by Abi Daré
“Who is this one?” she ask, talking with a high, cracking voice, the voice of a too-much smoker. “Florence, is this the new maid you told me about?”
“She’s as useless as they come,” Big Madam answer from one corner of the parlor as somebody laugh from somewhere by the tee-vee.
“Where do you find them?” one woman ask. My eye cut to her. She is wearing ankara dress, blue and white, with shine-shine stone around her chest areas. There is a wig on her hair, big and round, as if she gum hair on a football and put it on her head. The powder on her face is the orange of evening sun, her lips the same brown of the court shoe on her feets. “From your agent? Mr. Kola? I told you to stop using local agents, you won’t hear. The agency I use, Konsult-A-Maid, they get me the best. All foreign.”
“I’ve told you guys this several times,” Big Madam say, “Mr. Kola is cheap and reliable. When Rebecca left, he found this one quickly. I don’t need a foreigner to clean my house for me. My children are abroad, so there is no fear of her harming them. You people that hire all these expensive Filipino nannies for your children, tell me, do they do better than these ones? All of them are useless. Having white skin and a strange accent does not make you a better worker. I hear some of you even pay them in dollars? Why on earth will I pay a housemaid in dollars in my own country? And with the current exchange rate? God forbid!”
Green Eyes pick the meat, her nails long, green color match her eyes, the tip of it curling into the finger. I am fearing to think how she is using that long nails to wash her buttocks in toilet.
“What is her name?” she ask. “Come on, girl. Raise your head. What is your name?”
I lift my head. Kofi say I must not be talking, but this woman is looking me with her green eyes, blinking, waiting for me to give answers. She make me think of a cat, a black cat with brown hair and green eyes and long nails.
“Adunni is the name, ma,” I say.
“Well, at least this one speaks English. Who remembers that girl that Florence had for like a week? That stole half of your kitchen food. What was her name?”
“Chichi,” Big Madam say. “Possessed child of the devil. I sent her back to the hell she came from after I caught her urinating into the cup I use for my morning tea.”
“Rebecca is still your best house girl ever. Well-spoken, respectful girl. She was what, twenty?”
I stay stiff when I hear Rebecca’s name. Maybe one of these womens will know. Maybe Big Madam will say something.
“Who cares?” Big Madam ask. “Does anyone want some cocktails? I also have some peppered snails on the grill. There’s suya too, fresh and spicy.”
“Florence, did you get to the bottom of what happened with Rebecca?” Football Head ask. “I always liked that girl,” she say. “Did she run away? Florence? Did you go to her family?”
Big Madam say, “I could have sworn someone requested homemade piña colada.”
“They all run away in the end, don’t they?” another woman say. I peep that one too. Her whole body is one straight line. No breast, flat chest like floor. Her hair is long to her back, straight, the black of charcoal. Her eyeslashes is sticking outside of her face; like a short broom sweeping the red powder on top her cheeks. “Why would Florence bother traveling to goodness-knows-where to search for Rebecca? We all know that house girls are notorious for getting pregnant for one local idiot and disappearing. Hey, you. Bring that tray here.”
“Yes, ma,” I say as I move my feets, carry the tray to her, and keep my eyes on the gold tile on the floor. “Here, ma.”
She pinch two stick of meat and pick it, fingers like matchstick. “Take it round to the girls,” she say.
I raise my head. “Which girls?” I ask. “You mean the womens?”
The woman, she throw her thin head back so quick, I am fearing it will just snap off, fall to the ground, and roll to the outside.
“Did she just call us ‘womens’?” she say, laughing, her eyes filling with water. “My days. That is hilarious. Kiki, Caroline, Sade. She just called us ‘womens.’”
There is laughters all around me, be like one kind crazy chorus.
“Sorry, ma,” I say. “I didn’t think sense.”
“What is wrong with you guys?” somebody say, over the laughters. She sound like she is far, far back of me, her voice as if she lick plenty honey before she is talking. I want to peep her, but I cannot be turning my head well, so I keep my ears on her voice and lock the sound of it in my heart.
