The Girl with the Louding Voice

by Abi Daré

  Big Madam is doing big party on Sunday.

  She been running mad with preparations for it, shouting every second. “Adunni, wash every corner in the downstairs toilet,” she will say, pointing a fat hand with dancing flesh to the toilet door. “Use the new toothbrush I bought yesterday to scrub the grout before you bleach the bathroom tiles. Did you scrub the backyard fence like I asked you to? You did? Do it again. Scrub it until the cement sparkles like my mother’s gravestone. Don’t forget the mirrors in the dining room.”

  Yesterday afternoon, a tall white van drive inside the compound. When I run outside to look who is inside it, all I see is one brown cow sitting inside the back of the van, licking the fly perching on his nose. I watch as Kofi drag the cow down and tie the neck to the coconut tree in the backyard with a long rope. “This will be slaughtered for barbecue meat and beef stew on Sunday,” Kofi say as he slap the cow on his buttocks and laugh.

  “Why is Big Madam doing party preparations?” I ask Kofi this morning as I am sitting outside in the hot sun, washing the gold lace tablecloth. “Is the party tomorrow for Big Madam’s birthday?”

  “No,” Kofi say. He is sitting on a bench beside me, picking beans in a tray. “The party on Sunday is for the Wellington Road Wives Association. Big Madam is the president of the group.”

  “The what you say?”

  “The WRWA,” Kofi say. “A bunch of middle-aged women who formed an association as an excuse to get dressed and get drunk. They say they are trying to raise funds, money to help the poor. All lies! They meet once a quarter and host in turns. Big Madam is hosting November’s meeting.”

  “It is not even party for birthday,” I hiss, scrub the cloth, dip it into soapy water and turn it around. “So just a ordinary meeting and they are just wasting money anyhow. The Book of Nigeria Fact is telling me that Nigerians like to spend millions of money on parties and I was thinking it is not true until I reach this Lagos. Is Wellingston the name of our road?”

  “Wellington, yes,” Kofi say. “There is no S anywhere in the word. This street is full of all sorts of people. Half of them are former military personnel, thieves who stole Nigeria’s wealth and divorced their wives of youth to marry younger blood; the other half is made up of wealthy businesspeople like Big Madam, high-flying executives and entertainers, some of whom cannot afford the lifestyle but fight to live it anyway.”

  He pick up the beans tray, shake it so that the beans is jumping in the air and setting back on the tray with a rattle noise. As he is doing so, he is blowing the dirty among the beans into the air. Kofi set the tray down. “Three years ago, some idiot wife thought it’d be a good idea to form an association just because they happen to live in one of the richest streets in Lagos. I see it as another excuse to throw a party. That’s all these people do with their money. Throw parties and press dollars on each other’s foreheads and chests like it is a form of medication. Do you know that the exchange rate is now one hundred and seventy naira to one dollar? Chale, unless Buhari becomes president next year, nothing can move this country forward. Nothing.”

  I am not understanding why Kofi is always saying Nigerians are spending this and that when him too, he is using the Nigerians money to be building his house in his Ghana country. I see when the visitors of Big Madam give him money, how he will squeeze it tight and slide it inside his pocket with a big smile and a big thank you. Why didn’t he refuse the money if it is thief money? He too is among the problem wrong with Nigeria.

  Kofi cough into his hand, wipe it on his white trouser. “Big Madam goes to parties every weekend. She supplies fabric to half of Lagos and makes millions. Chale, look at the insects crawling from these beans. The bastards have drilled holes through the bag! What was I saying? Yes. The WRWA. They have about ten to fifteen members. It’s always a competition. The last host, one Caroline Bankole—Big Madam’s closest friend, the filthy-rich housewife of an oil and gas businessman—she killed three goats for a party of ten people, hired a celebrity private chef—an overpaid buffoon—and served wine older than my great-grandfather.”

  “Is Big Daddy working a job?” I ask, looking Kofi’s fingers as he is cracking the shell of the beans. “Big Madam is having a job. She is going to her shop every day. But not Big Daddy. Why?”

