hours a day she was sacrificing to looking after her husband, how impossible it was for her to seek employment when his needs came first.
‘It’s Mr Songoli who’ll be awarded the compensation,’ he reminded her, ‘so you must keep him and his doctors happy if you want control of the money.’
Yetunde pulled a sour face. ‘It’s a shame he didn’t break his neck. We’d get more if he was completely paralysed.’
‘And you’d be expected to use it to pay for an army of trained nurses to tend him round the clock. Quadriplegia is a serious condition. This way you have the best of both worlds. The cushion of invested income and a husband who, over time, can learn to cope with his disability and achieve some independence.’
‘If he doesn’t, I’ll put him in a home. I can’t be at his beck and call for ever.’
Muna recalled this conversation weeks later when Yetunde stood for several minutes in the doorway of the dining room, watching her lift and move Ebuka’s legs. Yetunde’s dislike of what she was seeing was so palpable that Muna could feel it across the space between them. She peeped through her lashes at Yetunde’s purple face and watched her lips mouth angrily that she was going out.
She waited until she heard the front door close. Why is Princess cross with us, Master? she asked, gently rotating Ebuka’s left ankle. Doesn’t she want you to get better?
She’s jealous.
What does that mean, Master?
She knows I prefer your help to hers. It makes her feel unwanted.
Is that a bad thing, Master?
It is if you think you’re important.
Is Princess important, Master?
Not as much as she’d like to be.
Muna moved to the other side of the bed to rotate his right ankle. She longs for Mr Broadstone to think her important, Master. She paints her face for hours before he comes.
She wants the compensation he can win for us. We’ll have nothing to live on otherwise.
Princess wants the money for herself, Master. She signed papers for Mr Broadstone while you were in hospital. He said they would make her rich.
He meant all of us.
I don’t think so, Master.
Ebuka watched as she smoothed lotion into the unfeeling skin of his left calf. Are you as jealous as she is? he asked. Are you trying to set me against her?
I ask only that you show wisdom, Master.
What kind of wisdom?
The sort that tells you Princess is greedy, Master. She wants your money more than she wants you … and when she has it, she’ll keep the nurse from the house.
For what reason?
To make your life shorter. If no one sees you, she can be as cruel as she likes.
A frown of uncertainty creased Ebuka’s brow. She wouldn’t dare harm me. My doctors will ask questions.
She dared it with me, Master. Any of her beatings could have killed me, and no one would have known. I didn’t exist until the police came to the house on the day Abiola went missing.
Winter
Nine
As the days shortened and sleet rattled the window panes, Muna would have been frightened to go to her room if she hadn’t discovered that the key to Abiola’s door also locked hers. Several times she squatted in the corner, listening to the whisper of naked feet on the carpet of the corridor, watching the handle turn and hearing Yetunde’s breath exhale against the panels.
To Muna’s eyes, jealousy was a strange and complicated emotion. Yetunde hated Ebuka, and wanted nothing to do with his care, but she couldn’t bear to see Muna perform the tasks instead. Ebuka hated Yetunde, and was only truly happy when she was absent, but he reserved his softest smiles for Muna when Yetunde was in the room.
The concept was a mystery to Muna since she had no feelings for either of them. Their antagonism reminded her of Olubayo’s fights with Abiola whenever the younger boy stole the older boy’s clothes, and she wondered if jealousy had more to do with possessions than with love. Perhaps Yetunde thought Ebuka belonged to her? This was a curious idea when the only person Yetunde had ever laid claim to was Muna. You are mine to treat as I like, she had said each time she raised the rod.
But when Ebuka finally decided to leave his room, Yetunde’s wrath became worse. Out of sight was out of mind but to watch Ebuka tease smiles from Muna’s solemn face, and call her pretty, drove her to distraction. She was angriest in the evenings when Ebuka sat in the kitchen, watching Muna prepare supper and complimenting her on her skills. She would make a good wife, he said often in Yetunde’s hearing.
Olubayo did nothing to lessen the tension between his parents. Having refused to enter Ebuka’s room for weeks, he now preferred to join his father in the kitchen rather than sit with Yetunde in front of the television. He too appeared to be jealous of Ebuka’s new-found affection for Muna and showed it in the efforts he made to win his father’s approval. Had Muna been capable of sympathy she might have pitied his clumsy attempts, which were rebuffed more often than they were appreciated.
Muna never questioned Ebuka’s behaviour, only Yetunde’s and Olubayo’s. She despised them for their stupidity, wondering why they couldn’t see that Ebuka was acting deliberately to make their turmoil worse. She assumed it made him feel powerful to stoke up Yetunde’s anger and have Olubayo beg for his attention because the idea that it pleased him to sit with her never crossed her mind.
Muna had no desire to be in another’s company. Closeness was something to fear and avoid. She preferred to squat in a corner alone. Listening.
