by Abi Daré
“What are you doing in Balogun market?” she say. “Let me guess—running a report on the pollution in the area?”
“Titi,” Ms. Tia say, sounding like the cake is a brick in her throat. “Good to see you. How are you?”
“I’m good,” Titi say. “That is a lot of food. Are you expecting someone?”
“Yep,” Ms. Tia say, then laugh a painful laugh. “Nope. It’s all mine. I am famished. Ridiculously so.”
“Ah, famished,” Titi say, voice like a sudden singing-song. “Are you trying to tell us something? Is there a bun in the oven? How far gone—”
“I am loving the bag,” Ms. Tia cut in. “So chic.”
“I know, right,” Titi say, stroking a hand on the blue box of a bag that is hanging from a thick gold chain on her shoulder. There are two gold letter Cs crossing each other on the clip of the bag, and it look too costly, just like her black shoe.
“Do you know I’ve had this boy for three years?” she say. I can hear a smile in her voice. Like she is proud of her boy of a bag. “It’s the most stunning calfskin. And your bag is lovely. Italian?”
Ms. Tia’s bag is shape like a half a triangle and made with black and pink leather with a gold pin as a button. “My bag is Nigerian,” Ms. Tia say. “I mostly wear Nigerian brands.”
“Well, you simply cannot go wrong with Chanel. Anyway, I am running late for a board meeting at the First Bank on Broad Street. I couldn’t resist stopping over for Frankie’s meat pie. Definitely better than the crappy Niçoise salad the CEO at the bank orders for our board meetings. So depressing. Got to run. My love to Kenneth. Take very, very good care of yourself and the bun! Ta-ta!”
The woman walk away, her shoes making clack, clack on the floor.
I wait another six, seven minutes before Ms. Tia put her hand under the table and beckon for me to come out.
“Why am I hiding?” I say when I climb out and stretch my back. “Big Madam knows I followed you to the market. And why is that woman asking you about a bun inside oven? All she ever thinks about is food!”
“Florence knows we are going to the market,” Ms. Tia say, sounding tired. “But she doesn’t know I’m taking you out to eat. She doesn’t know how close we are or that I have been helping you with anything. If Titi had seen you eating here next to me, she would have asked questions. For your own good, no one can know how close we are. Not yet. Do you get it?”
“I get it,” I say, picking my meat pie and cursing Thin Woman in my mind for making my meat pie go all cold and hard.
* * *
That evening, as I enter the house and see that Big Madam is not back from the shop, I finish all my housework quick and then enter my room. Even though my whole body is tired, and my eyes are calling me to be sleeping, I pick a paper and pen, and try to write the essay.
At first I write it anyhow: what my name is, where my mama born me, how my papa and brothers are living in Ikati. I tell a story of a life with small money but a lot of happiness, make up all the good things that I can make up in my head, but when I finish writing it and I read it, I feel sick in my stomach. It is full of so many lies, the paper looks like it is swelling up, about to burst.
Write your truth, Ms. Tia say. Your truth.
I tear to pieces the paper, and throw it to the floor. Then I swim deep inside the river of my soul, find the key from where it is sitting, full of rust, at the bottom of the river, and open the lock. I kneel down beside my bed, close my eyes, turn myself into a cup, and pour the memory out of me.
I write about Morufu, and what he did to me when he drink Fire-Cracker. About Khadija, and how she died, and how I was running. About Papa. And Mama and Kayus and Born-boy. I tell the school that this scholarship is my life. That I need it to live, to become a person of value. I tell them that I need it to be able to change things, to help other girls like me. And at the end of it, I tell them I have a deep love for Nigeria, even though my life has been full of suffering in this country. I add three of the most interesting of the Nigeria Fact that I know, and when I finish writing, I feel weak, as if I just finished swimming a wide ocean with half of my body: one hand, one leg, one nostril.
