by Dayo Forster
What I know for sure is that, as a consequence, shock and guilt rampage through my life.
*
His parents both fly over from Lagos. They arrange for a course of treatment with a psychiatrist in South Kensington, then they take him back to Nigeria.
His mother writes to me. Her letter starts: ‘My dear Ayodele’. Being called a ‘dear’ when I feel like shit makes me cry. She says: ‘I don’t think you are the person my son thinks you are, but he cares about you and I thought it only courteous to let you know how he is.’ She signs herself: Toyin Adebayo.
I cannot think through our summer in steps – this happened, then that happened. It’s all one big jumble of emotion with near-photographic flashes of scenes. The two of us zipping along the motorway with wind in my ears, plunging into a field of oilseed rape, or sitting alongside a café by a canal and watching a canalboat go past with cheery folk waving to us from the deck. It had been a dizzy summer in which I screeched myself dry with the very energy of living. And I pulled him along with me, never letting him disbelieve he was my forever. I didn’t know what I wanted, but I knew I wasn’t ready for what he wanted.
It’s taken me a while to recognise different degrees of toughness in people. After Kamal, I assumed that everyone must get – how did Aunty K put it? – a turn at the ‘University of Hard Knocks’, where you get a degree whether or not you realise you are enrolled. It’s up to those with nous to make sure the degree’s not a third-class, lacking in honours. I survived Kamal. Therefore, I assumed Akim would survive me.
Mrs Adebayo said, ‘He’d written to me to say he’d met the girl he wanted to marry and that he was staying on as long as necessary so he would come home with you.’ I knew he meant what he was saying with his eyes. I lied to myself and steered the conversation away whenever he tried to start the seriousness. I did not want anything said. That summer was my comma and life was going to continue after.
5
Denial
It’s always easy to get work in a decrepit government, so I make my way back to The Gambia. Home. Away from tired, drizzly weather and into intense, sun-drenching heat. If I had a tail when I left four years earlier, it isn’t wagging now.
I stay with my mother for the few months it takes me to find a job and a house. She does not like me thinking about moving out, planning to leave her on her own again.
She complains, ‘You’ve come back with all these new ideas. In my day, daughters left their mother’s house to get married.’
‘Well, we left it to study,’ I remind her.
Reuben comes to visit. I discourage a further visit by sitting on the edge of my seat, by excusing myself for needing to hurry out to see my Aunt K as promised. But by the time I move out, he’s become a regular visitor, and I sometimes pop in to find him ensconced in the sitting room, chatting with my mother.
I find myself incapable of expanding my social circle. I tee off rendezvous with old school friends. Amina lives in Italy and comes home on holiday. She arrives with energy and, briefly, amuses me with her relentless analysis of the relationships around us, peppered with caustic comments on the nature of social pressure. Moira, I find, has descended into a mist of literal interpretations of the Bible and evaluates her friendships with a proselytising eye, pressing pamphlets on me, along with invitations to her church. The person I see most often is Remi, with whom it’s easy to drift back into the ease of our early friendship. She asks me to be godmother when her daughter, Joy, is born.
My mother is pleased with our renewed friendship. She holds Remi up as an example to us, her daughters. One Saturday afternoon, Aunt K comes to visit at the time she knows the food will already be cooked, dished up into matching dishes and lounging, hot for the eating, on our dining table.
‘I came to see you, Ayodele,’ she says as she walks in, ‘but. . .’
‘. . . you wanted to see my mother’s shackpa soup more,’ I finish her sentence.
‘You know me too well,’ she laughs, as she settles herself into a chair. She uncovers the first dish and serves herself two large balls of cassava fufu, and starts to ladle out spoonfuls of the palmoil-rimmed casserole.
‘Get me some water, dear child.’ And I obediently trot off to the kitchen to get her a pitcher of cold water.
‘Thank you. Ah. Food and good company, what more could one want in life?’ she says, on my return.
My mother takes on a well-known theme. ‘I would enjoy having some grandchildren.’
‘Yes,’ replies Aunt K, ‘but wouldn’t you like some sons-in-law first?’
