by Dayo Forster
I allow the silence to fall, and let it speak for me: I’m not.
‘I can come over to the States if you want. I asked Ma to ring Aunt Yadi and ask if we can stay with her in Connecticut. She says we can, as long as we need to.’
Little by little, I let other people make plans for me and help me glue my life together. Kainde finds her way from the airport to the cheap hotel I’ve been staying at. With one look at me, she starts to cry.
‘Oh Ayodele, I am so sorry.’ We hug but I can’t cry. I am relieved she’s here.
‘Thanks for coming.’
I am packed and ready to leave with her. We take a taxi to the train station where she buys us our tickets and we wait.
The grief comes in tiny little ways. This morning I woke up smiling from a memory of Yuan, but as soon as my eyes flickered open to morning, my insides got knotted. The emptiness flooded in and I knew, yet again, that he is gone.
Kainde buys us both coffee and croissants. She picks up a Boston Globe. I add in three spoonfuls of sugar and sip carefully, glad to have something to do with my hands. A man walks fast along the forecourt of the station towards a gate, moving towards a train that is about to leave. I get shivery all over as I watch the back of his head, which is about Yuan’s height, with hair and a neckline just like his. My eyes tell me what my mind knows cannot be true. I follow him along seeking the one thing that would confirm him as someone else. The man turns his head slightly to talk to a train official. I can see his nose in profile. My eyes sting.
Our aunt is waiting to meet us at the station. Once again I get the condolences.
‘Ayodele, I’m so so sorry.’ I also get a hug.
Kainde hands me a pile of letters she brought from the London flat. I look at them with distaste. I know already that they will force me to deal with things I do not want to acknowledge.
‘Leave them for a while, you don’t need to look at them now.’ She gives me the excuse I need.
A week later, she says, ‘Shall I open them for you? I might be able to help.’
I decline. If I look at them now, I will end up having to know. I will need to decide.
Another week passes before she insists, ‘Look, there might be some really important stuff in there. You’ve got to open them.’
I say, ‘I’ll go and sit outside and try.’
It’s a sunny day. I sit under the canvas shade protruding over the deck and watch some birds hop and twitter a few feet away from me. I have the letters on my lap and a glass of iced tea on the side table next to my seat. I rifle through the letters, trying to guess the contents of each. I pick up mail from Reader’s Digest, the Reliable Patio Company, and ornamental conservatory builders. There are offers for garden furniture and book clubs. There are our bank statements.
A postcard has a smiling Rajastani woman in a red and yellow outfit. A brightly coloured scarf sprinkles her forehead with tiny silver balls. It’s from Richard, a friend who’s gone off to spend his summer in India.
Hello you two. Hot and sweaty here most days but loving every minute. Am in Jaipur with two other travellers I met in Delhi. We try to avoid the standard tourist locations, so are holding off on the Taj. In my adventures, I have found little temples on river banks, spice markets, fantastic dhosas and many friendly people. Don’t want to come home . . .
I turn to two envelopes. The one addressed to me is a slim beige letter. It’s a confirmation of acceptance for a two-year master’s degree in international development and includes a form for me to sign. Yuan’s envelope is massive, brochure-sized and white. The business school is sending all the information he needs for his MBA. Life could have moved on just as we’d planned.
I cannot ring the university to tell them about Yuan. I don’t feel either Kainde or Aunt Yadi is eligible for the task. I call Chang, saying, ‘I’m not even related. They’re going to want to know who I am. I won’t be able to tell them.’
‘That’s fine. I’ll ring them.’
That’s how it begins, my way of keeping a link to Yuan through his family. Later, once I’ve made up my mind, I ring Chang to tell him I intend to take up my place at university.
Kainde and Aunt Yadi try to talk me out of it. Kainde has gained a gaunt look in this past month of looking after me. Aunt Yadi has been quietly taking time off work so she can be around. Aunt Yadi says, ‘Perhaps it might be wise to wait a while, Dele, and only go back to university when you are feeling much better.’