  “Big Daddy is a fool,” Kofi say. “He used to work in a bank. He authorized some loans for some of his friends. Billions of naira. Of course, the friends did not pay back. Bank filed for bankruptcy, I mean it closed completely about two years later. That was about”—he strong his face and think—“about fifteen years or so back, long before I came here to work. I have always known him to be a colossal nuisance, spending Big Madam’s money on women, NairaBet, and booze.”

  “Booze is what?”

  “Drink,” Kofi say. “Beer. Stout. Alcohol.”

  “Cham-pag-nay?”

  Kofi laugh. “Cham-what?”

  “I see it in The Book of Nigeria Fact,” I say. “Nigerians are spending million to buy it too. They spell it C-H-A-M-P-A-G—”

  “Ah! Champagne!” Kofi say. “It is pronounced sham-pain. Oh, yes, Big Madam and her friends pop bottles of those at events like it costs nothing.”

  “Is it like the ogogoro that we drink in the village? Or the gin?” I ask. “If you are drinking it too much, it will make your eye to be looking like this.” I twist my eye, move my eyesballs from left to right, and Kofi laugh again.

  “You’ve been here for three months,” he say after a moment. “If I recall, you got here in August. What are you going to do about your salary?”

  I squeeze soap from the tablecloth. “I didn’t sure yet,” I say. “I keep wanting to talk to Big Madam, but I am fearing she will beat me.”

  “Let’s see what happens in a few more months.” Kofi put the tray down, wipe his hand on his laps, then look over his shoulder, as if checking to see if someone is coming. Then he dip his hand into the pocket of his trouser, bring out a folding newspaper. “Take this,” he say. “Have a read and let me know what you think.”

  “I should read newspaper?” I say, looking his hand. “Why?”

  “Just read it,” Kofi say. “Chale, I had to find time to go to my former job at the embassy before I could get a hold of this edition of the Nation Oil newspaper for you. There’s something in there I hope you can enter for.”

  I shake the wet from my hand, pinch the newspaper with the tip of my finger, and shake it open. It is just one page, a tearing from a newspaper page, with plenty writings on it. “I should read the whole everything?”

  Kofi sigh. “Adunni, look at the heading to your left, above the obituary.”

  I look it, read out loud, slowly:

  CALL FOR APPLICATIONS:

  OCEAN OIL SECONDARY SCHOOL SCHOLARSHIP SCHEME FOR FEMALE DOMESTIC WORKERS

  Ocean Oil, Nigeria’s foremost oil servicing company, in collaboration with Diamond Special School, invites female domestic workers aged between 12 to 15 to apply for its annual scholarship. Now in its seventh successful year, the scheme is dedicated to ensuring that bright, talented, and vulnerable Nigerian girls who are working in a domestic capacity are able to commence or complete their education. Mr. Ehi Odafe, chairman of Ocean Oil, initiated the scheme in the memory of his mother, Madam Ese Odafe, who worked as a maid in order to support her children through school.

  The scheme will cover tuition at the prestigious Diamond Special School for up to eight years for five students and, where applicable, boarding fees and a reasonable sustenance for the duration of the scholarship.

  To qualify, applicants must be female, aged 12 to 15, and be working as a housemaid, cleaner, or in any domestic capacity.

  The submission must be accompanied by an essay of no more than 1,000 words from the prospective scholar, stating why she should be considered for the scheme, as well as a signed consent form from a guarantor and referee, who must be a well-st
anding Nigerian citizen. Closing date for all applications is 19th December 2014.

  The list of successful scholars will be displayed in our offices in April 2015. Names will not be printed in any media outlet in order to protect identities.

  “What is all of it meaning?” I ask Kofi as I set the newspaper by my feets, press it down to keep it from flying in the wind. “It is plenty English, but I see something about schooling.”

  “A chance to go to a school you won’t have to pay for,” Kofi say. “They will give you a house to live in too, all for free. The chairman of Ocean Oil was a friend of my former boss. An amazing guy. He always ensures his staff send details of the scheme to the embassy every year, in case any one of us has children that might want to apply.”