My mother sighs, ‘I only wish that one of my children were settled. That’s all I can ask God for at this stage.’
*
I start work at a modest salary, so discreetly modest that I can only afford to rent a small house, two rooms really, in Latrikunda. I find them quite by accident, through an old teacher from school, Mrs Foon, whose parents-in-law rent out a series of properties in their compound.
The Ministry of Finance is set in a quadrangle of old buildings with thick, fortlike walls, and deep-set windows. The courtyard and the internal covered verandah create a micro-climate – it’s always cool. The pillars holding up the upper floor are darkened with the sweat of lingering palms, from the hands of people used to waiting. There are many visitors to the other departments in the quadrangle – the tax revenue office, the registrar of companies – and lines of people snake in and out of open office doors. Beyond the doors are standard-issue wooden desks, commissioned by the Department of Public Works and cut and assembled in the men’s prison at Mile Two. There are often a few official heads behind the desks piled with selections of bulging files concerning government business.
The steps leading up to our small office, the Department of Financial Planning, have recently been painted. In the past couple of months, as we’ve been trying to negotiate new lending terms for our government’s debt, we’ve had to welcome many foreign visitors – representatives of friendly bilaterals or nosy bureaucrats from the World Bank. In the outer office, Sukai sits behind a desk, an array of phones in front of her. As always, she is perfectly made up, her eyes dark-ringed in kohl, her lips appropriately stained. Today she wears a trailing red gown with intricate patterns of lilies.
‘You look lovely, Sukai,’ I say as my good morning.
She smiles back, delighted. ‘It’s Chinese silk. Do you know who I bought it from?’ She pauses to wait for my shake of the head before continuing, ‘That lady who came last Friday, she gets them from Dubai. You should come and see her things next time she’s here.’ She stands up and moves her arms so I can see it better. Wafts of the musky churrai she’s used to scent her clothes drift out.
‘I don’t think I can choose as well as you.’
She smiles again. Complimenting Sukai on a regular basis has made my working life much smoother.
‘Is Babucarr in yet?’ I ask.
‘No, but he phoned and asked me to remind you about the speech he needs for tomorrow.’
‘Thanks. I’ll get started on that now.’
She returns her chewing stick to her mouth, methodically rubbing it against her teeth, its slightly sour sap acting as her toothpaste. The action merely draws attention to her fingers, which are thin, and very much part of the persona she cultivates, an elegant secretary, very marriageable. Not only is Sukai the Minister of Finance’s niece, she also has ambitions to marry the head of our department, Babucarr Sanneh.
I get good at my job, really good. I can write proposals better than anyone else in the department, in my entire ministry. I write speeches for Babucarr that come to the notice of the Minister. In his turn, the Minister starts to add urgent requests for word combinations to use for an opening address to a meeting of West African finance ministers in Banjul, for a formal dinner to welcome a visiting American dignitary, or a choice paragraph that will appeal to his hosts on a tour of France. The elegant deliveries get noticed by other ministers, but I am shielded by my boss, who kno
ws he cannot spread my skills too thinly. I am the only one for miles prepared to spend an entire Sunday tidying up words ready for the Minister on Monday morning.
The seasons pass. Storm drains carry away tumbling weights of water towards the sea. The sun burns more ebony into my skin. I let the weather do to me what it likes.
When my fame spreads to the manager of a local consulting firm skilled in marketing weak skills to non-governmental organisations and UN agencies at inflated prices, he finds in me a bargain. I gain additional employment to supplement my government income. I clean up badly written documents at high speed. I impose structure and give them contents pages, and neat headers. I add footnotes and insert diagrams when required. My income grows. I move out of the mud-and-wattle rooms. I buy a car that spends three days each month in the garage.
Taiwo comes home when she finishes her degree in accounting. I’m not surprised that she is the first to fulfil my mother’s heart wish. She chooses Reuben, who has by now become a fixture in my mother’s household. Reuben laps up the extra attention Taiwo turns on him.