But I insist. ‘I have to do this. I need to stay here because I can’t go back to the memories in London. Here at least I’ll be closer to where we’d thought we’d both be at this time. It will help me keep some part of him alive.’
I leave the safety and comfort of my aunt’s house and head for a tiny room on campus. My new comfort is in being invisible in the common student uniform of jeans, sweater and sneakers. I need not attend any social events or orientation evenings. I find the lectures I need. I note where the classes take place. I buy the books and know how to cocoon myself in the library. I work on my essays and hand them in on time. I read everything I am supposed to. I nearly make it through to the end of the semester.
I start to feel brave enough to sit in cafes on Sundays and watch the world go by. I choose places that are not very close to the university. I relish the sense of feeling warm in a steamed-up room full of people I don’t know, who chatter but don’t need to be talked to. Then a couple walk in. They look nothing like me and Yuan. He is well built, broad-shouldered with a deep brown mahogany tone to his skin. He has on a woollen hat pulled low over his forehead, almost reaching his eyes. He is holding the hand of a petite Indian girl with a single long braid down her back and a red dot on her forehead, under the shadow of a soft- brimmed velvet hat. He ushers her to a table and after they settle down with coats and bags, he walks towards the display case and the cashier. He checks his step and goes back to whisper in her ear. She puts her head back and laughs, a clear single note which encircles the room. Several heads at nearby tables lift to look, but not stare.
The laugh stays in my head, it enlarges in my eardrum and starts to boom. I can see her mouth is shut. I can see him make his way back to the cashier. Suddenly I cannot bear to be in the same room as them. My fingers are shaky as I push the table forward, making my little jug of milk spill. Such is my urgency that I cannot do up my coat, can only hug its edges together with my hands shoved deep in my pockets, my shoulders hunched. The wind adds to the cacophony of sound as I step out. It bites at my ears and pokes shards of ice into my bare head. I start to shuffle- run in my sturdy heavy boots. I hit the elbow of a black-coated man who drops his briefcase and utters a curse:
‘Fuck! Why the hell don’t you watch where you are going?’
He grabs at me, but lets go when he sees my face streaked with tears.
‘Hey, just be careful, right?’
I nod and walk on. When I get back to my room, the laughter is still there, not as loud as I remember it, but the consistency of an echo. My head is empty, my face is only a sheet masking a huge hole. I stay in my coat, with my boots on, sprawled on my bed. I doze in and out of sleep that night, and each time I wake up I hear the laughter. It changes shape, sometimes it comes towards me like ocean waves, hurling itself at me; at other times, it swirls around like a tornado. Once in the night, it felt like sleet, driving sleet, each thud of icy chill holding a beat of the laughter.
In the morning, I find it easy to get ready. All I need to do is find my hat and gloves somewhere in my coat pockets before I make my way to Student Services. I am referred to the Talk Unit. In a hushed, carpeted room, I meet a green-jacketed lady seated on a three-person sofa.
‘My name is Dora. How can I help you?’
‘My boyfriend is dead. I am here. And she’s laughing.’
Somehow, I explain some of myself to her. Someone gives me a glass of water and some tablets to drink. I wake up to find my boots off and my feet resting on the sofa with a cushion under my head. Everyt
hing hurts. My eyes ache. My toes throb. There are sharp stabbing pains in my chest, my tummy, my guts. I am alone.
Aunt Yadi is called. She drives up from Connecticut overnight to pick me up. When she comes into the room where I have been left, mostly asleep, I wake up in a daze.
‘What time is it?’ My tongue feels coated with tar and mucus. It also feels too large for my mouth.
I sit up too quickly and my head begins to pound so intensely, I fall back onto the sofa with a groan. Aunt Yadi rushes over to my side in a second.
‘Take it easy, Ayodele. You need to rest up. I’m here to take you home.’
‘What day is it? Lecture . . .’
‘The nurse here thinks you need a break from studying. The important thing is to come with me now. You’re not well today. When you’re a bit more sorted out, we’ll work out how to get you back to your lectures.’
