A Bit of Difference

by Sefi Atta

  Sidestep

  She takes an afternoon flight from Gatwick Airport that arrives in Lagos in the evening. The time difference with London is only an hour, yet she has morning sickness after the plane lands. Murtala Mohammed International Airport is not a place to be with erratic hormones. The heat is followed by an obstacle race for Passport Control, by which time there is a delay at the luggage carousel.

  The line at Customs is shorter and faster than the departure line at Gatwick Airport, but Deola approaches the only female customs officer and asks if she can move to the front. The officer continues to keep an eye on other passengers.

  “It doesn’t mean,” she says. “It doesn’t mean because you are pregnant, madam. You know dat if you are in de UK, you cannot behave like dis. You see all dis people waiting? Ehen! So you must obey de rules in your own country. People don’t obey de rules. Dat’s what’s spoiling Nigeria. Oya, pass.”

  She ushers Deola through as a man protests. Deola ignores him and almost wheels her luggage over his shoes when he steps out of the line. The customs officer explains that she is pregnant.

  “And so?” he says. “Even if she is Mother Mary, what is my concern?”

  Ivie is waiting on the other side of the doors. She is dressed in a boubou and towers above the crowd.

  “Coz, coz,” she says.

  Deola hugs her. “I feel sick.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll get you out of here.”

  Ivie navigates her through the crowd. It is dark outside. The usual touts approach them. Deola has never understood why they are called touts: they are unlicensed cab drivers. One reaches for her suitcase and Ivie calmly says, “Get away from there. Who asked you to touch that?”

  The tout retreats, smiling and scratching his head. His face is shiny and the heels of his shoes are worn down.

  Ivie came to the airport in one of Omorege’s cars. In the dark, all Deola notices about the car is that it is spacious and the air conditioner works. She settles in the backseat and unbuttons her trousers to relieve her nausea as Ivie gives the driver instructions. She is glad to be back home where she knows people, but her plans are more convoluted as a result. Her mother and Aunty Bisi think she is arriving tomorrow. Ivie will take her home in the morning, but tonight, will drop her at Wale’s hotel, so she can speak to him beforehand.

  When she called to tell him she was pregnant, he said, “Wow,” in the same way he might say “Hell.” He asked, “Are you sure?” and she said, “Why would I call if I wasn’t?” He offered to meet her at the airport and she told him it wasn’t necessary. She called Aunty Bisi afterward. Aunty Bisi said, “Don’t worry, I will handle your mother. I won’t tell her until the day before you arrive, otherwise she will get upset and start harassing you and you don’t want that. Leave her to me. She will have to accept what has happened. There is nothing we can do about it anyway, and she has been very worried about you. I think it is a blessing, but you know your mother, she likes her niceties.”

  Aunty Bisi uses incorrect words that are somehow appropriate. By niceties, she means a civil marriage and children born within wedlock. She was a child of the sixties and they got divorced whenever they pleased. Polygamy worked in their favor. Whatever permissiveness they were up to, they could easily say, “But we’re African. One man, one wife is colonial.” Aunty Bisi once admitted she never got married because she didn’t want a husband always around and irritating her. She doesn’t live with Hakeem’s father. She has her house and he and his wives have their compound. She calls him “Sir” and refers to him as “Daddy.” She is perfectly respectable. Still, she would expect Deola to go straight to her mother’s house and arrange a family meeting involving Wale’s family, but Deola is not ready for that.

  “How now?” Ivie asks, patting her thigh.

  Ivie’s reaction was the funniest. “Are you sure you didn’t trap him?” she’d asked.

  “Much better,” Deola says.

  She focuses on the headrest in front of her. She cannot yet look out of the window, but she is aware of the shadows and lights they pass, the silhouettes of buildings and palm trees. Engines roar and horns go off. She can smell exhaust fumes and each bump on the way ends up in her temples.

  “Did you hear about Jaiye?” she asks.

  “I heard,” Ivie says.

  Jaiye has gone to Jamaica with a couple of her girl friends, according to Aunty Bisi, and has left Lulu and Prof with her mother. Funsho is in Johannesburg again. He is threatening to move out when he returns. Jaiye is refusing to accept any phone calls meanwhile. She wants a separation without family interference. Deola was sad to hear the news, but she is pleased Jaiye is taking charge. Lanre would want her to do the same. “You have to be tough,” Lanre used to say. “You have to know how to defend yourself.” He meant physically.

  “Have you heard from her?” Deola asks.

  “I haven’t,” Ivie says, “but I think everyone should leave her alone. One has to draw the line with family. That’s what I did and I advise you to do the same. Look at me. My mother was pressuring me to go overseas for infertility treatments. Before I knew it, everyone in the family was saying to me, ‘Go overseas for infertility treatments.’ I thought, these infertility treatments, are they free overseas? Do they think I can afford them? Or do they think Omorege, who has triplets—and you know how the triplets came about—wants to hear anything about infertility treatments?”

  Deola raises her hand reluctantly to slap Ivie’s. Ivie and her mother are alike once they get going.

  “I’ve told my mother,” Ivie says, “anyone who wants me to born pikin should volunteer her womb. None of them is paying my salary.”