The day Taiwo extracts a promise of marriage from him, Reuben comes to my mother’s house to formally request Taiwo’s hand. My mother immediately phones me at home. ‘There’s some terribly exciting news to tell you. Come now, they’re still here.’ Her voice is sparkling. When I get home, her gaiety is gambolling around the house.
Reuben contrives a moment alone with me when I say goodnight and head for my car: ‘I hope you don’t mind.’ His stutter is mild.
There isn’t much to say in reply. ‘No, not at all. After all, we are grownups now,’ I reply politely and firmly.
Taiwo and my mother appear at the door. My mother gives her a delighted hug. ‘Oh do go and celebrate together. I can’t wait to tell everyone else the news.’
My mother’s delight continues unabated through the long months planning the wedding. Only one small thing mars the day itself for her – on Taiwo’s wedding day, my sister’s waistline is stout.
*
Remi’s mother falls ill with renal failure and is to go to Dakar for treatment. Remi asks me to move into her guest room and help look after her daughter. Everyone else she can trust is married and busy with family. She does not want to leave hubby Kojo alone in charge of Joy with the househelp as aide.
She complains to me as we work the details out, ‘You employ the older women and they’re no brighter than a kirinting lamp. You employ the younger ones and soon they’re leaning over while doing the housework, showing off their pert young breasts.’
She’s filling out a ruled exercise book with household details. The page is headed: Food.
‘Kojo won’t eat the same kind of meat two days in a row, so I have to vary it. Here are some suggestions.’ She writes: Monday – chicken curry, Tuesday – fish benachin, Wednesday – roast pork, Thursday – chicken yassa, Friday – catfish stew, Saturday – krein krein and okra.
Her commentary: ‘But leave out cowfoot with the Satiday soup, Kojo cannot stand the sight of it in the kitchen so he won’t let me cook it. Sunday can get a bit complicated because he likes his buffet, so I tend to get several extra things made on Saturday, and finish them off on Sunday morning.’
She sucks the end of her pen. ‘So, for example, if you get Ida to make the base for the chereh, and to clean the fish and everything, all you’d have to do on Sunday is to heat up the sauce, steam the chereh and mix them together. Ida can also make some pepper soup on Saturday and wash up all the bits of lettuce you need for a salad.’ Her voice trails off, ‘This does seem like a lot of work to hand over to you. Maybe I should just get Ida to work overtime on Sunday morning and get all the food ready.’
‘I can do my best. Perhaps you could explain to Kojo that things may not be as well managed as when you are around.’
‘Well. . .’ She pauses. ‘Kojo will be good at helping Joy with her homework, and he’ll go to all her school games and stuff. But he does like his special lunch on Sundays.’
‘How about this – ask him to take Joy out for lunch. She’d love that, won’t she? Chicken and chips down by the beach, with orange Fantas and ice lollies?’
‘I’ll suggest it, but he can be a bit set in his ways sometimes.’
I move in and take charge of Remi’s household. It’s a novelty looking after a little girl. So I don’t mind going into work a bit later and coming back earlier than usual. Remi left thinking she’d be away for a week. She rings several times to give us summaries of her mother’s medical condition. I refer to Remi’s exercise book often. Kojo does not seem to mind my lapses from his wife’s precise instructions.
Remi sends her father home. Frederick Adams comes to visit us with news.
‘The hospital won’t let me stay and the damn hotels aren’t cheap.’ He pats the pot belly which age has embellished and takes a swig of his Julbrew beer.
‘Is she better?’
‘I don’t know. Those bloody doctors may be lying. They say she will get better. For all I know, they’re hanging on until the insurance money runs out.’
‘How does she look? Can she talk?’
‘Bilor does not know who I am. Remi says they need to do more tests.’
‘When will you know?’
‘Remi will phone if something happens.’
‘Will she be able to manage on her own?’
‘Remi has things under control. She sent me back so I’m not under her feet. She says looking after one is more than enough work. That’s why she sent me back.’
He erupts into a spasm of laughs which turn into a cough. He points to Joy, who understands what he needs and runs off to get him a glass of water.
