by Abi Daré
Yes, ma, I say with my eyes. A very big fool.
“Where was his family when I was struggling to build my client list? To raise our children? To pay the bills? You are my sister.” She wipes her left eye with a finger. “You know what I went through with this man. How I suffered to support our family with my business. I never told you this, Kemi, but for years, I would bring home the money I made and give it to Chief, and he would pocket my money and still beat me and carry his girlfriends. Still, I gave him clothes to wear, took care of him. I covered his shame. I turned a blind eye to his nonsense, but for him to do this . . . with, with Caroline Bankole from the WRWA! Right under my nose. No, please don’t tell me to calm down. No, I am not imagining things. I wish I was.
“I told you how I found the phone he’d been calling her with. The fool stored her number as ‘Baby Love.’ Baby love? From Chief? He has never called me anything love! . . . Kemi, why are you asking me these senseless questions? What do you mean by ‘Are you sure?’ Of course I am sure! I confronted her! She said it was the devil’s fault. The devil? Does that even make sense? This is a woman I called my friend. My friend.” She presses a shaking hand to her mouth to cover her crying noise, and my heart is shifting as I think of Caroline Bankole, the cat with green eyes and bitter orange smell, of the woman who is kind to Chisom because Chisom is keeping her secrets, of the night Big Daddy was talking on the phone behind the boys’ quarters.
This must be what Big Madam read in his phone the day she found it in my room, why she is still keeping Big Daddy locked out from the house, why she is looking like she will just die any day now from the pain and shame of it all. And me, I was here thinking she was sad and angry because Big Daddy wanted to rape me.
Big Madam is now listening and nodding and sighing, but I cannot hear what the other woman is saying. “I don’t know what prayers would do for me right now, Kemi,” she says finally. “Go and rest, you need it.”
She throws her phone to the bed, and when she looks at me, her eyes dig a hole into my heart and pours her sorrow into the hole, burying me with it.
“Massage my feet,” she says, stretching out her two legs in front of her. “My ankles are swollen.” I nod my head, bend, pick up her feet and put them in my lap. I rub my thumb and fingers on her ankles, her toes, slowly, as if to press away all the pain that she has been carrying for so long, releasing her from the prison of herself, her pain.
We stay like that a moment, she releasing the pain, me working it out from her legs, her body.
“I am going to have him arrested,” she says suddenly, as if she is just thinking of it. “Yes, that is it. He will be arrested for Rebecca’s disappearance, and I will make sure he rots in jail unless he can produce that girl.” She rests her head back, closes her eyes. “Adunni?”
“Ma?”
“The night that . . . that Big Daddy tried to . . . Do I recall you saying Rebecca wrote a letter?”
“Yes, ma,” I say as hope is rising inside me. I have been waiting for her to ask me about it, waiting for when she will do something to help Rebecca.
“I want to see it,” she says. “To read it properly. Bring it to me first thing tomorrow. For now, I need to sleep. My eyes sting. Sing for me.”
“Yes, ma.”
And so I sing as if my mama is sitting in that purple chair, as if I want to empty out all my voice and cause it to make Big Madam feel all better. I sing as if I want to make Rebecca not missing, to make Ms. Tia’s husband not having problem of making Ms. Tia pregnant, as if I want to stop myself from feeling sad that Big Madam is feeling sad.
When I finish my song and look up, Big Madam’s eyes are closed. Soft puffs of air escape from her open mouth, but her jaw keeps on twitching every one or two seconds, as if she is biting on the remaining peace left inside her soul, fighting to hold it with her teeth.
But the peace is stubborn; it slips out of her grip and crashes around us.
CHAPTER 54
Fact: A 2003 study of over sixty-five countries suggested that the happiest and most optimistic people in the world live in Nigeria.
I have been awake since five, lying on my bed and listening to a peacock screaming like a bush baby afar in a neighbor’s house, to the wind sweeping the leaves from the coconut trees against the window-louvers in my room, to the faraway sound of Kofi banging pots and plates in the kitchen.