“We are women,” she say. “I don’t get the need to embarrass this girl. Not amusing in the least bit. Not at all.”
“What is Tia moaning about now?” Green Eyes whisper to Football Head.
Football Head twist her nose like her own mouth is smelling. “All she does is complain about the ozone layer. Lost soul.”
“She needs to get laid and have a baby.” Green Eyes sniff a laugh as Thin Woman pinch another stick-meat.
“Adunni, you know you are meant to be at the backyard,” I hear Big Madam say as I turn around. Her red boubou is sweeping the floor, the yellow bows on shoulder area jumping up and down. She is holding a wineglass, the red drink inside turning around and around as she is walking and talking. “Serve the stick-meat and get out of here. If I hear your voice again, I will break your head with my cup.”
“Yes, ma.”
“I hear Senator Abdul is backing Jonathan’s campaign,” Green Eyes is saying as I am turning away from Big Madam. “He was one of his most vocal critics. I guess money has changed hands.”
“My husband has a meeting at Aso Rock tomorrow,” Thin Woman answer as she pick another two stick-meat from my tray, bite on it as if it vex her. She so thin. Where all the food is going to?
“Whenever he gets summoned to the Presidential Villa to discuss oil revenue and all that, he always comes back home with a suitcase of dollars,” she say, chewing. “With the election imminent, I can only imagine he will be returning with a truckload of cool cash. I must be a good girl so that he can sponsor a day trip to Harrods next weekend. That Gucci croc-skin bag is calling me.”
“The 5K one? With bamboo handles?” Green Eyes say.
“5K what? Dollars?” Football Head ask.
“Pounds, baby,” Thin Woman answer. “UK pounds. I’ll be rocking it for Senator Ladun’s fiftieth. Got my shoes from Harvey Nicks last month. It’s a stunning pair of six-inch red bottoms. The perfect match.”
Honest, honest, these rich people have a sickness of the head. Because why anybody will wear red buttocks on their feets? Who own the red buttocks? Maybe this night I can check The Book of Nigeria Fact, maybe it will tell me why rich people of the Nigeria are wanting to wear red buttocks as shoe.
“Gucci is so not my thing,” Green Eyes say. “You know how long I waited for my Hermès Birkin? Eight bloody months. I swear, nobody in Lagos has that bag. By the way, I heard Lola’s husband got his side-chick pregnant. She’s expecting twins.”
“Can we please discuss the fund-raising for the Ikoyi orphanage?” someone ask, but before I can check who it is, Thin Woman say, “I knew it would happen! I knew it. I warned Lola, didn’t I? I told her to organize some boys to beat the bleach out of the chick’s skin, but she was quoting scripture, saying God will fight her battles.”
I keep carrying the tray around, hearing them talk and talk about the shopping, about buying costly bag and shoe with dollar money and pound of money, and about one husband giving side-chickens pregnant.
I reach the last woman. She is standing by herself in one corner, looking like she lost and find herself here by one kind accident. She is wearing t-shirt, pink color, with blue jeans-trouser, white canvas-shoe on her feets. She look more young than the other womens here, with her slim, egg-shape face and skin the color of a roasting cashew nut. Her head is full of plenty tiny twists, like a million millions of them, some of it is hanging in front
of her face, the curly tip of it bouncing on the round top of her nose, and the rest of it is pack up in a band at the middle of her head. There is no makeups on her face—only red lipstick on lips which is looking like the cherry in the middle of the plate. There is one earring inside her nose, a spot of gold to the left of her nostrils.
I hold the tray for her, and she give me a smile, show white teeths with iron gate around it. “We are women,” she say in her honey voice. She is talking whisper, but it is loud for me to be hearing her. “Don’t mind them.”
Honest, honest, her voice is doing music inside my ears, and I am just feeling something in my belly, like I want to be singing. Laughing. I take my eyes from her face, keep it on her white canvas-shoe, on her short, thin legs inside the blue jeans-trouser. She pick the meat, fingers small, nails short and neat. “Thank you,” she say.
Thank you.