  I nod, not really believing everything Kofi is telling me. “And all the things they are asking for, how can I send it to them?”

  “Abu took me to the Ocean Oil office on our way back from the market yesterday,” Kofi say. “I picked up the application form for you and kept it in my room. Adunni, this is your only chance at freedom.” His voice is tight, nearly angry too. “If you remain here, that . . . bastard may harm you. We keep saying Rebecca left with her boyfriend, but who knows? Sometimes I wonder if that man had something to do with it. Adunni, I have a daughter like you in Ghana and I cannot imagine . . .” He shake his head. “Forget that bastard, think about your future. There is no future here for you, and from what you told me, none in Ikati either. This is all you have.”

  “But the time is short to be entering for it,” I say. “How about if I manage and be better in my English until next year, then I—”

  “You can’t delay it,” Kofi say, nearly shouting. “You are fourteen. The cutoff age is fifteen. You need to apply now. Are you afraid?” Kofi ask. “Because the Adunni I know will jump at this chance without thinking.”

  I don’t answer.

  I don’t want him to know that I am very full of fear. That I been wanting something like this for so long, and now that Kofi is telling me about this thing, I am afraid to enter for it.

  Afraid to even think of how to enter.

  “Listen, I know it is scary. You will need to write a compelling—a very good—essay to be selected, but you are bright. It is very competitive, and very selective, but one thing I am sure of is this: You can do it.”

  “You think?” I ask.

  “I know you can.” He shrug. “But I won’t force you to apply for it. It is up to you, chale. I have done my best. Once my house in Kumasi is complete, I am out of here.”

  I blink back my tears. “How can I make my English better and write a essay all before December? What is a essay anyway?”

  “A story. In this case, about yourself,” Kofi say. “Did you ever do composition in primary school?”

  “I know composition,” I say as I pull the newspaper from my feets, fold it, and keep inside my brassiere. “I been knowing it since when Teacher teach me in Ikati.”

  “Chale,” Kofi say, “you can nail this thing. Just try it. We just need to find someone who can stand as a reference and guarantor for you because I can’t. I am not a Nigerian citizen, and I am not sure my position as a chef, as important as I believe it is to the survival of humans, will help you. Big Madam or Big Daddy are out of the question. I have a few Nigerian friends I can ask to help, but they need to meet you first. That will be difficult, but not impossible. I am just concerned that we don’t have a lot of time. The deadline is just over a month.”

  I hear everything Kofi is saying, and I see how much he is wanting me to enter this scholarship, and I swear, I want to enter it with all of my life, but I didn’t sure I can enter it or even be writing any essay or be finding someone to be referencing me all before December.

  “But why do you keep calling me chale all the time, Kofi?” I ask, wanting to change my focus from the whole essay thing. “Are you always forgetting that Adunni is my name?”

  “‘Chale’ is one way of saying ‘friend’ in my language.”

  “I am your friend?” I ask, smiling. Kofi sometimes is kind to me, like today. But many times, he is just doing as if he didn’t know me. Sometimes, if I greet him in the morning, he will not give answers, and other times, he will talk to me and give me food. “Me too, I am your friend,” I say. “Thank you very much for the scholarship thing.”

  “I am going to soak the beans.” He stand to his feets, pick the beans tray. “You’ve washed that tablecloth enough. It is going into the washing machine anyway. Leave it and go find something else to do.”

  * * *

  When I enter my room at night, I sit on the edge of my bed, pull the newspaper out from my brassiere.

  I been trying to push the thing to the far back of my mind since Kofi tell me about it, but I keep thinking of it, keep thinking, what if? What if I enter and they pick me and I am going to school?

  I wide the newspaper on the bed, use my hand to straight it, and thin my eyes to read the whole thing with the moonlighting from the window. Big Madam sometimes don’t like us to be onning the light at night, but it is too dark to read, so I stand to my feets, go the window, and try to pull the curtain so I can be having more light, but inside the space between the metal gate and the window, there be a string of something shining.

  I peep it well, confuse. It look like beads, a long, elastic string of it. Who owns the beads?