My mother’s reaction: ‘What a wonderful girl that Remi is, spending so much time looking after her mother. And her husband has been so understanding, what with letting her go away and coping on his own.’
Remi returns with her mother a month later, looking thin and ashy grey around her mouth. Two days later, her mother is dead.
As the months go by, I spend more and more time with Remi. I get to understand how she’s stayed the same as the girl I used to know. And how she’s changed.
On the morning of my birthday, the gate creaks open, a clatter of bite-sized footsteps follows. A sober voice counsels caution and the gate bangs shut. More clatter, then a knock at the door. Joy stands a few steps behind her mother.
‘We’re here, whether you’re going out or not,’ Remi announces. I open the door wider and gesture them in. She staggers in with a basket full of fruit, walks to my kitchen and deposits it next to the sink.
‘Goodness, that was heavy. Happy birthday, Ayodele.’
I thank her with a hug and turn to Joy, who is loitering by the door. As always, her glasses dwarf her into shyness.
‘How was your half-term holiday, Joy?’ She shrugs, looks at the floor and her fat, ribboned braids fly forward. I glance at Remi who rolls her eyes towards the ceiling and slides her lips apart in a rubbery grimace.
‘Why don’t we get some tea going? Joy, you can go through to my office and feed the fish if you like.’
Remi’s pores are oozing with news. Barely has Joy scampered off does she hiss, ‘I found him out. And I’ve got proof.’
I move to the kettle, the constant producer of tea-induced comfort.
‘What proof?’ I ask.
‘The tickets for that dance at Hotel Manding. He didn’t ask me whether I wanted to go.’
Remi and Kojo graduated through teenage love to settled marriage and are now teetering through a weary cycle of accusations and protestations. Remi tackles all her battles iron-clawed.
‘He might have forgotten,’ I say.
‘Oh no he didn’t. He bought the tickets and he used them.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Oh yes. I found it on his credit card statement. And not just that – more.’
‘What are you doing, checking up on him like that?’
‘I found out by accident! I wa
s looking at what he’s been spending his money on, to try to convince him that if we budget better, we’ll be able to afford to send Joy to a private school.’
The kettle spurts out hot water – I’ve overfilled it again – and clicks itself off. As I make a move towards it, Remi hastens, ‘No, I’ll make it for us. Here I am, spoiling your birthday with my troubles.’
‘What are friends for?’ I smile and let a pause settle us both. ‘Remi, maybe you shouldn’t be so nosy – it might work better for you and Kojo. You’ve got to think about Joy too.’
‘Of course, I’m thinking about her. But I need to show her that women don’t have to stand for every kind of nonsense. Look at all I do for Kojo. How I try to take care of him. How could he do this to me?’
Remi’s face is shiny with indignation, assisted by the kettle’s steam.
‘He is a good father, I’ve seen how he dotes on Joy.’
‘I can’t excuse him because he’s a good father!’ She thumps the kettle down, keeping her hand on the handle.
‘Not just that. You’ve been such good friends.’
‘Why are you taking his side all of a sudden?’ Remi abandons tea making and stands braced, arms akimbo.
‘I’m trying to understand, not take sides. Are you sure he’s having an affair, by the way?’
‘He didn’t even bother to answer my questions.’
With the sound of Joy’s footsteps in the corridor, I add in my final shot, ‘Give in a little. For the sake of peace.’
Remi’s face is stormy and I watch her fight to stave off the stream of protests gurgling up her throat. Joy walks in through the door. I ask her, ‘How is JeinJein?’
‘A bit lonely,’ Joy replies. ‘You should get her a few more fish for company, Aunty Dele.’
Remi has the ghosts of her choices to live with. And I have mine.
Her father also drops in to Remi’s more often, and I see him there once or twice a week. There isn’t really a courtship. After Fred waits out the socially acceptable year of mourning, he simply turns up at my house one day and makes a little speech which includes an assessment of how his age has had minimal impact on his prowess, a brief overview of my marital prospects, and how sensible it would be of me to marry him.