My body feels stiff, like I need some oiling to move, some housework to keep me moving. I stand, pull out Rebecca’s letter from under my pillow, fold it into a neat square, and push it into my brassiere. After I wear my uniform, I put on my shoes, taking my time to push the thinning leather rope of it inside the buckle, because I don’t want it to cut and give up finally.
Outside, the air is cold, and a thin cloud of wet is covering the grass. The sky is so clear; there is no end to the blue-gray of it. I walk quickly, and find Kofi in the kitchen, slicing a loaf of bread with a big knife.
“Good morning,” I shout to him as I pick the broom behind the kitchen tap in the backyard, tap the head, and begin to sweep, again, slowly, as if the floor is the long, long hair of a dear friend, and my broom is the comb.
“Adunni,” Kofi calls, “I have been waiting for you to come out. Come, come. Drop that broom.”
I put the broom on the floor, wipe my hands, and enter the kitchen. I stop in front of the gas cooker, near him. “What happened?”
“I just got off a call from my friend at the embassy,” he says. “He says the results came out yesterday. Once I finish my morning work, I will go and find out if you got in.”
“Thank you, Kofi,” I say. “Ms. Tia too will check it. Has Big Madam gone to her shop?” I ask Kofi.
“Not today,” Kofi says, still whispering. “We have guests in the reception. Big Daddy’s two sisters. The fool himself is there too, they came in a few minutes ago. Big Madam says we shouldn’t let them into the living room, so they are all at the reception.”
Can Big Daddy try and do something bad to me today? With everybody here?
“Adunni.” Big Madam enters the kitchen wearing a black bou-bou, the black of a mourner. Her eyes are the sad of a young widow, the purple around them a fading mark. “What are you doing in here? Go and find food to eat.”
I touch my chest. “Me? Find food to eat?”
“Do you have the . . . that letter?” she asks.
“Yes, ma,” I say. “You want it now, ma?”
“I will call you when I need it,” she says. “Kofi, keep Adunni at the back and find something for her to eat. I am expecting a police officer. Chief and his family must remain in the reception. Serve them food if they want, but please don’t let them into any other rooms in the house apart from the downstairs toilet.”
When Big Madam leaves, Kofi shakes his head. “Police officer? What for? You told me Big Daddy didn’t rape you. Why did you lie? What letter is she talking about?”
“Big Daddy didn’t rape me,” I say.
And then I tell him about Rebecca’s letter.
* * *
I stay in the backyard, sweeping, until Kofi calls me.
“I should bring the letter?” I ask as I enter the kitchen. He is standing beside the door that is leading to the reception, pressing his ear against the glass of it. There is flour on his nose, a big dot of white powder on his smooth skin.
“Don’t say a word,” he whispers, pressing a finger to his two lips, sshh. “Just come and hear what they are saying.”
I walk to him, my heart sounding louder than my feet as I stand beside him and press my eyes to the cloudy glass of the door. I can see shadows: of Big Madam, a big black mountain sitting behind a setting sun; of Big Daddy, his fila perching like a small, sleeping ostrich on his head; and of two women, one tall and the other short, the geles on their heads a shadow of two giant hands.
“Where is the police man?” I ask Kofi, talking low.
“That one.” Kofi presses his finger to the shadow of a man standing far left. Big Madam’s voice is the loudest of all, and she is sounding very angry:
“Officer Kamson, as I briefed you on the phone, I want this man, my husband, taken away and questioned. I have reason to believe he is involved in the disappearance of my former housemaid. I think he might have harmed her. Take him with you to your station and detain him!”
“Do you have any evidence of your allegations, Madam Florence?” Officer Kamson asks.
The letter! I shout in my head, pressing my nose against the glass of the door so hard, I am fearing it will crack any moment now. Tell the police about Rebecca’s letter.