I try to shake my head, but that only feels as if I’ve left a piece of ultra-heavy rock inside which I am moving slowly from side to side as I incline one way then the other. There is no point in arguing.
‘What about my room, my clothes?’
‘I was there this morning and I’ve packed most of the things you’ll need. The student service will send in a volunteer to clear out your room later.’
We leave together. I am escorted like an invalid – I shuffle along, and lean on Aunt Yadi as we make our way along the corridor. I have to concentrate hard on where I am putting my feet, and I aim to put each footstep as close as possible to the next wine- coloured triangle in the carpet.
The journey is soothing. The first time I wake up, we’re still in Boston, and on a raised roadway with most of the high-rise buildings on our right, glinting back reflections from the sky too bright for my eyes. The next time, we’re on the three-lane highway, moving quite fast, with the wheels of the car tracking the joins separating sections of the road. When I next open my eyes, I can keep them open for longer and I stretch my legs and move my head a bit.
Aunt Yadi asks, ‘Water?’ and nods towards the drink holder set into the space between us. The water tastes funny – as if it has grit in it, chalky grit. I drink some anyway as my throat is dry and I haven’t eaten anything.
‘Where are we?’
‘Almost there, we’re coming up to the last big town before I turn off the road towards my house.’
The road narrows and trees, mostly bereft of leaves, edge closer to it. Some plucky evergreens jut their sharp angles across the skyline. Everything else looks lifeless, and tinged with chill.
In contrast, the house feels warm and smells faintly of churrai, incense that Aunt Yadi burns to flavour the air.
‘You can go through to your room to rest if you like. Or stay in the sitting room with the television on. Either way, I’ll make you some hot strong tea and bring it in to you. Let me take your coat.’
The weeks pass, with Aunt Yadi nursing me by telling me what to do: when to eat, shower, go to bed. She returns to her job, as a lecturer in a small state college nearby, leaving me to occupy myself during the day. I cannot read, so she gets out books on tape or CD. I put them on for the comfort of a human voice, but the stories are usually too long for my mind to concentrate on for more than a few minutes at a time. I play them over and over again.
Winter morphs into a soggy spring, when the blossom comes out briefly before being blown away by gusts of wet wind. I borrow boots, a long slicker with a hood and start to venture outside for walks. The tears which spring unbidden, seeping out of scratched, clawed eyeballs, seem less conspicuous in the rain. With a wet face, I am able to cry whenever I want and for whatever reason. When I am able to look around me for longer periods, I start to notice other people, buildings, plants trying to stuff life into unwilling branches and twigs. Soon, staying at home all day listening to books on tape is no longer enough.
A neighbour of Aunt Yadi’s pops in to borrow some wood polish, and mentions in passing, ‘I don’t know why I bother to pay her. I honestly cannot see a difference beyond my desk looking a bit tidier.’
I offer to do her cleaning.
She looks startled, her eyes fly to Aunt Yadi’s face. ‘Have a chat with your aunt about it first, and let me know.’
After the neighbour leaves, I explain, ‘It’ll give me something else to do. At least I’ll have a reason for going out.’
My first cleaning job, for three hours a week, pays $10 per hour. My fame soon spreads, and I am busy every day of the week, going from one house to the next in the neighbourhood.
I always tackle the kitchen first, it’s the messiest room in the house. I load the dishwasher, scrub the top of the stove clean, scour the sink. Then I finish off by sweeping and mopping the floor.
Each movement is rhythmic, the dipping into the bucket, the squeezing of the mop, the backward-and-forward swishing over the floor until my shoulders ache.
Bathrooms are places where it’s hard to hide slovenliness. I pick clothes off the floor, dump cleanser into toilet bowls, squirt it into sinks to remove spat-out toothpaste, drench baths to dislodge rings of dirt left around the rims.
I go through bedrooms and shake bed linen free. I load up washing machines and take out fresh linen from airing cupboards. I open windows to let the air free, vacuum carpets and polish floors. A necessary job. My arm muscles start to gain tone and I look less like an invalid. I brush my hair before I go out, and always change out of my pyjamas before I leave the house.