I try to think of a good title for the essay, something catching, but no more words are coming to my head. My brain is no more having strength to think and so I use the first title that is coming to my tired mind:
The True Story Essay of Myself by Adunni, the Girl with the Louding Voice
And first thing in the morning, before fear will make me change my mind and write another essay, and before anybody is awake, I run to Ms. Tia’s house and slide my essay, folded like a rectangle, under her gate.
CHAPTER 42
Fact: Muhammadu Buhari was the head of state of Nigeria from 1983 to 1985. In 1984 he enacted the War Against Indiscipline, a rule remembered for human rights abuses and restriction of press freedom.
Christmas comes and goes like a stiff, silent wind.
Big Madam and Big Daddy go out every day until New Year’s Day, visiting everybody and coming back home late, tired, drunk, and smelling of jollof rice, fried meat, and drink. Kofi travel back to Ghana to see his wife and children for Christmas, and me, I stay in the house, cleaning, washing clothes, reading books in the library when I have a chance, and remembering Christmas in Ikati with a twist of sadness in my spirit, how everybody will gather in the village square and blow knockouts and bangers and share zobo drink and choco-sweets until late in the night.
Today is the first working day in the year 2015, and Big Madam say I must follow her to her shop, because her shopgirl has gone to her village and she needs me to help her. We are in her car now. I am sitting in front, and Abu is driving through traffic, nodding his head to the radio speaking news in Hausa on a low volume.
Big Madam is at the back seat, speaking to her friend Caroline on the phone. “It will be terrible,” she is saying. “If Buhari wins the elections, Nigerians will not understand what hit them. No idea! That man has an evil agenda. Do you remember what we went through in the ’80s? How people lost their livelihoods because of War Against Indiscipline? I was flogged once by his demonic soldiers as I waited for a bus at Obalende in 1984. Who knows what will happen if he wins? I know at least three of my customers that have promised to check out of the country on a self-imposed exile. Why wait for tragedy to befall you? It is a nightmare. We are doomed. We need to call a meeting for the Fabric Sellers Association of Lagos to make sure the women in our area can convince our people not to vote for him.”
I turn to look at her, to hear what she is saying about Buhari because I like to be learning new things. She is nodding her head up and down, speaking. “I hear you, Caroline, I hear you. But I don’t see how this can be good for us. That man can make a law that will affect my business. Ninety percent of my income comes from selling fabric for weddings, funerals, engagements . . . ha. It will be a disaster if people start to reduce their spending on fabric. A real disaster.” She catch my eye, say, “Please, hold on, hold on.”
Before I can turn away quick, she knock the side of my head with her finger that have a gold stone ring on it. I feel the pain in the middle of my brain.
“Will you keep your eye on the road and stop listening to my conversation? Idiot.”
I hear her pull something from her bag, jingle like a bunch of keys. She throws the thing to the front seat. It miss me, land on the floor by Abu’s feet, where the car foot pedals are. Abu slide one eye to me, then face his front and keep driving like nothing happen.
Big Madam keeps talking on her phone. “Sorry, Caroline. Adunni was listening to my conversation. Imagine the godforsaken idiot? No, she’s coming with me to the shop. Glory went home for Christmas and has refused to return. Adunni will help me today while I wait for a replacement shop assistant. Anyway, I found a cruise package I think you’d love. My wonderful Chief will be sponsoring me, as usual. No, not the Royal C
aribbean—let us talk about it later. How far away are you? Okay, that’s not far. There is no traffic on Awolowo Road, so I should see you soon. Bye.”
I rub my head, feel hot tears burn my eyes. I know the meaning of “forsake.” I know it means when somebody has leave you by yourself. When you are of no use to the person. A wasted waste.
I am not a wasted waste; I am Adunni. A person important enough because my tomorrow will be better than today. I talk to myself, as I have been doing every day since Ms. Tia teach me, until Abu turns the car into the gate of Big Madam’s shop.
* * *
The steps climbing up to Big Madam’s shop is made of white marble, and deep inside each step is a bulb of white light, shining on our feet.
At the top floor is a room the size of her parlor, and I look around, blinking at how bright it is, the wonder of it all. The air is cold with air-con air, smelling like perfume and money.