“Come on, Florence,” Big Daddy says. “This is just ridiculous. What do you think I did with Rebecca? Of all people, Rebecca? So what if she is missing? She could have run away!” He turns to the police officer. “Officer Kamson, listen to me. I swear to the god of my fathers that I do not know anything about that girl’s disappearance. I have my weaknesses, but to cause a girl to disappear? Why would I do that?”
“Shut your mouth!” Big Madam’s shout is so sharp, it makes everybody jump, including me and Kofi. Kofi even bangs his head on the glass door, but before anybody inside can turn to look at us, Big Madam says: “Why don’t you tell Officer Kamson about the affair you’ve been having with my close friend Caroline Bankole?”
The silence, it falls like a sudden storm, a thunder with no boom.
Big Madam’s breathing in and out is the only noise for a long, long moment until one of the two sisters falls inside the sofa and puts her hand on her head. “God forbid. This is the devil at work.”
“The devil, my foot,” Kofi whispers. “The devil, my left testicle.”
“Madam Florence.” Officer Kamson shifts from one foot to the other. “I understand you are upset with your husband, rightly so. But you invited the Nigeria Police Force here for a reason. Why do you think your husband might have a hand in Rebecca’s disappearance? Housemaids are known to jump from employer to employer, aren’t they? As far as we are aware, she hasn’t been reported missing. And”—he clears his throat—“if you suspect she was having an affair with your husband before she disappeared, ma’am, then it would make sense to invite you both for questioning.”
“Me?” Big Madam says as her hands fly to her chest. “Did your boss not tell you about me before he sent you here? I am telling you to take my husband away and detain him and you are talking about investigating me. Questioning me. You must be crazy!”
“Florence, please,” Big Daddy says, and everybody turns to look at him. He drops to his knees in front of Big Madam. “Please ask Officer Kamson to go away so you and I can talk about this Caroline thing, man to wife. It was a big mistake, a terrible, terrible mistake. I can explain everything.”
Big Madam shakes her head and wipes her face with the edge of her boubou.
“Please,” Big Daddy’s sister says, “let us put this issue about Rebecca going missing to one side so that our brother can move back home. Look at him, on his knees! He is suffering enough as it is. He has nowhere to live. Please, Florence, take him back. Tomorrow, we will gather everybody and have a family meeting to discuss the other matter.”
Big Madam pushes out a deep breath. She seems like she is losing the fight of life, and I want to jump and bang the door and tell her to show them the letter from Rebecca. To tell them about me. But Kofi, he can sense my jumping spirit, my angry soul, and he presses a hand on my hand, as if to say, Slow it, Adunni. Take it slow.
“You can go, Officer,” Big Madam says with a low, quiet voice. “I think . . . I will be in touch when we need you. Sorry for the inconvenience.” Turning to Big Daddy, she says, “Chief, I never want to see you in my house ever again. Abu will pack your things. Get them from him at the gate. Do not forget to hand him my car keys.”
Officer Kamson’s cough breaks the second shocked silence. “I think I will, er, take my leave,” he says with a quick salute. “Please remember that we are here to serve. I hope you will resolve what appears to be a mere domestic matter. Call us when there is something to investigate.”
I cannot let the police man be going away without the letter, without knowing what happened to Rebecca, if they will ever find her, or if she is dead. No. No. No.
“No!” I say this inside my head, but I think I mistake and press one remote-control to loud my voice because my voice is not inside my head really, it is outside of everywhere and filling the whole kitchen, and all the shadows in the parlor are turning to look at the door, at the place where me and Kofi are standing, where I am banging the glass of the door with my two fists, and where Kofi is using his hand to cover my mouth as he is dragging me away from behind the door.
* * *
Outside, in the early-morning sun, I am sitting on a stone in the garden. My eyes keep filling with tears that is choking my throat and making me to cough. I was not able to fight for Khadija, and now I am not fighting for even Rebecca. It crushes me to know that I have so much power with the letter, but no power at all if Big Madam is not giving the letter to the police. I am not sure how long I am staying like that, crying sore, until Kofi comes outside.