  “I have never been out of work for more than a month,” Deola says. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  “Don’t worry,” Ivie says. “You’ll find something. This is Lagos.”

  The driver slows down as they approach a traffic jam. The change in motion reminds Deola of the dreams she has had of late, where her car brakes fail or she misses trains at stations or she stumbles. She is able to look out of the window once the car is stationary. They are near Oshodi Market. Street hawkers are selling their wares by kerosene light. Some walk between cars, tooting horns. Bus conductors shout out destinations as people scramble to climb in. Taxi drivers stop to pick up and drop off passengers. It is past eight o’clock and thousands of commuters are still trying to get home. It could be daytime in Lagos, but for the indigo sky.

  z

  They get to the hotel and Ivie, who says she will tell Wale off when she meets him can’t open her mouth to talk when he appears at the reception. Her ability to exonerate men and elders is incredible. To show solidarity, she looks around as if she expects to see rats scurrying from corner to corner and gives Wale a limp handshake. He wears an adire tunic and trousers and has recently had a haircut. Despite her nausea, Deola still finds him attractive.

  “Is the room ready?” he asks the receptionist, who confirms it is.

  The receptionist seems to be aware that Deola is not a regular guest. Wale calls someone else to take her suitcase to her room.

  “Would you like something to eat?” he asks. “I’m sure you’re hungry. You know what? I’ll get the kitchen to prepare something for you.”

  He turns to Ivie, who raises her hand as if he is offering her poison.

  “No, thank you,” she says. “I’ve already eaten.”

  Deola sees her off. The driver is parked outside. The street is residential and barely illuminated by the security lights of neighboring houses. Night watchmen guard their gates. The driver opens the door for Ivie.

  “Maybe we can manage him,” she says. “At least your child won’t be ugly.”

  “Look at you,” Deola says.

  Ivie laughs and waves. The security guards padlock the gates after Deola walks back in.

  Wale does not stay in the hotel: he has a bungalow behind it. There are a couple of wicker chairs in his veranda, which is covered w
ith mosquito netting. Indoors, he has oil and acrylic paintings by Tola Wewe in startling primary colors and enough space in the room to study them closely. His sitting room is like an uncluttered gallery.

  “How are you feeling?” he asks.

  “Not bad.”

  The air conditioner is too cold. She crosses her arms and comes to a stop at a computer table. He has one of those flat monitors she has been meaning to buy. On his table is a cigar box, bifocals, a Marvin Gaye CD and a framed close-up photograph of a teenaged girl who has eyes like his.

  “Is this Moyo?”

  “Yes.”

  “She is a pretty girl. Do you smoke cigars?”

  “Only for show.”

  “Are the glasses also for show?”

  “I can’t read without them.”

  “I see you like Marvin.”

  The CD is Let’s Get It On. She is not keen on the song. She prefers “Distant Lover.” There is a pile of newspapers on the floor as high as the table. She is desperate for something else to say.

  “You read a lot of newspapers.”

  “That’s all I read.”

  “I haven’t been following the news.”

  “Why not?”

  “I haven’t had time.”

  In London, she reads local newspapers online via Nigeriaworld.com and finds herself drawn to headlines like “Vision of Mary Appears on Latrine Window” and “Woman Gives Birth to Stone.”

  “Have you heard that our president is seeking an extra term?” Wale asks.

  “I’ve heard.”

  “We might have a Mugabe on our hands. I just wish every Nigerian could read the newspapers so they can know what is happening in this country of ours.”

  “What about computers?” she asks, trying to avoid the conversation they should be having.

  “What about them?”

  “Not every Nigerian can afford one.”

  “We have radios. Radios connect us to the rest of the world.”

  “But you turn on the radio these days and all you hear is ‘Yo, yo, yo.’”

  All that yo-ing was from disc jockeys putting on American accents. They copy American accents to the horror of those who copy British ones.

  “That’s in Lagos,” he says. “There are good regional programs outside Lagos, in Yoruba and other languages. People are always saying Africa needs to catch up with the computer age. I think it is the other way around.” He frowns. “Have you seen your doctor?”

  “Yes. She says I’m fine.”

  “What does your family say?”

  He sits and so does she, struggling to believe they are having this conversation. How should she speak to him? Formally? Casually? She relies on her hands.

  “My mother is probably getting to know as we speak. I will see her tomorrow. I just want to find out where you stand.”

  “Me? I’m prepared to do anything, anything you want. I know you would prefer to be married.”

  “Married? Who said?”

  “I just assumed, since that is how things are done.”

  She laughs. “Done where?”

  “I’m just saying. I can imagine there will be pressure on you.”

  “To do what? No one will force me to do anything. At my age, you’re just a donor.”

  “I hope I’m more than that.”

  “Will you be a father?”

  “Of course, but can’t we be a little friendlier?”

  “Sure…”

  “Give me a moment, please. If I don’t say this now, I may not be able to.”

  She was about to agree with him, but she keeps quiet, hoping that his “give me a moment” won’t later develop into “let me finish” or “shut up.”

