From Everything is Wonderful
Tolani wonders if it’s possible to drown in a tub, this bathtub. Just drown, sober, without the help of sleeping pills. Slashed wrists might help, but those would stain the white bathroom tiles. No, slashed wrists aren’t for her. She has always kept a clean house, so clean that sometimes her husband, Yeni, jokes that he could eat out of their toilet bowl. Sleeping pills would be perfect, not that she’s suicidal, she knows she isn’t that sort of person, she just knows. On her last birthday, when the associate pastor who prayed called her “an ever-smiling ball of sunshine”, murmurs of agreement had filled the church. No, she would never do something so drastic, it’s just a thought. One that slinks into her mind more often with Yeni in Abuja and the children off to her parents’ home in Akure for the holidays.
If she were to kill herself, God forbid, but if she ever wanted to, she would simply walk into the lagoon and never turn back, no ceiling fans or ropes, no cyanide or bullets in the head, just water. Once again, she sees it happen as she opens the jars of sea salt she’s selected for tonight’s bath. She sinks, then floats. Her body pretends she is swimming the way she once loved to, performing memory long after her soul is gone, bobbing on the surface, waiting to be found. For tonight, she has chosen lavender, vanilla and lemongrass sea salts. She sprinkles a handful of each into the bathtub then watches as the granules dissolve, colouring the water into a shade of blue that reminds her of swimming-pools.
The tub is her favourite place in the house. On Fridays, the only weekday she leaves the church office before nightfall, she spends hours in the water, mulling over her schedule for the weekend. She doesn’t like any of the other fittings in this house. The wardrobes are too tiny and the shelves in the kitchen are way out of her reach. Not that she complains, not anymore, there is this wonderful bathroom with the perfect tub, enough reason to be thankful.
When Yeni preached about the importance of gratitude on Sunday, certain that the scriptures he was referring to were directed at her, she had kept her head down through most of the sermon. He thinks that because she gets moody around him sometimes, she doesn’t appreciate their life together. He’s wrong, of course. She knows how lucky, no, blessed, she is to be his wife. She is grateful for this house, which a church member gave them on their tenth wedding anniversary; it doesn’t matter that the wardrobes are small. And now, whenever she climbs a stool to take spice jars off the rack before she begins cooking, Tolani prays: I thank you, Lord, for the gift of this house. Bless the giver and reward him.
She hums as she goes around the bathroom, lighting scented candles. Although she prefers to add essential oils, on the nights before Yeni comes back from a trip, she settles for candles alone because the fragrance from her oil burners could linger in their bedroom for hours after her bath and Yeni doesn’t like that. Done with the candles, Tolani shrugs off her robe. She steps into the tub and takes a sharp breath, the water sloshes around just below her knees, stinging goose bumps into her flesh. Outside, her dog barks as a neighbour’s generator sputters to life. She sits, leans back with her legs stretched out, careful to avoid the stopper’s beaded chain. She’s always loved the feel of water—how it pulls at her limbs and makes her feel she might sink, the way it ripples against her skin as she settles into it—she luxuriates in these sensations and the resulting tumescence that stops short of arousal. This is preparation, when her husband arrives tomorrow, she’ll be ready.
She frowns at her toenails. She finally went to that overpriced spa Sandra is always raving about but she hates the colour their manicurist had convinced her would look “absolutely stunning”. Yes, neons are in, but she doesn’t like this shade of yellow and Yeni might think the colour makes her feet look like a hawker’s or a maid’s. Not that he would complain; he will insist that her feet look beautiful and she won’t believe him. Instead she will believe Sandra, who said last week that Tolani’s new hairstyle made her head look like a coconut. Since they met during their first year in secondary school, Sandra has never hesitated to voice her opinions about Tolani’s choices.
She is startled by the knock. Her maid is the only other person in the house right now, but she isn’t supposed to come into the master bedroom without permission. It can’t be someone from church, Tolani steps out of the tub, nobody comes to their home for prayers when her husband is away. Maybe there’s an emergency or it’s someone who thinks Yeni is back in Lagos.