That is something I don’t ever hear in this house. I look her face, blink. Why is she saying thank you? For just holding tray? For nothing?
“Thank you,” she say again, with that music voice. “I certainly hope you enjoy serving your madam Florence.”
“Kind of you,” I say. “To say thank you to me. Nobody have say thank you to me since I leave Ikati.”
“It’s okay,” she say, touching my shoulder, gentle. “Go on now.”
The touch is like electrics on my body. I shock, drop the tray, the stick-meat scattering the floor by my feets.
“Are you all right?” the woman say.
I look all the stick-meats, the remaining six of it on the floor, and all I want is my mama. I want her to not be dead, just for two or three minutes only, so she can bring herself come here and tell Big Madam to not beat me, or maybe she can magic and hide me until all the meats is no more on the floor. Or maybe she can—
“Don’t cry,” the woman say. “Here, let me help you get those. Step back a bit so I can—”
“No, no,” I say, wiping my tears. “I get it myself, ma.”
As I bend to pick the first meat, I feel a quick cold air, and something heavy is landing on my head as the honey-voice woman is shouting, “Florence, what the hell?” and I want to tell her that yes, my head is very hell, because it feel as if my head is frying inside a fire, burning, burning, burning, and I am thinking the ceiling have come down and crash on top my head, but when I look up, I see Big Madam. She is holding one leg of her red shoe, and before I can say another one word, she smash the shoe right inside the middle of my head.
CHAPTER 30
Fact: Zamfara state in northern Nigeria was the first to make polygamy legal, in 2000.
Can you hear me?”
Her voice is making my inside to be warm, but my head is still hot, my brain is running up and down inside my skull, boom, boom, boom. Everywhere around me is black. I feel something wet on my face, my eyes. It is cold, soft, a cloth?
“Open your eyes.”
I am smelling her scent, of coconut oil, butter, a white lily flower.
“Adunni,” she say again. “Open your eyes.”
We are in the outside, at the backyard. My back is lying on the wall near the outside tap, and she is bending in front of me, kneeling down with one leg. Behind her, the sun is bright in the sky, throwing sun rays over the grass fields in the afar. She is giving me a smile, the gate on her teeths blinking in the sun. I want to smile back, but when I try, my head is pounding of pain, it collect the smile from my lips, crush it.
“It must hurt,” she say.
“Very hot,” I say.
She nod. “I’ll see if I can get the cook to give you some paracetamol.”
Something wet is climbing down my face, and before I can be touching it, she use a cloth and wipe it. The cloth is the gray cleaning cloth from the kitchen, but when she wipe my face, the color is changing to red.
“I am bleeding blood?” I ask. “Big Madam wound me bad?”
“It looks worse than it actually is,” she say. “How are you feeling?”
“Like Boko Haram is bombing inside my head.”
She smile. “Your madam was very upset. She said she asked you to do some work outside. Why were you serving guests?”
“Kofi ask me for help,” I say.
She throw one look back at the house, where there is noise and laughters and music. “I think I might just sit here with you for a while.”
She sit on the floor next to me like me and her are best of friends since we was small childrens. “It’s my second time attending the WRWA,” she say, after a moment. “My husband wants me to get to know our neighbors better. He thinks I am too uptight. How’s the head? Better?”
“Yes, madam,” I say. “Better. You are a kind person.”
“Forget the ‘madam,’” she say. “Just call me Tia.”
“Madam Tee-ya?”
“Ms. Tia,” she say.
“Ms. Tia.” I smile. “I like it if you like it.”
“How old are you?”
“Fourteen, ma.”
“Fourteen?” She strong her face a moment, think. “That’s not right . . . Florence should know better than to hire an underage girl as a maid. I should speak to her—”
“No,” I say, nearly shouting, and when she look me, concern, I force myself to smile. “I mean, don’t be talking to Big Madam about me, please. Just leave me here like this.” How I can be telling this woman that I must stay here until I enter the scholarship? That I have nowhere else to be going except of this place?
“Okay,” she say, slow, dragging the word. “I won’t say anything. Tell me, where have you come from? You said something about Ikati when you served me the stick-meat. Where is that?”
