by Chika Unigwe
Luc was having breakfast when she arrived and greeted her with a hug. “You are doing the right thing, schat.”
Life could be like this every day. I could be a suburban housewife with croissants for breakfast on a Saturday morning, Sisi thought. She sat down to breakfast, unable to eat anything but a thin slice of buttered bread.
“Take some charcuterie,” Luc urged, pushing the box toward her.
Sisi shook her head. “Thank you.” She could never get used to all the spreads and different types of cold cuts and cheese that Luc seemed to require for one breakfast. Wouldn’t breakfast be much easier without all the many choices? Besides, when Luc told her that the lean red meat that he delicately placed between bread came from a horse, she had sworn never to eat anything she could not easily identify.
When Sisi should have been at the Western Union transferring her payment to Dele, she took a bus back to central Antwerp. Luc was working and she was bored. She had five hundred euros to spend, and she was determined to enjoy it.
On the last day of Sisi’s life, nothing could have prepared her for her transition. The sky was calm, and the weather was just the way she liked it: not hot enough to be uncomfortable and not cold enough for a jacket. Such weather made her think of heaven. Once, when she was young and was discovering words and worlds beyond her own, she had asked her mother what heaven was like. “Not hot like here,” her mother had answered, raising an arm over her head to dry sweat off her armpit with a handkerchief. “And not cold like I hear it is overseas. Heaven has perfect weather.”
Sisi walked in the perfect weather, walking Antwerp’s many narrow streets. People basked on terraces and conducted conversations in loud voices, a paean to the perfect day. Sisi had a song in her heart and money in her purse. Her destination was the shopping street. She looked at Antwerp as if with new eyes. There are so many run-down houses. And so many people. This is a city that is collapsing under the weight of its own congestion. Every time she took the bus outside Antwerp, she was aware how easy it was to tell that one had left the city. Or had reentered. The landmarks could not be missed: houses with peeling paint and broken windows. Derelict buildings looking like life had been hard on them. They always reminded Sisi of drug users who had aged before their time, scars of hard living crisscrossing their faces like mosquito netting. Sometimes, Sisi thought, stepping over a mound of brown stool, Antwerp seemed like a huge incinerator.
She walked along the Pelikaanstraat and toward the Central Station. For no reason she could pinpoint, she entered. She loved the architecture of the station, the way it seemed to have been crafted with the utmost care, attention paid to every little detail. It did not matter how many times she went into the station, its beauty always made her gasp. It seemed built for meditation. This should have been a cathedral. Or a museum, she thought. Somewhere quiet, not rowdy and filled with impatient commuters. That’s the thing with Antwerp. Buildings are set up and misused. She thought of the UCG cinema on the Annastraat. That would do perfectly well for a train station. The cathedral looks like a museum. This city is just not planned! She walked the length of the station and exited from the door beside the zoo. She had been to the zoo only once. With Luc. She had not found anything particularly enjoyable in walking around a park, looking at animals locked up in cages. Animals taken away from their natural habitat, only for that habitat to be artificially re-created. She thought it ridiculous that thunder and lightning should be imported for the crocodile. She walked into a huge superstore where everything from shoes to clothes went for a few euros. She turned left and walked to the front of the station. As always, here were drunks with eyes like quarter moons and throats full of stories. A middle-aged man with a long beard accosted her. He reeked of liquor, and beside him a shaggy-haired dog, fat like some medieval suzerain’s eunuch, stood with its tongue out, dripping saliva. The man held out a callused palm. “Altsublieft. Heb je iets voor me? No Dutch? Française? Deutsch? Español? English? You’ve got one euro for me? Just one euro. Bus fare, please? I just lost my wallet.” Sisi fished in her pocket and gave him a coin. She was in a good mood and had some money to spare.
She walked across the station and made her way to the Keyserlei, joining the throng of people that Antwerp spewed out every day. It was as if the earth itself cracked open and was hurling people onto the streets: black, yellow, white, and some a brilliant hue caused by a mixture of all three. The city tickled her senses, and for the first time in a long while she felt thrilled to be alive. No longer buffeted by indecision, she felt at ease with the world. No more promises of happiness that crumbled and turned to dust under scrutiny. Today was the beginning of a brand-new life.