She stands on the bath mat. “Janet?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Do we have visitors?”
“No, madam, nobody come visit. Na me, I wan talk, madam.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Please, madam.”
She sighs. At least, she won’t have to convince anyone her prayers are as good as Yeni’s tonight. “Wait, I’m coming.”
She bends to pick up her bathrobe but decides against it and reaches for a towel instead. When she opens the bathroom door, she finds Janet on her knees. The maid’s head is bowed so her face is hidden and Tolani can only see her hair, thick and lustrous, twisted into a fat braid at the nape of her neck.
“Janet,” she wants to see the girl’s face. “Stand up.”
“Make I stay like this, madam, please.”
“Well, then, shift and let me pass.”
The maid moves out of the doorway without getting off her knees.
Tolani brushes past her to sit on the bed. “Come on, get up.”
Janet shakes her head.
“Well, then, what is it?”
“I wan go my village tomorrow, madam.”
“This tomorrow?”
She nods.
“Why are you just telling me now? I’ve told you to let me know at least one week before you need to travel.”
“I no wan come back here, madam.”
“I’ve made it abundantly clear that I need to know at least one week ahead because . . . wait, what? You don’t want to come back here? Why?”
Janet is the first maid who has stayed on for more than one year. Even Tolani was surprised when the girl came back from the village after her first December break. She knows she’s hard to please; no other maid could take washing the four bathrooms from top to bottom with a toothbrush twice a week. Some of her previous maids disappeared without giving her notice but Janet has been here for three years, and now Tolani realises how much she needs her. It might take another five years to find someone who could iron a skirt without leaving sharp edges on the sides.
“Do you want more money? I can increase your salary.”
“No, madam.”
She leans forward and touches Janet’s shoulder. “Look up, look at me. See, you’re a good girl, I can double your salary.”
Janet shakes her head. “No, madam. I wan go village.”
“But why now? Why?” She has never beaten any of her maids. This girl has her own room, with a bed, air-conditioning and a wardrobe filled with almost new clothes. She always gives her a Christmas bonus and even lets her eat at the dining table when they have guests.
“Look at me, Janet, why do you want to leave?”
“Mama is sick.”
Tolani retracts her hand, stifles the desire to slap Janet’s face—Help me, Lord, I am slow to anger and quick to listen, slow to anger and quick to listen. Deception always makes her feel so belittled and angry. She knows that Janet’s mother died years before the girl came to work here.
“Leave my room, you lying . . . out!” Tolani points at the door. “You can go tomorrow if you want, do what you like, you hear? Just don’t expect me to pay you one kobo for this month, not when you’re leaving like this. Get out of here.”
The girl runs out of the room.
Tolani is shaking. She grips her knees, shuts her eyes and begins to mutter verses from First Corinthians Thirteen.
“Love is patient, love is kind, it does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud, it does not dishonour others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily anger
ed, love keeps no records of wrongs . . .”
“Madam.”
She opens her eyes and sees Janet standing by the door. She doesn’t trust herself to speak to the girl yet. She knows that her anger, already bordering on rage, would take over her mouth and hurl words sharp enough to shred the girl, it’s happened before. Enough times to drench her in shame even now.
“Na Oga.”
“My husband?”
“Yes, madam.” Janet frowns. “Na why be that.”
“My husband,” she takes a deep breath and counts to five. “You’re leaving because of my husband?”
“Before Oga travel, before him travel this time,” Janet shifts on her feet and looks like she is about to cry. “Before Oga travel, he touch my breast.”
Tolani tries to count to five again but she can’t remember what comes after one. “You’re a liar.”
“I dey kitchen that night, I dey wash plate before I go sleep. Oga just come from back, put hand for my body like this.” Janet pushes a hand through the neckline of her blouse. “He just dey squeeze am, squeeze am. Na so I push Oga, he con fall.”
