‘We’ll do only the face today,’ I say. ‘Dip it in until you feel something like a tingle.’
She dips her face into the water. She stays that way for some time, holding her breath. Even if I’m not the one with my face submerged, it is hard for me to breathe.
Eno lifts up her face. ‘My back is starting to ache, and I don’t feel anything.’
‘You have to do it for longer,’ I say. ‘Stand up, stretch your back. But you have to try to stay longer.’
Eno stands up. She lifts her hands above her head in a stretch. She gets back down on her knees, places her face into the bucket again.
‘Only get up when you feel the tingling,’ I say.
Time passes.
‘Do you feel it yet?’
The back of Eno’s head moves from side to side, a shake with her face still in the water.
More time passes.
‘Not yet?’
The back of Eno’s head moves again from side to side.
‘Okay. Come up.’
She lifts her face from the water first. She stands up. The colour of her skin seems softer to the eyes, just a little lighter than before. I smile at her. ‘It’s working,’ I say. ‘But we need to go full force.’
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘Good.’ She watches as I pour the liquid from the bucket into the tub. We both watch as the water drains; we listen as it gurgles down the pipe. I take the bucket out of the tub, place it in a corner of the bathroom by the sink. The bath bowl is sitting in the sink. I pick it up, hold it above the tub, pour the bleach straight into it. I get down on my knees, call Eno to my side, tell her to place her face into the bowl. She does.
Only a little time passes, and then she screams, and her scream fills the bathroom, saturates every tiny bit of the room, and I am dizzy with it. Then there is the thud and splash of the bowl in the tub, then there is the thud of the door slamming into the wall. Ekaite rushes towards us, sees that it is Eno who is in pain. She reaches her hands out to Eno, holds Eno’s face in her palms. Eno screams, twists her face. Her cheeks contort as if she is sucking in air. She screams and screams. I feel the pain in my own face. Ekaite looks as if she feels it too, and for a moment I think I see tears forming in her eyes. Papa looms in the doorway, then enters the bathroom. He looks fiercely at me. He asks, ‘What did you do to her? What did you do?’ In the doorway, I see Mama just watching, her eyes flicking this way and that.
‘What did you do?’ Papa asks again. I turn to him, pleading, wanting desperately to make my case, but I don’t find the words. I turn to Mama. I beg her to explain. She looks blankly at me, a little confusion in her eyes. I stand in the middle of them, frozen with something like fear, something not quite.
By then, even Emmanuel has made his way into the house, abandoning his post at the gate. He stands just behind Mama, and his peering eyes seem to ask me that same question: What did you do?
My legs feel weak. I turn to Eno, I smile at her. I think of Mama and her creams. ‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘We’ll find something that works.’ Eno continues to scream. I blink my eyes as if to blink myself awake.
Days later, when the scabs start to form, I imagine peeling them off like the hard shell of a velvet tamarind. Eno’s flesh underneath the scabs is the reddish-yellow of the tamarind’s pulp, not quite the yellow of a ripe pawpaw peel. And even if I know that this scabby fairness of hers is borne of injury, a temporary fairness of skinless flesh, patchy, and ugly in its patchiness, I think how close she has come to having skin like Onyechi’s, and I feel something like envy in me, because what she has wound up with is fairness after all. Fairness, if only for a while.
Story, Story!
It was a story that Nneoma had told three times before, each time in the church on Rumuola Road. The church was not the same one that she attended as a child—not that small one out in the village, with hardly more than a dozen benches in it. Not that old one where she used to sit, a long time ago, worshipping alongside her parents. (Her parents had hoped that she’d one day get married in that village church, but it was now evident that Nneoma’s was a life that refused to converge with hopes. Her only consolation was that at least she’d tried. This failure of her life to merge with her parents’ hopes, of it to merge with even her own hopes, was clearly not any fault of hers. She reasoned it this way, as if that settled it.)