She headed to the Meir. In front of her a sea of shops spread out, beckoning to her like long-lost friends. She smiled to herself and tried not to think about her housemates back on the Zwartezusterstraat, probably wondering where she had gotten to. What would they say when they found out? She stifled any insurgent feelings of guilt. There is no reason to feel guilty. I am doing nothing wrong. Humming James Blunt’s “You’re Beautiful” under her breath, she walked on. She felt beautiful. The world was beautiful. The red-haired girl distributing leaflets outside the music store was beautiful. The streets she walked on smelled beautiful. Felt beautiful. Looked beautiful. She had the world beneath her feet.
She ignored the shops she normally would have entered. The superstores that looked like massive warehouses, with clothes so cheap that with twenty euros she had once bought three new outfits: the imitation-leather miniskirt that she wore a lot in the winter, a matching jacket, a turquoise cotton caftan and matching trousers, and the long black polyester dress with an open back and a very low neck that was her coup de grâce for difficult clients. When she had the hard-to-please sort, those looking for a little something extra, she would dance in it, swinging her hips and sitting on laps. Chances were she would be left with a huge tip or a request for an extra session by the time she was done. Today she would enter other shops. She would walk down the Meir and enter shops she previously avoided.
She walked into a boutique and spent an extravagant seventy-five euros on a pantsuit. She held the gray plastic bag of the shop in such a way that its name showed. She swung into a lingerie shop with a chic name she could not pronounce and a shop assistant with spiky hair and a silver stud in her tongue. Fifty euros went on three pairs of knickers. They were nothing like she wore for work: thongs with frills and laces, huge bows suggestively trailing the front. These were sensible. The sort she imagined a schoolteacher would wear. Black and brown and cream. Elegant. Prim and proper. Like the queen’s.
After a day spent in shops, she walked back to the train station, filled in a Western Union money transfer form, and sent three hundred euros to her parents. She would call them later in the day to tell them to go and pick up the money. This was the most she had sent to them at any one time. Money enough to propel her mother into a leg-throwing, hand-clapping dance. Her father would be more subdued. He would carry a smile tucked into his cheeks. And Dele? Oh well, Dele has more than enough girls working for him; he doesn’t need me. Sisi pushed away thoughts of Dele as soon as they came. Why had she never thought of doing this before? From the train station, she floated along Pelikaanstraat, gazing into jewelry stores, exulting in the absolute beauty of the rings and bracelets behind the glass, and ultimately falling for a pair of gold earrings that she had no doubt were destined for her. She pondered how easy it was to spend five hundred euros. How many things one could get. How happiness could sometimes be bought. Whoever said that money couldn’t buy happiness had never experienced the relief that came from having money to spend on whatever you wanted. Not having to send it to an exploding pimp who had more money than anyone you knew. Why was he amassing so much wealth when he must have trouble spending the amount he already had? Sisi’s purse was lighter, her head turning with an unaccustomed dizziness that made her feel immortal. The money was spent and she could not retrieve it. There was no turning
back now. She had defied Dele, cut all links with Madam and the house on the Zwartezusterstraat. She was ready to deal with whatever the consequences might be.
ZWARTEZUSTERSTRAAT
A POT OF TEA HAS APPEARED AS IF BY MAGIC IN THE MIDDLE OF THE sitting-room table. A squat orange ceramic kettle in the shape of a cock that Madam bought at the flea market in Brussels one Sunday morning. It is Madam’s favorite pastime. Spurred on by daytime BBC programs like Antiques Roadshow and Bargain Hunt, Madam spends Sunday mornings rummaging for bargains at the Brussels market, convinced that she will find a priceless antique she can resell and make pots of money. So far she has failed to find anything worth reselling, but she always brings back something interesting for the house: the chimpanzee-hand ashtray, a flower vase shaped like a pair of clogs, a knitted tissue-box holder, and a cuddly cat that snores when pressed.
Somebody must have gone into the kitchen and made the tea, but who? Joyce wonders. She does not remember seeing anyone get up. She pours herself a cup of tea and halfheartedly starts to sip, holding the cup around the rim rather than by the ear. Its taste is flat, and she gives up drinking. But it as if the little she has drunk has reminded her stomach of its emptiness, because it starts to grumble and rumble. Maybe she should make something, rustle up something quick and easy for all of them to eat. She goes to the kitchen. She stumbles over a hammer lying on the floor. “Segun’s left his hammer out again,” she grumbles as she picks it up and puts it away in a kitchen cupboard. Why can’t the man clean up after himself?