Yetunde was tipped into a frenzy when Ebuka asked Muna to take him into the garden. She watched sullenly as he told Muna to put on one of Abiola’s anoraks which hung in the downstairs cloakroom and the wellington boots that stood beneath it. Muna said they were too big for her and that she wasn’t ready to go outside. She had never left the house and the cold and the rain frightened her. But Ebuka would have none of it and cajoled her into taking the anorak from the hook.
She did as he asked because he said he’d go on his own otherwise, and she had a greater fear of being left with Yetunde. Nevertheless, her terror of the outside was genuine. Had she known what brainwashing was, she would have understood why, since Yetunde’s worst thrashings were associated with it. She had beaten Muna mercilessly each time she’d caught her staring out of a window or daring to open the kitchen door to allow a breeze to dispel the heat.
Perhaps it was seeing Muna in her son’s clothes that caused Yetunde to erupt, or simple fury at her having her orders overturned, but her flailing charge caught Muna by surprise. She would have been knocked to the ground if one of Yetunde’s massive hands had smacked her head instead of gripping the sleeve of the anorak. If she thought to stop Muna escaping her, she had forgotten how thin the girl was, for her fingers caught only cloth, and Muna was out of th
e garment even before Yetunde had drawn a breath.
She backed towards the stairs, watching warily as Yetunde stormed and screeched in the middle of the hall. Was Ebuka ignorant of the embarrassment he had caused her by becoming a cripple? Did he care nothing for his family’s pride that he was willing to parade himself in public? Worse, to allow the ugly piccaninny to accompany him? Did he have no shame?
The shame is yours, Ebuka said. It’s you who sees me as a cripple and you who stole this child. I’ve asked you many times to mend your ignorance but you’d rather eat bonbons than put your mind to learning. It makes you as unattractive to me as I am to you.
Her demons have taken you over, Yetunde cried.
The demons are in your head where they’ve always been, woman. You hold to them because they give you an excuse for cruelty.
Yetunde quivered from head to toe, so intense was her emotion. You never denied them before.
Only through weakness. You’re easier to live with when you get your own way. If demons exist, they’re in you … not in this unfortunate girl.
She’s poisoned you against me.
Not so, Ebuka growled. My feelings for you haven’t changed since the day we married.
Then why do you look at me with such hatred?
Because I’m done with pretence. There was never any love between us. We were ill matched from the start and joy has been absent from my life ever since. You taught my sons to be as greedy and lazy as you, and now one is gone and the other epileptic. What is left for me to have pride in?
Muna watched in puzzlement as Yetunde rocked to and fro in grief at this statement. Her distress seemed genuine yet Muna could see no reason for it. Had she not expressed similar sentiments herself when she said she’d never wanted Ebuka for a husband? And had she not criticised Olubayo constantly for being feeble-minded?
Yetunde’s distress turned to anger again. You’ll not divorce me, she snapped. I’ll see this girl dead before I let her steal you from me.
Ebuka gave a contemptuous shake of his head before wheeling himself to where she’d dropped the anorak on the floor. Muna saw Yetunde clench her fists as he leaned forward to pick it up, and she called a shout of warning. But she was too late. Yetunde took a step forward and slammed both hands on the back of her husband’s neck, using her weight to topple him from his seat and send the chair spinning backwards.
Muna had pictured moments like this a hundred times in her imagination. She had rehearsed every action she might have to take, in whichever room she was in, when the day came for her to defend herself. It was sweet chance that it was happening here in the hall since this was her preferred place. She turned the handle of the cellar door and pushed it open before slipping round the wall behind the woman’s back.
Yetunde had forgotten Muna, so intent was she on damaging Ebuka. When she wasn’t kicking his head, she was stamping on his arms as he tried to drag himself away from her feet. She laughed and laughed, and Muna was sure her wits had gone. Her great bulk seemed to tremble with delight each time a whimper of pain came from her husband’s mouth.
Muna reached the mahogany sideboard which stood outside the sitting-room door and retrieved the hammer that she’d hidden behind a large portrait photograph of Yetunde. Had she been taller and stronger she would have practised in her mind how to bring the weapon down on Yetunde’s skull, but she was too frail to do anything so gratifying and had long since decided that her purpose would be better served by causing Yetunde to fall.
She knew her life would be forfeit unless Yetunde was too badly injured to retaliate so her dreams of these fights were bloody and violent. They played across her sleeping mind like the movies she saw on television. She had a particular fondness for the scenes where she drove a chisel again and again into Yetunde’s breast or dropped to her knees to slam the doorstop repeatedly on to the hand wielding the rod until she knew from the pulpy squelch of the flesh that it could never be used again.
Yet she hadn’t imagined that attacking Yetunde would be so easy. The demented woman was blind to everything but Ebuka and a look of bewilderment entered her eyes as the solid head of the hammer smashed into her bulging midriff just below her ribs. She looked at Muna in disbelief, opened her mouth as if to say something, but only a thready sigh escaped as she staggered backwards, sucking desperately for air.
