by Sefi Atta
“Education can’t do any harm.”
“I know that, but they are not prostitutes. That is what I’m saying. She collected money to educate prostitutes. The foundation came from the US to inspect. She said the women should pretend they are prostitutes. I said, ‘How can they pretend they are prostitutes?’ The very people who caused the problem in the first place.”
“No one caused the problem.”
Elizabeth turns away. “Unless you don’t want to say the truth. You should know that wives are not in the same category as prostitutes.”
“So what is it you are saying?”
“I’m saying let her educate prostitutes if she wants to. That is her own business, but she shouldn’t put the women of WIN in the same category. They need medicine. They haven’t seen any medicine yet. Some are sick. They don’t know what to do. They can’t afford to go to hospital. But most of them are well and they don’t want education.”
“How can LINK help?” Deola asks.
Elizabeth shakes her head. “I can’t tell you.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“Microfinance. Have you heard of it?”
“Yes.”
Elizabeth glances at the door. “She says she is not interested. Me, I don’t know. I’m not the one collecting money all over the place for all sorts of purposes. I’m not the one with a big, big house. See this place? It belongs to her brother. So who is collecting the rent? Who benefits from WIN? Ask yourself these questions. Me, I’m not an enemy of progress. I’m just telling you what I know.”
The office block is four stories of whitewashed concrete and reflecting windows, but the rent may be less than what WIN might pay in Lagos. Elizabeth puts her finger to her lips when she hears Mrs. Nwachukwu calling her name.
Deola is not surprised that there has been misrepresentation of purpose and misdirection of funds in the past. A review of their fieldwork by the US foundation would have uncovered that. For now, she is concerned that WIN is renting an office from Mrs. Nwachukwu’s brother, so she focuses on their administrative costs, which are disproportionately high. She suspects that Mrs. Nwachukwu’s salary is understated, but what bothers her most is that every purchase order, every receipt and check has been signed by Mrs. Nwachukwu alone.
“What is Elizabeth Okeke’s job description?” she asks later.
“Elizabeth?” Mrs. Nwachukwu says. “Elizabeth is, well, eh, officially, Elizabeth is my VP, but in actual fact, she is a jack of all trades in this office. Yes. As a matter of fact, she is invaluable to us. We would not be able to function without her.”
“She says you have not been able to get any medication.”
“She did?”
“I asked her.”
Mrs. Nwachukwu frowns. “Well, she knows we are following up on that. The problem is fake drugs. We don’t want to end up with fake drugs.”
“What happens to those who are sick meanwhile?”
“They go to the churches or they go to the herbalists.”
“And their children?”
“Children? Let us not even begin to talk about them.”
Deola can’t imagine an entire town devastated by AIDS. Clusters, as they are called. In Lagos, there are too many people. Depopulation might go unnoticed. She has heard Nigerians say that the rates of infection are higher wherever Westerners flock to in Africa: the port cities and the countries with cooler climates. Nigerians were furious with the press reports that said the virus originated in Africa, livid when the reports said the virus was traced to monkeys. Who did they think Africans were? Dirty perverts? Didn’t they know that to piss off an African, all a person needed to do was mention any species of ape or make any kind of simian reference? Now that the virus is here to stay, no one seems to care where it came from. She has seen numerous posters declaring that AIDS kills and signboards advertising bogus cures, so perhaps education about treatment is another area where funds can be directed.
She is almost certain she will not recommend WIN after her review. Why come all the way from England, only to return with a report like that? she thinks. What a waste of money and a letdown for the women.
z
She calls Wale when she gets back to the Hilton. He doesn’t answer his phone and she doesn’t leave a message after his recorded greeting, which ends with him saying, “Shalom.” She is walking into the bathroom when her cell phone rings and she runs out. She sees Wale’s number and takes a breath before she answers.
“Hello?”
He sounds angry. “Did you just call my number?”
“It’s Adeola Bello.”
“Hey! You’re in town?”
“Yes.”
“I thought someone was flashing me again.”
“Flashing?”
“You’ve haven’t heard of flashing? When you call, hang up and wait for a call back?”
She smiles. “Not used that way.”
“So how are you, Adeola Bello?”
“Very well. I was hoping we could meet for a drink.”
“When?”
She wrinkles her nose. Why is her heart beating faster?
“Tonight?”
He laughs. “Where?”
“I’m at the Hilton. What’s so funny?”
“I didn’t expect to hear from you.”
“Why not?”
“I didn’t ask for your number. It might have seemed…”
“It didn’t seem anything.”
“Good. I didn’t want my staff to think I was, you know.”
“You were fine. You weren’t flirting.”
“Who says?”
“So, I’ll see you later?”
“What time?”
“Eight?”
“Eight, then.”
She struts around her room, then she pats her cheek. She mustn’t look desperate.
She has dinner at the hotel restaurant and returns to her room to take a bath and change. She sprays perfume on her wrist, smacks her lipstick in place. Her earring needs securing. She smoothes her eyebrows.