A thoughtful silence has descended on the women once again and is extending into the kitchen, so that even the fridge does not give out its normal whirr. Joyce opens the fridge and scans the contents. Jollof rice. Sisi made that. Joyce brings out the container and rubs her hand over it. Sisi touched this. She opens it and looks at the rice, faint orange grains sticking together. Cubes of green bell pepper are visible in it. And three fried snails, curled up, looking like ears. Sisi cooked this. She smells the rice. It is still good. Is Sisi’s body already decaying? How long does it take before a corpse starts to rot? A few hours? A few days? How long did it take for Mother and Father to rot? And my brother, Ater? They must be rotten by now. Three years is a long time for a corpse, isn’t it? She does not want to think about her family, decayed. Unidentifiable bits of matter. She returns the container to the fridge. Her appetite is gone. She is in the mood for a bit of self-pity. She thinks about her life, and it seems to her like she is being punished for something she did in a previous life. People I love get taken away from me. Whatever it was I did, haven’t I paid enough? If only I knew what sin I committed, I could make amends. I could begin to rectify it. But she can also feel that her relationship with Ama and Efe is beginning to change. It is this change that makes her, many years later when she has her school, hang on her office wall a framed inscription—IT IS NOT THE BLOOD THAT BINDS US IN THE END—which she will find in a supermarket in Yaba.
She goes back into the sitting room just as Madam is coming in. Madam’s face is less drawn than it was when she left. Her flame-orange boubou brightens the room like a match lit in the dark. “I have spoken to them,” she says. “Everything will be all right. No need for any of you to worry.” “Them” being the police. Madam has spoken to them, for lingering in the house, on the women’s minds, is also the thought that they might be deported. Madam has often said that she knows enough of the right people in the police force to ensure that as long as they do not try to cheat her, the women are safe in Belgium. “Everybody has a price, even oyibo police! Pay the right price and you are safe. Tomorrow I want all of you back at work. I have to find a replacement for Sisi.” Madam disappears into her bedroom, saying that she does not want to be disturbed. Her slippers slap against her soles as she walks. Joyce finally says what has been on her mind the entire day, gnawing away at her, eating at her like acid on paper. “Madam does not even care!”
“Of course she doesn’t,” Ama answers. “What did you expect?” Her voice is mocking.
Something snaps in Joyce and she shouts, perhaps louder than she intends to, “We’re human beings! Why should we take it? Sisi is dead, and all Madam can think of is business. Doesn’t Sisi deserve respect? What are we doing? Why should Madam treat us any way she wants and we just take it like dogs?”
“What do you suggest we do?” Ama asks, the mocking quality in her voice dissipating, making her voice a murmur. Like that of a Catholic at confession.
“We fit go to de police,” Efe answers before Joyce can say anything. It shocks her, because she has never thought of it.
Ama laughs. “Madam has the police in her pocket. You heard her. We tell the police and then fucking what?”
“We’re not happy here. None of us is. We work hard to make somebody else rich. Madam treats us like animals. Why are we doing this? And I don’t believe that we cannot find an honest policeman. I don’t believe that for a second! We report Madam, and who knows, maybe we can even get asylum here. There are always people looking for causes to support. They can support us. We can be free. Madam has no right to our bodies, and neither does Dele. I don’t want to think that one day I will be dead here and all Madam will do is complain about how bad my death is for business. I don’t know what will happen to us, but I want to make sure Madam and Dele get punished.” Joyce pulls at the tip of the cloth hanging from the waist of her trousers.
Ama impatiently lights another cigarette, then squashes it into the ashtray immediately. She is crying. “Come here,” she says to Joyce and Efe. She stands up and spreads her arms. Joyce gets up and is enclosed in Ama’s embrace. Efe stands up, too, and puts one arm around each woman. Their tears mingle, and the only sound in the room is that of them sniveling. Time stands still, and Ama says, “Now we are sisters.” The women hug one another tight. Years later, Ama will tell them that at that moment she knew they would be friends forever. They will never go to the police, but they do not know that now. They believe that they will, and that gives them some relief. They disentangle and sit again on the black sofa. It creaks under their weight, and someone lets out a small, high laugh. Joyce pulls the rag from her waistband and pushes it under the couch, prodding it with a finger until it is out of sight. “I wonder if I can find henna here,” she says. Ama has started to say something about making lunch when the doorbell rings. The women look at one another, wondering who it can be.