The church was round and two storeys high. Just like a wedding cake, Nneoma often thought. It was true: just like a wedding cake, its top layer was a smaller circle than its bottom. And the two cases of stairs that ran along the exterior walls, connecting the top and bottom storeys, were a little like the cake’s decoration. Icing in the shape of stairs.
Being a city church, it was large. Inside the main hall, benches stood in circular formation so that they appeared to radiate from the middle, like a wave whose centre was the pulpit. Here and there, between the benches, metal floor fans also stood, oscillating and buzzing negligibly from their posts. Even with the fans, it was warm inside the church.
It was on those benches, and in that warmth, that Nneoma told the story. She told it in bits, in the breaks before and after and during the service. She made sure to tell it only to visiting women, because the sudden absence of a regular member would surely be noted by the pastor, and by the congregation as a whole.
The last time she told the story—two and a half, nearly three years ago—it was to a visiting woman that she told it. The woman was very pretty, with high cheekbones, much like Nneoma’s own. The woman had sharp, penetrating eyes: she might have suspected all along. Or perhaps she had not suspected. Perhaps she was just that kind of woman: sharp, but merely on the superficial level—sharp eyes, sharp jaw, a very sharp fashion sense.
The woman was wearing red lipstick and gold earrings, a nice lace blouse and bangles that dangled up and down her wrists. She had painted a mole on her face, just above her lips, with the same black pencil that she used to line her lips—at least Nneoma suspected as much. It was the fashion, Nneoma knew. A mole, but some called it a beauty mark.
The other two women to whom Nneoma told the story were not pretty women, but rather ugly ones who wore no earrings, no lipstick, no beauty marks. The telling of the story to these two women had occurred on separate instances, of course—there had been at least a four-year gap in between.
In any case, both of these women wore plain blouses—not made of lace; and both of them were even a little foul-smelling, something like the scent of rotten fruit. It was as if they had given up altogether, this refusal of theirs even to feign beauty. Perhaps it was a mockery of beauty, Nneoma thought. All the same, she told them the story.
Nneoma would continue to tell the story. She was after all the one who found Ezioma that day. Ezioma, lying on the bed in her yellow nightgown, the blanket pulled up to her chest. Ezioma, eyes closed, sleeping as peacefully as ever. And the baby in her womb, sleeping as peacefully as her.
Sunday had come again. Nneoma was once more in the church on Rumuola Road. She made her way to her usual seat, in the second storey of the church—on one of the benches farthest away from the pulpit. The sun was coming in through the windows, laying itself in long, tapering streaks on the floor. Nneoma sat, mindlessly observing the streaks of light.
The hall filled up so that there were only a few spaces left to sit, most of them on those benches along the perimeter. These were usually the last to fill.
When the woman approached, taking a seat on Nneoma’s bench, Nneoma felt her presence but did not at first lift her gaze. Nearby, a fan rattled and buzzed, its metal frame glimmering where the sun landed on it.
The woman greeted Nneoma good morning, and only as Nneoma turned to greet the woman back did she look up to see the woman’s face. In those brief moments she observed that the woman was new to the church. She observed that the woman’s eyes appeared tired. She observed the beads of sweat on the woman’s forehead. Her eyes fell to the woman’s protruding belly. She observed that the woman was with child.
What luck, she thought, as she reached into her handbag to take out the handkerchief in it. She offered the handkerchief to the woman. ‘Were akwa,’ she said. Take the cloth. The woman accepted.
Nneoma allowed her eyes to fall on the woman’s belly once more, to settle there long enough for the woman to become aware of her gaze.
‘Iwere umu nke gi?’ the woman asked.
Nneoma shook her head. No, she said. She did not have any children of her own.
The woman nodded sympathetically. All around them people chatted; voices rose.
A long time ago, when she was just beginning at Staff School (she was twenty-four at the time and had just finished her Youth Service), Nneoma had the impression that she would marry. Because Obinna—Mr Nkangineme—the headmaster, had kept his eyes on her. He had been more watchful of her than of any of the other teachers, even more watchful of her than of Ezioma, who had started at the school at the same time as Nneoma.