  I hold my breath and pull, and it make a shree sound until it curl up in my palm like a small snake. I hold it up. What is this? It seem too big to be a neck-chain. The colors of each bead, the yellow, green, black, and red, make me think of Ikati, of some of the girls in the river that are wearing beads on their waist, and when they are dancing and playing, the beads will be making a clapping sound.

  I was wanting beads when I was small, but my mama say she don’t like them, so I don’t ever be wearing them. Who owns these waist beads? I keep looking it, swinging it in my hand, and with each swing, I see that for every four beads in the thread, there is a red one, the red of Agan village, a kind of red that is orange under the moonlight and blood-red under the dark.

  Was it belonging to Rebecca? Was she from Agan village? And why did she off her beads and hang it on the window metal gate?

  I confuse even more. All the girls that are wearing beads in the village don’t be ever offing it from their waist. Never. They wear it from when they are like three years of age and don’t ever off it.

  “Rebecca,” I whisper to the night air, “if you run away with your boyfriend like Kofi say, why did you not take your beads with you? Why did you off it?”

  There is no answer to my question, no any sound at all, except of the generator humming outside, so I turn back, put the beads under my pillow, and climb my bed, with the newspaper folding in my hands. I try to sleep, but I feel heavy, cold. Something evil happen to Rebecca. I know it. Feel it inside of me, curling around my bones like the waist beads under my pillow.

  I hold tight the newspaper, crunch it in my hands.

  December is not far.

  If I can try to make better my English, find a reference, and enter the scholarship, maybe I can free myself from this place, from the evil of it.

  But who, in the evil of this big house, will help me?

  CHAPTER 29

  Fact: With over 250 ethnic groups, Nigeria has a wide variety of foods. The most popular include jollof rice, skewered pieces of grilled and peppery meat called suya, and akara, a delicacy of bean fritters.

  Middle of the afternoon on Sunday, the whole compound is filling with different cars.

  Is like nothing I ever see. Cars with shape like aeloplane and helikopta, like boat and bucket. Some of them short with no roof, others are tall like Big Madam’s car. All of them are looking too costly. I don’t see the womens coming down from the car because Big Madam say I should be weeding the weed in the backyard grass.<
br />
  I ask her why she is wanting me to weed grass on Sunday afternoon, and she pick a stone from the backyard and use it to knock me hard in the head and call me idiot “for daring to ask me questions.”

  As I was pulling the grass in the outside on Sunday, Kofi call me to the kitchen. “I am going crazy here,” he say. “Go and wash your hands. I need your help.” I wash my hands, and Kofi give me a tray full of small, fried meat with green pepper and onions with toothspick in the middle of the meats.

  “Here is the stick-meat,” he say. “Take it inside the living room and serve all the women.”

  I look the tray, at the way Kofi arrange the meats in a circle style around the edge of the plate, with one small tomato in the center of the plate.

  “I should just give them the meat?” I ask. “One by one? And the tomato, what am I doing with that one?”

  “That is not a tomato,” Kofi say with a sigh. “It’s a cherry. It is used to garnish the plate. Leave it as it is. Adunni, I beg you, don’t touch the food. Do not attempt to pick up the food for anyone. If you touch it, Big Madam will pour it all into the bin and ask me to cook a fresh one. If that happens, chale, I will skin you alive. So, keep your mouth shut, your head down, and hold out the tray and curtsy like this—” Kofi bend his knee quick, stand up. “I repeat, do not speak to anyone. Serve the food and come back here. Is that clear? Now where on earth did I put that pot of jollof rice?”

  As I enter the parlor with the tray, I turn to the first woman standing in front of me. Her skin is a rich dark color, shiny, smelling of bitter oranges and firewood, a sharp, strange smell that slice my nose and cause it to tickle. She is wearing a tight green dress, short to her knees area, the round top of her smooth breast peeping from the neck of it. Her hair is low-cut, the brown of a tree bark, with one line on the side of it, a parting from her ears to the middle of her head. Every makeups on her face is green color, except of the blood-red of her lipstick. Even her eyesballs are a sharp green. I keep my eyes to the floor as I am giving her the tray.