“Shut up, keep your rotten mouth shut. You’re a liar, a liar.” Tolani stares at Janet’s chest; the girl has small breasts, perky breasts, but mere B-cups. In the eleven years since she got married, Tolani has hired only maids with small breasts. When she first arrived, before they changed her name from whatever it had been and rechristened her Janet, this one wore padded bras that pushed her breasts comically close to her chin and made them look twice their size. Tolani had bought unpadded bras for the girl before confiscating all the undergarments she had brought with her from the village. Her own breasts started their inevitable descent after her first son suckled for a full year but Yeni has told her several times that bulk has always mattered to him more than perkiness. No, impossible; no. This liar’s tiny breasts wouldn’t even fill his palm.
Harriet Anena
A writer from Gulu District in Northern Uganda, her work has been nominated for the Commonwealth Short Story Prize (2018), the Wole Soyinka Prize for Literature (2018), the Short Story Day Africa Prize (2017) and the Ghana Poetry Prize (2013). Her stories, poems and articles have been published or are forthcoming in the Caine Prize anthology, Jalada Africa, the Short Story Day Africa anthology ID: New Short Fiction from Africa, Enkare Review, FEMRITE anthologies, Babishai Niwe Poetry Foundation anthologies, Sooo Many Stories, Adda, Storymoja Publishers, Popula and the Daily Monitor newspaper, among others.
The stories stranded in our throats
I told my sister Okot slipped his tongue into my mouth
when I was 13. He kneaded my breasts
a year after they sprouted.
My sister said, why are you telling me this
17 years later?
I told my sister, I want to learn how to forget
the alcohol-ed smell of his breath and
stop feeling thuds in my breasts
whenever I see someone kneading dough.
My sister said, I’m going out to throw up.
I told myself, how lucky! My own vomit gets stranded
in my throat whenever mother calls Okot, in-law from heaven.
I told my sister, throw up for two.
My depression . . .
. . . is me avoiding eye contact coz I haven’t mastered the art of looking friends in the eye and lying about the darkness I carry; adding speed to my steps to hide the sluggishness of my spirit; storming out of office coz everyone turns on the tap in my eyes.
. . . makes me blink back tears in the presence of friends and sob on a stranger’s boda boda ride home; wakes me at midnight and keeps me up till morning like thoughts about an on-off lover; drives me to a counsellor who I immediately dislike and I leave, cursing all hospitals.
. . . is me cancelling calls and ignoring text messages; deactivating my Facebook and typing DON’T CALL OR TEXT in the family WhatsApp; flinging the phone across the room and cuddling pillows made warm by tears.
. . . makes me mute the TV from six to six coz voices of strangers stoke the voices in my head, and yet the sight of faces behind the screen keeps the world here. It helps me close the door to everyone knocking and makes me look at my darkness in the eye, admiringly.
. . . is me detesting dance. Even poetry.
. . . makes me eat everything I shouldn’t coz its only food I can manipulate. It makes me crave the anti-deps coz they understand my love for sleep. It makes me listen to Run on repeat and pray for the sky to fall together with the rain.
. . . is me shutting out voices that ask; You have it all together, what do you mean things are falling apart? You don’t look it, are you sure? . . . is me switching off the phone 30 minutes to girls’ night out coz the thought of a crowd suddenly has me gasping for breath.
. . . makes me grope for words that can explain why work—like my life—is undone.
. . . is me thinking about what I’ll say when the storm clears coz I was just feeling low no longer sounds convincing, even to me.
When it visited this time, my depression said life after here is a garden of flowers that bloom poetry.
Step by step
Josh finds me bent over,
pressing the blue and red buttons
on the water dispenser.
His hand and my ass meet
before my water bottle gets full.
They don’t meet in bits the way long lost friends do,
stopping with a start, looking each other up and down
to confirm their surprise and
dissolving into an earnest embrace.
In our case, there are no introductions.
Josh grabs my ass. He squeezes. He lets go.
Later, Eva says it’s no big deal.
It’s not like he raped you or anything.
Plus, that note he left behind must be an apology.
I don’t tell her the boss only wrote,
For what’s worth, you have a happy ass.