Before Obinna, no other man had shown interest in Nneoma. She was, after all, shy and socially awkward. She could no more hold a conversation than a gaze. Not to mention that she did not fill out her dresses the way many other girls did. But even when she began to fill them out, it appeared it was already too late. It seemed the boys had grown accustomed to paying her no attention; they continued that way throughout secondary school, throughout her years at the university, even throughout her Youth Service. She watched as the other girls put on their lipstick, as they fussed with their dresses and hair, as they went out fervently on dates.
But Obinna gave her hope. He would sometimes come into her class after school was dismissed, taking a seat across from her, facing her. Sometimes he leaned into the back of his chair.
The first time he came, Nneoma was rummaging through the drawer of her desk. There was a scent of dead roaches coming from the drawer, and so she had lowered her head into the drawer to see if she could find the roaches. It was conceivable that they’d be there—the desk was old, its wood chipped at the edges, with bite marks where mice appeared to have gnawed at it.
Opposite her desk was a large window. Sometimes, while the children worked silently in their notebooks, she gazed at a vanishing point somewhere beyond the window, beyond the orange and guava and plantain trees, whose leaves sometimes rustled in the morning or afternoon breeze. She looked beyond the patchy field of green and yellow grass, beyond the tombstones in the cemetery across the school compound. She’d fade away into mindless thoughts, thoughts which dissolved the instant any student made a sound.
Well, even with the window, she did not see him coming, not because of her distant daydreaming, but rather because she was so immersed in her search for the dead roaches. He startled her, and she gasped. Then she chuckled softly, embarrassed by her fright. He asked if he could help her find what she was looking for. She straightened up, smiled politely at him. He was wearing a taupe coloured agbada trimmed with gold. His hair was not so grey then. He held a hat in his hand, fussing with it as he made his way towards her desk. He brought with him a sweet smell, the scent of plantain leaves warmed by sunlight.
The chair on the other side of her desk was where students sometimes sat when she called them to have a one-on-one conference with her. He shook her hand first, then sat on the chair, leaned into the back of the seat, as if to create more space between them.
‘Are you settling fine?’ he asked.
She nodded.
‘Be sure to let me know if you need anything—chalk, paper, pens and pencils. Any supplies.’
She nodded. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
He stayed for just a moment more and then he rose from the seat, made his way back out of the door.
This was how that first meeting went. He might have done the same with Ezioma, and in fact with all four of the new teachers who had gained employment at Staff School that year. He might have gone to their classes and offered chalk, paper, pens and pencils. And before all of that, he might have shaken their hands too. But Nneoma suspected that he didn’t. She was sure he’d taken those extra steps just for her.
All around them, in the church, the voices quieted down. Nneoma leaned over to the woman. ‘The pastor will soon begin,’ she explained.
The woman nodded.
‘But don’t worry, we still have a few minutes before he does. We can talk for a bit.’ She looked at the woman’s belly once more. ‘How far?’ she asked.
‘Seven months, almost eight. Counting down the weeks now.’
Nneoma smiled. ‘I had a friend,’ she said. ‘Ezioma.’ She fussed with her hands, which rested on her handbag. She tangled and untangled her fingers. There was a silence.
The woman cleared her throat. ‘Your friend,’ she said. ‘She was pregnant, too?’
Nneoma smiled gratefully. She nodded. ‘Yes, she was pregnant. She used to come to this church.’
The woman nodded, as if to signal Nneoma to continue.
Nneoma paused thoughtfully. Then she said, ‘You know, here the pastor tells us to greet one another, and we do—by shaking hands, you know. We used to hug, but one day he told us to stop. Only to shake hands. Because he was afraid that all the hugging and embracing was scaring off the visitors. Makes sense. I suppose it can be a scary thing to have to hug a stranger.’
This time it was the woman who appeared thoughtful. Nneoma watched her. ‘Yes, hand-shaking seems a good enough greeting,’ the woman said.
‘Ezioma thought so too,’ Nneoma said.