Muna pursued her, powering the hammer again and again into the same place. The solar plexus was Yetunde’s favourite target when Muna annoyed her, and Muna always fell with the first punch, doubled up with pain and unable to breathe. Yetunde was too fat to succumb as quickly but Muna exulted in the wheezy puffs that issued from the bloated face as each blow landed. Every step the monstrous creature took brought her closer to the cellar door, and Muna fancied she heard the Devil laughing at the idea of having Yetunde for himself.
Yetunde tried to deflect the hammer with her hands, gasping out pleas to her husband. Ebuka! Ebuka! Help me! Help me!
But he didn’t answer and Muna swung the hammer at Yetunde’s kneecap, watching in fascination as pain caused her eyes to flare as wide as she had ever seen them. It was very satisfying.
The Master can’t hear you, Princess. Your kicks have dazed him.
Yetunde held out her hands in a futile begging gesture. Let me be! I won’t punish you if you stop now.
Muna ignored her and used guile of her own as she drove her weapon again at the woman’s leg. You will suffer less if you enter the cellar yourself, Princess. I will not imprison you for long. When the Master has his strength back, I will release you.
Perhaps Yetunde’s suffering was already too great for she grasped the doorjamb and stepped backwards on to the top step. Evil girl! she cried. You’ve hurt me badly!
Yes, Princess … and now you must go down the stairs of your own accord or the Devil will pull you down as easily as he pulled the Master.
Muna exulted at the fear she saw in Yetunde’s face and wondered if the woman could hear the laughter from below. It was loud in Muna’s ears. A deep guttural rumble that drew a hollow echo from the walls.
You’re mad, Yetunde whispered.
I am what you’ve made me, Princess. All I know is what you’ve taught me.
She was gratified to see the same horror in Yetunde’s face that had been in Ebuka’s when she’d used similar words to him. It was strange. They had moulded Muna into mirrors of themselves yet they disliked their reflections.
I’ve been kind to you, Muna. I gave you a better home than you could ever have had in Africa.
Muna swung the hammer again. You gave me nothing, she said, using both hands to plunge the solid metal into Yetunde’s mouth.
She stepped back, exhausted, as blood poured from the woman’s lips, and she felt a marvellous thrill to hear the Devil’s laugh rise from the caverns of the earth and see his hand reach out of the darkness to drag Yetunde down.
Ten
It seemed the Devil had made time stand still.
When Muna turned to look at Ebuka, he was still struggling to pull himself away from Yetunde’s kicks, using his forearms and elbows to inch across the floor. Soundlessly, she replaced the hammer behind the photograph and then knelt to rock his shoulder. He gave a start of terror, wrapping his arms about his head and crying out to Yetunde to stop.
Princess isn’t here, Master, she said.
Ebuka had used every ounce of his energy, dragging his paralysed legs behind him, and he was too tired to lift his face from the carpet or turn it towards her. Where is she? he asked.
I don’t know, Master.
I heard her cry out.
Only at you, Master. She was shouting as she kicked you. I called to her to stop before she killed you … then ran to the sitting room to hide.
Are you sure she’s not here?
Yes, Master. I believe she went upstairs. I heard the bedroom door slam before I came to see if you were all right. You must have heard it too. It was very loud.
I don’t remember.
You’re dazed, Master.
Ebuka dribbled on to the carpet. I think I lost consciousness. You must call the police. She’s mad enough to kill us both.
I can’t, Master. I don’t know how.
He gave a groan of despair. Then what are we to do? Her mood will not have improved when she comes down again. Who will help us then?
What a weak and cowardly person he was, Muna thought. No one had helped her when Yetunde’s rages had been ungovernable. Muna had taken a thousand more kicks and never once complained or begged for help.
I will bring the hoist to you, Master, and we will do what we practise each day. You must forget the pain Princess has caused you and find the strength to pull yourself into your chair. After that we will go outside as you planned. She will be calmer in an hour.
Ebuka showed more resolve once Muna wheeled the hoist into the hall, lowered the bar and helped him roll on to his back. He even managed to push himself into a sitting position when she told him she could hear Yetunde stamping around the bedroom. Fear persuaded him Muna was telling the truth, and with a massive heave he lifted himself far enough from the ground for Muna to slide the chair under his bottom.
He became helpless again when he was safely seated, like a little boy who’d done what was asked of him and refused to cooperate further. Muna dressed him in a waterproof jacket, brought a blanket for his legs and pushed him through the front door, tilting the chair backwards to ease it over the step on to the gravel drive. His weight was almost too much for her but necessity gave her strength. As each minute passed, she expected to hear Yetunde cry out.
You must stay here while I put on Abiola’s boots and coat, Master. I will close this door so that Princess won’t see you if she comes downstairs.
The Cellar Page 6