The front desk calls to say he has arrived and she goes downstairs again, this time pretending to take an interest in the décor in the lobby, which is reminiscent of a dictator’s palace, with its crystal chandeliers, faux Louis Quatorze chairs and white marble floors. The light reflecting on the marble blinds her and she worries about slipping. There are a few expatriates and many Nigerians walking around in that lethargic manner that is typical of loiterers in hotels.
Wale is by the front desk. He has made an effort, his shirt and trousers are pressed. He looks naturally trim. He stands with his back to the lift, which might be deliberate, and she is tempted to pinch his bottom and throw him off balance, but she taps his shoulder instead.
“Have you grown?” he asks, looking her up and down.
“My heels,” she says.
He smiles as if she is a statue he can’t quite take seriously.
“Shalom?” she says.
“Pele, then,” he says. “Pele, if you prefer.”
“Not really.”
Pele doubles up as an apology. Pele might also mean he feels sorry for her.
In the lounge she orders a Cointreau. She has never had Cointreau before. It is strong and tastes of oranges. He has a neat brandy. She doesn’t just like his eyes; she likes his way of looking at her as if she is a solo act. She is also aware of the stares she gets from the security guards who size her up as she tells him about her day at WIN.
“What pains me is that I now have to go back and admit to these people that Nigerians are fraudulent.”
“She’s just hustling like everyone else. She and the other woman, who might be trying to sabotage her.”
“You think?”
“Of course. Even microfinance is a hustle now. The people who are meant to get it don’t. It’s all about competition here.”
“They won’t see it that way. All they know is Nigeria, corruption, 4-1-9, Internet crime. It’s embarrassing.”
<
br /> “It is.”
“And Elizabeth made more sense. Of course the women would want to do business. Of course they would. Business is what we do in Nigeria.”
“We do.”
Is she talking too much? She can’t get away from the idea that she has failed the women, but not enough to disregard the irregularities she noted at WIN. She takes another sip and winces. The Cointreau is too concentrated for her.
“Your father’s five-year memorial is on Sunday, isn’t it?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“How are the preparations going?”
“Fine. Everything is fine.”
“It’s good that we do that, remember those who have died.”
She finds the idea of a five-year memorial artificial. She remembers her father when she smells a combination of whiskey, cigars, aftershave and perfume: the “grown-up party” smell. Or when she hears the music he listened to: his Ray Charles, Dave Brubeck and Dvořák. In her teens, they argued over music. “Who is this Teddy Pendergrass?” he would ask. “Have you heard Otis Redding?” “Who is this George Benson? Have you heard John Coltrane?” He pitied her because she didn’t appreciate juju music. “Children of nowadays,” he used to say. “You have no roots. You go any way the wind blows.”
She would love to find his Bally slippers again, knowing that all he had to do was think where he last left them before asking her to look for them. And to watch Wimbledon on television with him. Every summer he was in London in time for Wimbledon, knocking things over while cheering and getting names wrong (“Matilda Navratilova”).
“How old is your daughter?” she asks.
“Fourteen.”
“Is it just you and her?”
“Her and me, that’s it.”
“Fourteen. People say thirteen is the tricky age, that you’re still adjusting to the whole teen thing at thirteen.”
“Which is why I have no intention of complicating her life further by making her a half-sister or stepchild.”
He seems to be addressing someone else and this agitates her. They are talking too much about family.
He puts his glass down. “I have just put you off, haven’t I?”
“No, no.”
“See me. I have white hairs all over my head. No more raps.”
“Some of us are not interested in being stepmothers, wicked or otherwise.”
He smiles. “I didn’t mean you.”
“Please,” she says. “I meet someone I like. Why would marriage be a consideration?”
His expression reminds her of the boys she chatted up as a teenager. They knew bad girls didn’t talk as much.
“What?” she asks. “You’re underestimating me? I’ve had many men. I’m a very passionate lover.”
He laughs loud and claps, causing people to turn around.
She retaliates. “Isn’t it dangerous for you to leave a teenager at home on her own this late with armed robbers prowling?”
“She’s with her cousins.”
“You might want to pick her up soon,” she says, reaching for her glass.
“Her cousins are in Lagos.”
“So there is no reason to run home tonight.”
“No.”
She crosses her legs. It is not as if she has misinterpreted him or vice versa. She imagines his skin against hers, his hands, his tongue and hardon. Her desire is insistent, almost jeering. Why the small talk? Why not now? She gave up her virginity when she had no more use for it. Losing her virginity was like discovering her hair was not her crowning glory.
She is heady from the Cointreau, but more so from the thought of having a safe indiscretion. A security guard in the lobby gives her the same meddlesome look she encountered when she sat down. That can happen in a Lagos hotel, but here there’s also Sharia law, which can make men act in overzealous ways.
“What if security stops us?” she asks.
“Who, these ones?”
“It’s me they are watching, not you. Weren’t there riots here when the Miss World contest was supposed to be staged? The fatwa on the journalist and all that?”