While I clean, my entire purpose in life is to restore order. There’s the detritus of daily living all around me. I put things away and leave with rooms tidy, clean, with everything in its place.
10
Altruism
Mali doesn’t have many tarmac roads. This one is a memory of what it used to be – the tarmac crumbled a while ago leaving little hummocks of gravelled tar tipped with laterite dust. I left America and came here for distance, so I can be miles away from dashed hope, from home, from ambition. I am in my six-year-old Citroen Deux Cheveux, bought new when I first arrived with my generous relocation allowance. Its motorcycle-sized engine hums away, sounding like the self-satisfied purr of a very fat cat. It is interrupted by the kind of frequent burps a small government official would make after eating a huge mound of crispy fried fish. Market stalls displaying fruit line both sides of the road. Apples imported from France, tinged with an almost golden green, sit in specially moulded rough cardboard dividers that separate layers of fruit. Spiky-topped pineapples in their brisk orange skins squat alongside. Whole bunches of green bananas are propped up against the supports of the stalls, with their squat black-tailed ends curving upwards.
My observations are cut short when the car simply stops. I am on a slight rise in the road and start to slide backwards. I twist and turn the handbrake back. The fruit seller at the stall opposite mouths something I cannot make out.
I shout back, ‘Pardon?’
He walks out from behind his stall and crosses the road over to my window, with its bottom half swung open and held up by a flimsy metal clasp.
He bends down. ‘Les difficultes?’
‘I think so, yes,’ I reply, as I eye the fuel indicator.
Empty. If only I’d made it to the top of the rise, I would have been able to coast down to the petrol station.
‘Do you need help?’ he asks.
By now, my car is attracting other people. A boy bends down to grin at himself in my right-hand wing mirror. A bandy-legged toddler waddles over to view the headlights. A woman with a sleeping baby tied to her back and a sun-yellow scarf on her head pokes the man who’s just asked me the question. He turns away and they start a conversation, of which I understand little. Other stallholders abandon their wares and drag their feet into flipflops to come and check out what’s happening.
I make my decision. ‘No. I don’t need any help. Thank you.’
I try to close my window as a prelude to executing my plan.
‘Excuse me,’ I say to the man who has one
arm stretched out on my car, seeming not to have heard a thing I’ve said.
I prod the arm and point. ‘I want to close the window.’
He stands up straighter but continues talking to the yellow-scarfed woman. Someone else, with her loosely slung baby suckling at one elongated breast, joins their discussion. I slam the window down and the three of them glance at me, temporarily pausing their extended discussion of my situation.
I pick up my handbag from the passenger seat and slide the little lock on my door to Open.
‘Excuse me,’ I repeat, opening the door an inch. The suckling-baby woman shifts her feet slightly. No one else moves. I holler again through the crack. ‘Excuse me.’
It does not seem to please them.
‘Madame, wait a minute.’
I don’t want to wait, so I jerk the door outwards, forcing the woman to take a further two steps away from the car. My exit isn’t wide enough for me to get out but I put my left foot outside, to add emphasis to my declared motive.
The man at the centre of the throng of people tugs at her arm and pulls her closer to him. He seems to be in charge.
‘We can help you.’
I cannot face the repercussions of how much I might have to pay for the help, even for a tiny push up the hill, given the number of people for whom I have provided a diversion from fruit selling. I want to walk. At the petrol station, I will ask someone to lend me a jerrycan and fill it up with petrol. Then I will walk back to the car and pour it in.
‘No. I will get some petrol.’ I point up the hill, and ease myself through the crush of bodies.
The older children detach themselves from the group and start to follow me. A few sharp admonitions from mothers make some turn back: Ibrahim! Fatima! Mohammed! Miriam!
The rest giggle and run about. A couple of them try to match my stride and my walking style, waving their arms about and bending forward slightly with looks of intent concentration on their faces. Their bare feet stir up little dust clouds and we soon crest the hill. They run down the hill, with arms in the air, screaming for the sheer joy of it.