By now the pastor had climbed onto the stage. He looked small in the distance, but Nneoma noticed when he raised his hand and tapped the microphone, the way he did every Sunday—to check that it was working. He tapped once, twice. The sound of the tapping was like the static on a radio.
‘This is the day the Lord has made,’ he said. ‘Let us rejoice and be glad in it!’ His voice was strong and convincing in its strength. It caused Nneoma to feel uplifted and hopeful—the way it always did.
The pastor instructed them to greet one another. They stood up to do so, shaking hands, just as Nneoma had explained. The pastor then retreated to the corner of the stage. The liturgist replaced him at the microphone, motioning everyone to rise for the call to confession. Everyone rose.
The liturgist was wearing a white dress shirt, no tie, black trousers. He said, ‘If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. If we confess our sins, He Who is faithful and just will forgive us and cleanse us from all unrighteousness.’
A murmur arose—quiet, harmonized prayers. Nneoma felt the tears well up in her eyes. She was penitent, and wished she could stop with her sins.
The liturgist concluded with the prayer of confession. Nneoma swiftly wiped her eyes.
The pastor made his way back to the podium. There, he stood flipping through the sheets of his sermon. As he flipped, Nneoma leaned over to the woman. ‘I found her in her bed,’ Nneoma said. ‘Just sleeping like a baby.’
‘Who?’
‘Ezioma,’ Nneoma said. ‘It’s been years now, but the memory is still so fresh.’
‘Sorry,’ the woman replied, sympathetically.
Nneoma nodded.
‘And the baby?’
‘Gone with her,’ Nneoma said, shaking her head now. She felt the tears forming in her eyes, and soon she was wiping them away with her hands. The woman just watched her; Nneoma could feel her watchful eyes. Then she could feel the woman’s hand on her, as the woman reached out to pat her gently on the arm.
Nneoma remembered Ezioma then. She remembered that it was at this specific moment of the service, all those years ago, that she invited Ezioma over for lunch. Ezioma had been married a year by then. Her husband was a contractor for Shell and was out of town on business. Not that he ever attended church, but on a normal Sunday he would have been home, and Ezioma would have had to return home to him.
Well, that Sunday, Ezioma accepted the invitation.
In Nneoma’s house, they talked about the sermon at church, about their
problem students at Staff School, about the way they were getting along with other teachers. Nneoma would have brought up Obinna—Mr Nkangineme—but she knew it was better to keep him to herself—her own little secret.
They talked about the baby Ezioma was carrying and about Ezioma’s husband—Ezioma gushed about how lucky she was to have him for a husband, about how good he had been to her, and how much more so she knew he would be to the child.
It was painful for Nneoma to discuss Ezioma’s husband and baby. If she had been married herself, and with a child on the way, this would have been different. Well, she consoled herself with the thought that at least her work at Staff School allowed her the opportunity to play a motherly role. It was hardly a consolation, though, because there were of course the afterschool hours to contend with. Those terrible hours when she found herself alone again. Alone, but with all that longing. Sometimes the longing became physical, like hunger pangs. She could feel it within the walls of her stomach, and sometimes it was so intense that it caused her to lash out and strike any nearby objects. She overturned stacks of student papers, only to settle back down and then face the tedious task of reorganizing them. She threw dishes into the walls, only to have to clean up the shattered glass. Sometimes the longing caused her to pull angrily at her hair, or to beat herself—her arms, her thighs—striking and striking until she was too worn out to continue. Sometimes she simply wailed.
It was as a result of this longing that Nneoma prepared well for her lunch with Ezioma. Before the lunch, she had even taken the bus all the way to the village of Ogbigbo, so that she could visit the dibia there, so that the dibia could tell her how to go about the transaction with Ezioma in the best way possible. After her visit with the dibia, Nneoma had returned home and prepared the lunch, all to the dibia’s specifications. She made some jolloff rice with chicken, and some ogbono soup with garri. Both of these were main dishes, but Nneoma prepared them nevertheless, so that Ezioma could have her choice.
Happiness, Like Water Page 5