There are no noises of cars or market women here. No smelling people. Just glass shelves, lining up right from the floor all the way to the ceiling, like a wall of glass around the whole room. Inside each glass is a small ladder sitting under a bright white bulb of round light. Fabrics, the most beautiful I ever seen in my life, are folded into each step of the ladder. There are fabrics with flowers, hundreds of them, so that it look like Big Madam uproot a flower garden and fold it like a cloth to sell. Others have stones, shining ones, different colors, purple, pink, red, blue, white, black, even some colors that don’t have a name. There is one of net, one like a curtain material, heavy-looking, another like a sponge, thick and full. Up in the ceiling, I count sixteen lightbulbs deep inside it and round like eyesballs of light, all in a case of silver metal.
The same dolly babies from when Mr. Kola was pointing the shop to me, two of them, both naked, are still standing behind the front window. A sea of white lace is around their feet, and two vases made out of basket weaving and full of dried yellow flowers sit by each dolly.
In the middle of the shop, there is a purple chair with gold feet, the cushion back of it curling a little. There are magazines on the glass table to the side of the chair, arranged like an open hand fan, and I catch the title of the top magazine with my eyes: Genevieve. There is a picture of three Nollywood actress on the cover, looking rich and happy.
“Put my handbag on the till,” Big Madam say, pointing to the glass shelf on my left with a small computer sitting on top, next to a pen and a pad of paper. Behind the shelf is a chair, tall, with a round seat. There is a tee-vee on the wall too, flat like the one in Big Madam’s parlor.
I put down her handbag, wait for her to tell me what to do.
“My storage is behind that door,” Big Madam say, setting herself in the purple sofa and kicking off her purple shoes. “I don’t think it is locked. Open it, and right on the floor, you will see a bag full of fabric. Bring that bag for me.”
“Yes, ma,” I say, turning to the door behind me. I twist the gold handle, blink into the dark storeroom. It is too dark to see much, but I can make out rows and rows of ladders, full of lace materials, too many to count, too far to see the end of it. I pick the nylon bag behind the door and close it.
When I enter the shop floor, I see Caroline. She is wearing blue jeans-trousers that look too tight, with a gold t-shirt that stop on her belly. There are high heels on her feet, pink with a sharp, pointing tip. Today, her eyes are not green but the gold-brown of honey. How is she able to keep changing her eye color? Or is she wearing a special eye-glass deep inside her eyes?
She wrap up her head with a red scarf and when she nod at me with a quick smile, the two big, round earrings in her ears dance up and down.
“Is this my guipure?” she say, snatching the bag from my hand and peeping into the bag. “Florence, did you give me the best in your collection? I want to make a waist-snatching dress for a special somebody.”
Big Madam laughs like a horse. “Who is the special person? Eh? You this woman, the day your husband will catch you, I will not beg him to take you back.”
“It is not my fault that he is always offshore,” she says as she pulls out the fabric and spreads it out, the lace pouring to the floor like a giant red wave, the stones in the material blinking under the bright lights. “Today he is in Saudi, tomorrow he is in Kuwait, chasing dollars. A woman needs a man to warm her bed.”
“I hear you,” Big Madam say. “Who is making your dress?”
“House of Funke,” Caroline say. “Florence, ah, this guipure is fantastic. The burgundy is just alive! Look at the pattern on the edges, my goodness. How much for me?”
“One hundred and fifty thousand,” Big Madam say, picking the magazine on the table and fanning herself with it. “For you and for everybody. Do you need all the five yards?”
“I am thinking of making a midi-dress,” Caroline say, talking to the fabric. “So three yards should do. I can’t wait to see what magic Funke will work on the neckline. I may add more stones in it because I want it blinged to death!”
“This new man must be special,” Big Madam say, yawning. “See how you are smiling.”
Caroline say, “Florence, 150K is too much. Knock 50K off for me, abeg. I will send Adunni to my car to go and bring the money now.”