I tell her I don’t know where it is, but I know it is far because we are driving for a long time before we are reaching Lagos.
“I don’t need to ask if you like it here,” she say. “I can tell you aren’t happy.”
I down my face, shake my head. “Are you living far from here?” I ask.
“We moved down the road last year,” she say. “Well, I did. My husband has always lived on this street. I used to live in England. You know England? The UK?”
I think of that rich man Ade. My mama’s man-friend. “I am hearing of the UK of the Abroad,” I say. “And I am seeing it a bit in the CNN news tee-vee.”
She scratch her jaw with her fingernail, as if she is thinking of something deep. “Did you go to school?”
“I was going to school for small time. I didn’t able to finish because of no money and because my mama was dying, but I am trying to be learning English and speaking better because I am wanting to enter one exam very, very soon. I keep reading The Book of Nigeria Fact and the Collins.”
“The Collins? Oh, you mean the dictionary?” She turn, look my whole face, inside my eyes, as if she is seeing me for the first time ever and at the same time she is searching for something deep inside of my eyes. “I am surprised that Florence is putting you through school. You could ask her to get you some storybooks, you know?” she say. “A few books on grammar should help with your forthcoming exam.”
“Yes, madam. I mean, Ms. Tia.” How can I tell her Big Madam is not putting me in any school?
“Do you know Rebecca?” I ask, thinking of her waist beads still under my pillow. Maybe Ms. Tia can help me.
“I heard the women talking about her,” Ms. Tia say. “I don’t think I ever met her. Why are you asking?”
“I am just asking,” I say. “She was working here before, and now she is missing. I ask Kofi, but he say maybe she run away with her boyfriend.”
“She probably did,” Ms. Tia say, shrug. “Stuff like that happens all the time.”
Talking to this Ms. Tia is making the pain in my head to be stopping small. Her honey voice is like medicine, her laugh like cool water on my hot head. I don’t want her to hurry an
d go, so I am asking her more questions, saying everything that is coming to my brain, so she will stay. “Did you live in the Nigeria after they born you? When did you go to the Abroad?”
“I was born in Lagos. My primary school education was here in Lagos as well,” she say. “In Ikoyi, actually. My dad then got a job in an oil company in Port Harcourt, and so we moved over.”
She say the word “Port Harcourt” as if it is a song, her tongue wrapping around the words, making them dance.
“I spent most of my life in Port Harcourt before I left for university in Surrey.”
“Why it is Sorry?” I ask. “Is it a sad place?”
She raise her hand, cover her eyes from sun rays with a smile. “No, it’s nice. Different.”
“You have any brother or sister?” I ask. “Where is your mama?”
“I am an only child,” she say, shrug, voice level, flat. “My parents are still in Port Harcourt; my dad still works for the oil firm. My mum was working as a librarian at the University of Port Harcourt until she got sick last year.”
“Your mama sick?” I say, feeling much pity. “Sickness is the worst of all things to happen to a mama. When my mama was sick, I didn’t able to balance myself. I was crying every day until she dead. Even now, sometimes, I cry nearly every day. Are you crying every day too?”
She sigh, say, “No, I don’t cry. I am so sorry to hear your mother passed. Sounds like you were close.”
“My mama?” I smile soft. “She was everything to me. My best of friend. Everything.”
“Good for you,” she say. “I . . . uh, how to say this? I relocated . . . came back home to Nigeria last year.”
It don’t sound like she is having much feeling for her mama. Or like she want to talk of her.
“Why did you move back to the Nigeria?” I ask. “Because your mama sick?”
“Because I wanted to,” she say. “I got an amazing opportunity to join a small, lovely company called the Lagos Environmental Consultancy, and I knew I had to take it. And”—she pluck a twist of hair from her face, twist it around her finger—“because I fell in love and got married to my husband.” Her voice is taking a new, strange, high tone as she is talking of her husband, her eyes brighting up. “His name is Ken,” she say. “Kenneth Dada. He is a doctor. A good man. He helps women get pregnant.”