Joyce gets up and opens the door to Luc, his long hair disheveled and lank, almost covering his face. It is as if someone has ringed his eyes with eyeliner. He looks like a man who has not slept in many years. She does not say a word to him. She simply turns her back and walks into the sitting room.
Luc pulls the door shut behind him and follows her in, asking, “Where’s Sisi?”
SISI
BY THE TIME SISI GOT BACK TO LUC’S, THE MAY SKY WAS A SPREAD OF azure anchored by a band of pinkish red, the color of a fresh bruise on white skin, but Luc was not yet home from work. She looked at her watch. It was a quarter to six. Luc had said he would be back between six-thirty and seven; he wanted to get some shopping done. Oh, that he were already home, she thought. Her new life excited her, pleasured her into squeals of joy.
Sisi ran upstairs, dumped her shopping on the bed, and thought perhaps she ought to start cleaning the kitchen. She would clear out the breakfast plates and maybe light the candle in the middle of the table. She had just entered the kitchen when the doorbell rang.
When Sisi answered and found Segun at the door, it had her surprised but not alarmed. “Hello, do you want to come in, Segun?”
He did not want to. “But … bu … but I want you to come, I mean … to—to co … to come with me in the car. We, we, we, I mean, we … we … we have some … thing to dis … dis … dis … I mean, to discuss.” Busy hands flailing all the while. Restless feet tapping on concrete.
“Discuss, ke? We can discuss it here,” she told the lanky man. Where was Luc? Luc, please come home now! Maybe she should have
gone to the police after all. What did Segun want with her? Where was Luc?
“No. I am sorry, Si … si. Not here. No … no … I mean not here. It, it, it, I mean … it wo—wo … won’t take time, I promise.” His voice was low. He clenched and unclenched his fists. It struck Sisi that this was the longest he had ever spoken to her.
What harm will it do? Nobody can make me go back to the Zwartezusterstraat. That part of my life is over. And certainly not this wimp of a man. This man with only half a brain whose mouth always hangs open.
She got into the car. Whatever it was he had to discuss, she hoped he would keep it short. She wanted to be home by the time Luc got in. She wanted to tell him how much fun she’d had spending her money on herself. To kiss him and tell him that she was glad he’d broken the rules and come to the church on the Koningin Astridplein. “Segun, I can’t stay out too long.” He nodded.
She was not scared of Segun. He was harmless, everyone knew it. So the hammer hitting into her skull had come as a shock. She had not even had time to shout. She was not yet dead when he dragged her out on the deserted road leading to the GB and pushed her into the trunk of the car, heaping her on top of a purple-and-gray plaid blanket, her ankle-length green dress riding high up her legs to expose her thighs. One of her leaf-green flat-heeled slippers fell off, and Segun picked it up and threw it nonchalantly into the trunk. It landed beside Sisi’s head.
In the instant between almost dying and cold-stone dead, the instant when the soul is still able to fly, Sisi escaped her body and flew down to Lagos. First she went to the house in Ogba. When she came, her father was in the sitting room reading the Daily Times, thinking that when next Sisi called he would mention that at his age and with a child abroad he ought to have a car, and could she not send him one? Sisi whispered in his ears. He shooed away the fly that had perched on his right ear. She found her mother in the kitchen beside the secondhand fridge they had just bought with the money Sisi sent. She was pouring a glass of water, at the same time complaining of the heat and the power failure. “A whole week and still no light. How am I supposed to enjoy my fridge, eh?” she muttered, placing the bottle on a kitchen counter and screwing its cap back on. She lifted the glass to drink. At that moment Sisi tapped her on the shoulder, and the glass slipped from her hands, spilling water and breaking into two uneven pieces. Sisi’s mother would say the next morning, when the phone call came, that she knew dropping the glass was an omen. She would wail and tell the gathered mourners that she felt a coldness in the air just before the glass slipped. “That was when my daughter died. What have I done in this life to deserve this? How have I erred? Onye? Onye ka m ji ugwo?” She would burst into an elegy that cracked her voice and left her hoarse for many weeks.