“Haba, things are not that bad.”
“Who says?” she asks. “Don’t they sentence women to death for fornication in these parts?”
“No one would dare sentence a woman like you.”
“That’s good. I don’t want to be disgraced meanwhile.”
“My house is not too far.”
“I can’t go to your house.”
“Why not?”
“I said I can’t go to your house.”
“I asked why not?”
“How do I know you’re not a killer?”
“Can’t I kill you here?”
She laughs and slaps her thigh.
“I will speak to the front desk,” he says.
He finishes his brandy. She abandons her Cointreau and goes ahead of him, so as to be sure she won’t be stopped.
z
In her room, she takes off her sandals and rubs her feet. They are smooth enough. Her clothes are padlocked in her suitcase and her makeup is in a bag. She hides her night cream with vitamin C and ginseng.
He knocks on her door moments later and she lets him in. He says the service in the Hilton is better than he expected. She admits she has never had Cointreau before.
“Neither have I,” he says.
“I didn’t like it much.”
“Why drink it, then? Let’s see. Let’s see here.”
He kisses her, tasting warm and of brandy. He smells of an unimaginative sandalwood deodorant.
“I like your hair,” he says.
“Why?”
“It’s all yours. Those fake hair extension things, you get in there and it’s like shrubbery underneath.”
“What kind of women do you meet in that brothel of yours in Lagos?”
“What?”
“My bra is padded. That I fake.”
He runs his hands over her to check, searches under her top and unfastens her bra. She slides her hand down to his zipper.
“Stranger,” he murmurs, when she finds him.
They undress by the bed. Bra off, she wriggles out of her panties to distract him from her back view. He is not flawless, but his stomach is tight and his arms are toned. He could be a cyclist. She has always been attracted to athletic-looking men.
He turns away to roll his condom on.
“Why do you have to do that?”
“I don’t want to shock you.”
“I’ve seen bigger.”
“Are you nervous?”
“Me? Why?”
“You can’t stop talking.”
He pulls her toward him and kisses her breasts until she aches.
“What next?” he asks, against her lips.
“Straight sex,” she says.
He obliges. Her toes curl and she could shout from relief. Sex feels, tastes and smells better with a stranger. They lie on their backs exhausted.
“You taste good,” she says.
“You too.”
“I should have had your drink.”
“I should have had Lucozade.”
“This one,” she says, guiding him to her other breast.
“Sweet woman.”
“Sweet man.”
She shifts until she is on top of him. He shakes his head.
“No?” she asks.
“You’ll have to be more passionate than that. I can’t feel you with this thing on.”
He reaches for her shoulders to turn her around. She is not comfortable in this position, but she moves with him until he withdraws unexpectedly.
“What?” she asks. “You still can’t feel anything?”
“Wait.”
“What?”
“I think… I think we’ve had an accident.”
She pushes him away, jumps out of bed and runs into the bathroom. Now that she is there, she doesn’t know what to do with herself. Wash? Pee? Puke? She leans over the sink as he walks in, not carin
g that she is naked under the bathroom lights.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“No! Are you sure?”
“Yes. It must have been…”
It must have been the position they were in. His face appears lopsided in the mirror. Both their faces appear lopsided. She steadies her breathing as she remembers him joking about being a killer.
“Have you been tested?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Three months ago.”
“Why?”
“I’m on my own. I have a child to raise.”
“Why should I believe you?” she asks.
“I don’t lie.”
“Everyone lies about…”
Everyone lies about sex. He lowers the toilet seat after he flushes the condom down, then he sits. She can’t imagine how he can make a sensible decision. His palms are pressed together. She wants to pray, but she is certain God has no hand in this. She wants to cry, but crying might mean she has reason to.
“Has this ever happened to you before?” she asks.
“No.”
“Why me?”
“Have you been tested?”
“I’d like to be sure of your situation first.”
“I’m okay. Are you? You should get tested. Do that, please, and let me know.”
She raises her hand. “I beg you. Let me think. Let me think straight.”
She is angry with herself, not with him. She can smell sandalwood on her skin and she is still wet. She crosses her arms when she remembers she is ovulating.
“Shit. I have to take the morning-after pill. Where will I find the morning-after pill in this place? Where will I find a frigging pill in this country that is not fake?”
“I know a good pharmacy. I will take you there, don’t worry.”
“Are they open now?”
“Not until tomorrow.”
“Is there anything else we can take?”
“I don’t think so.”
She thinks of the antiretroviral drug for rape victims. Isn’t she more at risk as a woman? In the bathtub, she fidgets with the tap, talking to herself, “Shouldn’t have done this. Acting so stupid…”
“Come on,” he says. “We’re not children.”
She stamps her foot in the water. “I know! That’s why we should have waited!”
“See,” he says, standing up. “I liked you immediately. I did. I could tell that some of the way you acted, you were putting it on, and yes, it was just a… but I saw you and I thought…”