Ayesha Harruna Attah
A Ghanaian writer born in Accra, she attended Mount Holyoke College, Columbia University, and in 2011 received an MFA in Creative Writing from New York University. As a 2014 AIR Award laureate, she was a writer-in-residence at the Instituto Sacatar in Bahia, Brazil, and also won the Miles Morland Foundation Scholarship in 2016. She is the author of three novels: Harmattan Rain (2009), nominated for the 2010 Commonwealth Writers’ Prize; Saturday’s Shadows, shortlisted for the 2013 Kwani? Manuscript Project; and The Hundred Wells of Salaga (2018). She currently lives in Senegal.
Unborn Children
Cells are multiplying with abandon in her womb. Splitting and fusing into balls of flesh, massing together into tissue with no other aim but to exist. They are ballooning, just because.
“How big are they?” she asks.
“You won’t be able to have children if we don’t remove them.”
The doctor’s windowless office will swallow her whole with its aged tobacco odour, with his grey-haired presence, with its loud jazz. His eyes, magnified behind glasses, make her feel responsible for what’s befallen her.
The first time she realizes she has a body that is different from her brother’s, she is seven. She has binged on toffee and chocolate and a white paste is oozing from down there. Her grandmother scrubs her raw, then makes her sit in a tub of diluted gentian violet. This procedure is done away from her brother, the person with whom she has always done everything. It makes her dislike having a vagina, a thing to be sloughed clean.
The second time she suffers a reminder of her body’s feminine lines, her parents are away at a funeral in Kumasi and she and her brother invite over friends. They are in their parents’ bed, king-sized, watching True Lies. Stacked liked sardines. Three boys on one side, two girls on the other. Packed next to her is her brother’s friend, a fixture in her brother’s room, forever glued to his Gameboy. She has never considered him until his fingers unbutton her shorts, slip under the lace of her panties.
&
nbsp; She is eighteen. Her sexuality has stayed dormant since the combined emotions of terror and titillation gripped her during True Lies. She is in university now. After a dorm activity on sexual health—cervical cancer is not choosy; check NOW for abnormal cells—she signs up for a pap smear. Her first. The door is tattooed with flyers. Symbols of Mars and Venus. She is interrogated: when was your last period; how long did it last; how old were you when you first menstruated; how many partners have you had? The answers: last week, five days, fourteen, zero. The doctor taps the speculum lightly against her thigh to take away the element of surprise, and yet the cold startles her, pocks her skin. She inhales deeply and waits for the entry, which begins as a dull rubbery prod, then a metallic, bitter intrusion. She can taste the discomfort in her mouth. Her whole body stretches taut. She is a cat poised to attack, claws out, back arched. The speculum goes nowhere, because she can’t unclench herself.
“You might want to consider desensitizing yourself before you come next time,” says the nurse.
A semester abroad in Barcelona. For the first time, she is looked at. Sometimes, like a piece of meat. This regard, good and bad, makes her feel less transparent than she does in America. It makes her bold, less lost in her skin, sexy. She turns twenty-one and with one week left, she drinks a lot of wine. All the water she splashes on her face doesn’t sharpen the blurred image in the mirror. But she is focused. She ends up in her roommate’s bed. It is shrouded with blankets of some vague tribal origin; she is sure they have never been aired, but for all six months of her stay she has thought him beautiful and gentle. She has watched girls make their exits from this room, hair mussed, T-shirts crinkled, white All Stars unlaced and intentionally worn. She has envied their carefreeness. But most of all, she has appreciated how he’s never said anything negative about them. If anyone is to be given the task of liberating her, it should be him. The wine lets her mimic them. Until she’s naked. She has never been naked with anyone. And now she is touching skin with this creature, the stuff of romance novels, this type women all over the world have been conditioned to find beautiful. And yet, even wine doesn’t unblock the fear that takes her body hostage as his hardened flesh tries to break her. She screams. He holds her in his arms and falls asleep not long after she tells him she needs time to further desensitize herself.
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