“Knock off what?” Big Madam slap the magazine down, sit up straight. “We are talking about Swiss lace here, Caro. Isn’t your new man worth it? In fact, there is a new brocade that just landed. Luxury embroidered. You will love it. I can imagine you making a jumpsuit with it, maybe for another date with this your new man. It is a lovely champagne-gold, and I have the perfect velvet turban to go with it. The governor’s wife just got off the phone with me. She wants three yards of it for a special lunch at the US embassy. Shall I get it for you?”
I look Big Madam, wondering when she ever talk to any governor’s wife just now, but she keep a straight face.
“Florence!” Caroline shake her head with a laugh. “You will make me bankrupt, I swear. How much for the two, three yards each? Do you have the turban in store?” She turn to me. “Adunni, run downstairs. My car is in the parking lot. My house girl is sitting in the front seat. Her name is Chisom, tell her to give you my handbag and bring it up for me.”
As I turn around and leave them, Big Madam is saying, “Before I forget, there is one turquoise tulle fabric I think you would love . . .”
* * *
The four doors to Caroline’s black Jeep are wide-open.
A girl is sitting in the front seat, talking on a mobile phone that is pressed between her ear and her shoulder. She is nodding to the phone, laughing too, as she pick up a spoon full of jollof rice from a bowl in her lap and eat it.
The driver, a man with a black cap covering his face, is sleeping in the driver’s seat, which he push all the way down. His two legs are up, in the space between the wheel-steering and the open car door. The man doesn’t even move as I go near the car.
“Hello,” I say, looking the girl, pressing a hand to silent the hungry noise in my stomach. “Are you Aunty Caroline’s housemaid?”
She look nothing like a housemaid. Her hair is full of thick, neat plaiting all the way down to her back. Her dress, bright yellow and pink with patterns of a bird in a tree, look nothing like my own. I don’t see her feet, but her fingers, which she is using to hold the spoon, is having nails the same pink color of her dress.
“Let me call you back,” she say to her phone.
“Or are you her daughter?” I ask. Maybe she is Caroline’s daughter. She look like a daughter, dress like a daughter. Speak like a daughter too.
“Hello,” she say to me.
“I am looking for Chisom,” I say. “Aunty Caroline’s housemaid. She said I should bring her bag up to the shop.”
“I am Chisom,” she say, eyeing me from up to down. “You are Big Madam’s maid?”
“Yes,” I say. “She say I should bring he
r bag.”
“Sure,” the girl say, then turn to the back seat, pick up a black leather bag with big letters L and V stamping everywhere on it, and give me. “What is your name?” she ask as I collect the bag.
“Adunni.” I swallow the hot spit in my mouth as I watch her. She pick up the plastic cover of the jollof rice bowl and put it on the bowl, covering the rice and fried meat.
“Bia, Adunni, why are you so skinny like this?” She look at me a moment, then at the bowl, then she laugh. “Do you want my remaining rice?”
I drag my eyes away from the bowl. I cannot collect the rice because Big Madam will beat me. But maybe I can find a corner to eat it quick?
“Rebecca was always hungry,” Chisom say. She slap her hand on the cover to lock the rice well, then hold up the bowl to my face. “Take my food. My madam will buy me another one.”
“You know Rebecca?” I wide my eyes, forgetting all my hunger, the rice. “How? Do you know what happened to her? Was she from Agan village?”
Chisom shrug. “She used to talk about Agan,” she say. “Me and her were not too close, so I don’t know if she was from there, but whenever I see her here, I will give her food. Then one day, she didn’t come again.”
“When did she stop coming to the shop?” I ask.
Chisom think a moment. “Maybe around the time she was starting to get big. Before then, she was skinny. Like you.”
“She was getting big?” My heart begin to beat fast as I think of the waist beads under my pillow. Maybe she take them off because she was getting big, but the beads are inside a elastic string, so it can stretch and stretch and she don’t really need to ever take it off. I sigh. “Chisom, did she tell you—”
“Adunni!” Big Madam shout from upstairs. “Is Caroline’s bag in Saudi Arabia? Do you need to apply for a visa before you can access the bag, ehn? If you make me come downstairs and find you, I will—”