  He presses his palms together. “I don’t pray. I haven’t prayed in years. I know that may sound unusual to you because everyone here prays. God this, God that. You know how it is. I don’t understand it. I think it’s arrogant to believe you will be spared just by praying. The other day I read somewhere that we rank number one in a survey as the happiest country in the world and I thought, Yes, that makes sense. Religion and oblivion go hand in hand. I used to pray. I prayed for Moyo’s mum and that didn’t turn out right. She was a doctor and she was advised not to have a child, but she did anyway. She joined a church. All that. I don’t pray anymore. But recently, I was tempted to and I thought if there is a God, I have left Him to His own devices, the way I have left women to theirs. That was how I was able to sleep that night. Does this make sense?”

  “I think so.”

  She has the same attitude to God as she has to men. Sometimes, she gives her trust and other times, she can’t. His grief gave him a clarity that she lacks. Her father’s death simply left her bewildered. What if she never saw him again? What if the whole afterlife business was a lie? What if everyone was saying, “Yes, it exists, it exists,” but thinking, Damned if I know it does. She hopes the dead don’t miss their survivors. She hopes a lifespan is a mere blink for them. She would like to hear more about Moyo and her mother, Ronke. How did he feel when Moyo was born? Was he angry with Ronke when she died?

  “What were you tempted to pray about?” she asks.

  “That Moyo would have a family of her own before I die. Does that sound morbid?”

  “It’s practical.”

  “Did I tell you she was with her cousins?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  “The summer holidays can be rough for her. I’m between here and Abuja and she doesn’t want to travel with me. I can’t leave her unattended, so she stays with my sisters in Lagos. She says they have normal families.”

  “It must have been hard to bring her up on your own.”

  “I would have been finished without my sisters. My mother lives in Ibadan and she is in her eighties now, so I didn’t want her running around.” “How many sisters do you have?”

  “Four. Moyo stays with my stepsisters. We grew up together. I also have two half-sisters, but we’re not close.”

  “Your parents were divorced?”

  “No. My mother was not married to my father when I came along. His family didn’t actually know I existed until he died. He left me this place. His family wasn’t happy about that.”

  “The Adeniran family?”

  “Yes. My father is… was J. T. Adeniran. He was a lawyer. I’m his only son.”

  “When were you tempted to pray, before or after we met?”

  “The day you called from England. I was thinking how lucky we were to get over that hurdle, and the next time I heard from you, I was a father.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. It was like juju.”

  She laughs. “But it doesn’t make sense chronologically. You were probably a father when I first called.”

  “You think time is linear?”

  “How else can time be?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll be older than my old man in a few years. Calendars are linear. I don’t think time is linear. I believe in time, though.”

  “In time? How?”

  He shrugs. “There I was thinking I was doing my child a favor by keeping our lives simple. I never let any woman get close to her because I didn’t want anyone mistreating her. As it turns out, I have been selfish to her. I met you and at first I thought, what is going on? Now everything begins to make sense. Time provides all the answers.”

  She is not sure he is right, but she nods.

  “I don’t think you were selfish. Nigerian families are too complex.”

  “Would you like me to come with you to see yours tomorrow?”

  “It’s best I go alone. If you don’t mind, I would rather not meet your family yet. Have you told them?”

  “No. I haven’t told anyone. It will be hard to tell Moyo, though.”

  “You think she will take it badly?”

  “I’m not sure, but it’s not exactly what any girl wants to hear from her father, and we’re in that phase. Don’t get me wrong, she is a wonderful girl, brilliant and ver
y smart, but she doesn’t want to listen to anything I have to say. All she wants to do is get on the Internet, send texts and walk around in those low-cut jeans.”

  “Low-rise.”

  “They’re very unhygienic.”

  “Come on.”

  “But they are. I asked her, ‘Can’t you find jeans that fit?’ She said they were the latest fashion so I’m not allowed to talk. Last weekend she wanted to wear them to a party and I told her she couldn’t. When I was her age, boys were more civilized. Now, it’s another story with hip-hop.”

  Deola smiles. “My sister is in her thirties and she loves hip-hop.”

  “I don’t mind hip-hop. I just don’t want my child dancing in those jeans. She said if she was not allowed to wear her jeans, she was not going to the party.”

  “She said that?”

  “I couldn’t believe it. The girl is headstrong. I felt so bad, but I don’t remember my sisters being like that. My mother always worked and it was just her raising us. She had no time for nonsense. If she didn’t approve of what you were wearing, it was coming off. These days, children will argue with you until they wear you out.”

  She laughs. “Or until you beat them.”

  “Beat her?” he says. “No way. What will that teach her?”

  He takes her so literally. She imagines Moyo is testing him. She can’t believe he hasn’t figured out Moyo wants to be with his sisters so he can’t keep tabs on her.

  “What were you like as a teenager?” he asks.

  “Awful. I didn’t even get along with my brother and sister.”

  His phone rings and he answers it. “Excuse me. Hello? Yes, what is it? I said you should bring it here. No, I didn’t say that. What is wrong with you people? Can’t you follow simple instructions? No, bring it here. Yes, yes, she is here. Hurry up!”