“Chale, you are still crying?” he says. “I can bet on my new house in Kumasi that Big Daddy will be back. It will take a lot of begging on his part, but she will take him back one day because she needs him more than he needs her. Is it not sad that, in this part of our world, a woman’s achievements can be reduced to nothing if she is not married? Anyway, get up. You are needed.”
“Needed where?” I ask, looking at him with eyes swollen and sore of pain from too much crying.
“Big Madam wants you,” he says. “She’s in her reception.”
“What does she want me for?” I ask, but Kofi shrugs.
“She’s in a foul mood. Good luck.”
As I wipe my face and enter the kitchen, my phone vibrates in my chest. I pluck it out to peep it quick: a text message from Ms. Tia that seem like it been waiting there for nearly one hour:
Adunni!! You got in!!
You won a place in the scheme!
I am not waiting ONE MORE DAY!
I will fight Florence if I have to.
I am coming to get you now!!
Pack your stuff.
xx
I stand there, in the middle of the kitchen, my back to Kofi as he is putting plates and spoons into the dishwasher with a happy whistle, as he is busying himself with work, forgetting about Adunni and all her troubles.
I read the text message again: with my voice trapped inside of my chest, a whisper in a container, with my eyes wide-open; and then with my eyes closed inside a deep darkness, the words running bright, a ribbon of fire, of hope.
CHAPTER 55
When I enter the reception, Big Madam is sitting in the sofa by the aquarium and looking at the floor.
Ms. Tia jumps when she sees me, and I draw a breath, comforting myself with her scent of coconut oil and lily flower.
She is looking much better now. Her hair is sitting in a big puff on her head, pushed back with a red band. And her face is no more having plenty lines, the skin smooth again.
“Your face,” I say. “It is looking good.”
“Palm oil worked its magic,” she says with a wink. “Are you okay? Have you been crying?”
“I am okay now,” I say.
“Adunni, listen,” Ms. Tia says. “Your madam and I have had a lengthy discussion about your future. She is aware of the scheme and says you can come with me today, but she insists on having a word with you before she can release you.”
Big Madam stands, beckons with her fingers. “Follow me.”
“Florence . . .” Ms. Tia’s voice is low, like a warning.
“I just want to have a word with her,” Big Madam says, “alone.”
&nbs
p; “Then I will step out,” Ms. Tia says as she nods at me, leaves the reception, closes the door quietly.
Big Madam holds out her hand. “The letter?”
I shake my head no.
“Hand me the letter this minute, or I will make it very difficult for you to leave. I don’t care what Tia threatens. In the end, you will be the one to suffer if I make things difficult for you.”
My heart is heavy as I put my hand inside my brassiere, bring out the letter, and give it to her.
She snatches it and starts to read, her eyes scanning the letter, reading fast, her face showing no feelings. Not even as she sees the dried blood. Then slowly, she starts to tear the letter to pieces.
I watch in shock, as small by small by small, a rain of black ink paper is pouring out from her hand and floating to the floor. A question—two questions—hit my mind so hard, it nearly stops my breathing.
What if it was Big Madam and not Big Daddy that caused Rebecca to disappear and bleed blood? And if so, is that why Rebecca was writing that she is afraid Big Madam would do something bad to her? Why Big Madam did not arrest Big Daddy with the police? I think back to the night I told her Rebecca wrote a letter, and how she seemed not too shocked. Sad, tired, but not shocked. She didn’t even read it! The only thing that seemed to nearly run her mad was the Caroline Bankole thing.
I look at her face, searching for answers, but all I see is a blanket of sadness and sorrow and pain.
“Ma, there was blood on that letter,” I say. “On the letter you just teared up.”
“I know,” Big Madam say, her voice low. “I saw it.”
“Why did you let the police go?” I ask. “Why did you tear the letter when you know Big Daddy may have killed her or wounded her or caused her to—” My voice is starting to rise, and Big Madam is holding up her hand, fear crawling all over her face. “Stop raising your voice, Adunni.”
