by Sefi Atta
“Glad?” she asks.
“Aren’t you?”
“Glad isn’t the word,” she says.
“Can you think of another?”
She searches the sky, which has since cleared, as if it might collapse on them.
“Terrified,” she says.
“Of what?”
“Can I do it on my own? How will I cope?”
She doesn’t know where she stands with him, other than being the accidental mother of his child.
“You’re not on your own,” he says.
“I know married couples,” she says. “They’re not compatible.”
“Don’t worry. We will be fine.”
He holds her face as if he is tired of talking and she chooses to believe him.
For Good
The rainy season is almost over. She calls Wale before she leaves, to say goodbye. He flies back to Abuja on the day of her return flight. As usual, she is eager to leave Lagos at the end of her stay, but the moment she arrives in London, she begins to miss Lagos.
It is autumn and her flat is cold. She wraps herself up in her duvet, contemplating the coming months. At least she won’t have to answer intimate questions. At least her mother will be spared the embarrassment of having to tell family friends she is pregnant. At least she will be able to turn her attention to becoming a mother. It is a voluntary exile, after which she will return to Lagos. She will not miss London, but she will miss her flat.
As her sitting room heats up she calls Tessa and Bandele. She expects Tessa’s reaction when she tells Tessa how she managed to deflect calls for a family meeting.
“Gosh, why don’t they all just sod off?” Tessa asks.
“It’s family,” Deola says. “What can one do?”
“I suppose.”
Tessa has given up control over her wedding plans. She says Peter has asked his father to be his best man.
“All I need now is for him to say his dad’s organizing his buck’s night,” she says.
“With strippers,” Deola says.
“I can’t believe you’re going back to Nigeria.”
“I’m going home!”
“But you’ve been here so long.”
“I’m not getting anywhere, Tess.”
“But you never said.”
“Because you wouldn’t understand.”
“Why wouldn’t I understand?”
“You just wouldn’t.”
“But you never gave me a chance to.”
“It’s not about you, Tessa.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“Just admit you wouldn’t understand.”
“There are good and bad people everywhere!”
“There’s also ‘your people’ and ‘my people,’ and if you choose to ignore that, there’s no point in us getting into an argument.”
“Fine. I give up, then.”
“Thanks. That’s all I ask.”
“I tell you what,” Tessa says. “If you do end up marrying this man, think very carefully before you commit yourself to a wedding. It’s rubbish, the white dress and everything. It’s completely commercialized now. You should see how much the flowers are costing us. What a nightmare. I can’t believe people do this in Nigeria as well.”
Deola can’t believe anyone would want to be married after the acrimony she has witnessed, but she wouldn’t mind a civil ceremony. Her lack of imagination is inexplicable, coming from a country where she has seen so many ways of cohabiting, a country where she could have been handed over to a man at the age of twelve, under the guise of respectability.
She describes the traditional engagement ceremony Jaiye went through a week before her church wedding. Funsho’s family wore red aso ebi and hers were in blue. They sat on opposite sides of the garden under canopies. Funsho arrived with his relatives and they were given the usual snub and made to wait outside the gate for almost an hour. When her father consented, Funsho and his entourage were finally allowed in. Funsho prostrated on the grass in his white lace agbada and everyone cheered. Jaiye was indoors for most of the ceremony, which alternated between prayers and sexual innuendo, then Jaiye came outside, led by her own entourage. She knelt before Funsho, chose the Bible over the bag of money and everyone cheered again.
The ceremony went on for over four hours. Their house was packed with guests. Relatives Deola had never seen in her life wandered into her bedroom to ask for safety pins and extra plates. Jaiye changed outfits for the night party. She must have worn about ten outfits that week. After her church wedding and reception, there was another night party at home, then she was taken to Funsho’s house, where Funsho’s people removed her shoes and poured water from a calabash on her feet. That was followed by more prayers and yet another night party that went on until after midnight.
“I’d hang myself if I had to go through that,” Tessa says.
Tessa’s father will walk her down the aisle. He will not remember her wedding and is beginning to forget who she is. He might eventually have to go to a home, but her mother is refusing to consider that option.
“It’s getting harder on her,” Tessa says. “And there’s only so much I can do. It’s awful, Alzheimer’s. It’s everywhere, and it will only get worse as people live longer and longer. There’s no support here. I’m sure you have a lot more support in Nigeria, with extended families.”
Deola isn’t sure. She is loath to idealize Nigerian culture. Her family is not typical, but is hardly unique. She imagines that if people are incapacitated in their old age, and they have the means, they are treated better. If they don’t have the means, they are likely to be seen as burdens. But she can’t think of many Nigerians her age who have both parents alive and she can’t name one Nigerian her age who has a grandparent alive.
“People don’t live that long back home,” she says. “Our lifespan is getting shorter and shorter.”
“We can’t win,” Tessa says, “either way.”
z
Bandele has never been interested in her womanly problems. He grunts as she tells him about her trip to Lagos and when she is through asks, “Hey, you know when you got tested, how long was it before you found out the result?”
“The same day.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I’m thinking of having one. I haven’t had one in ages—what with everything else I’ve had to deal with. But it’s been bothering me ever since you said it. I should do something about it, shouldn’t I?”
She is more protective of him. She wants to tell him off for being irresponsible, but she imagines what it is like to have to be tactical about the most ordinary conversations. Perhaps he has even lost friends. It still bothers her that he deceived her, but perhaps she knew all along that he was keeping a secret. She was aware of his manner of steering the focus away from himself. His charades of being prickly were marvelously timed.
“Anytime you’re ready,” she says. “I’ll take you there.”
“Thanks. I couldn’t handle it otherwise. You know how you can be close to someone, but they don’t understand why things are different for you because you’re Nigerian.”
“I know,” she says.
She can’t promise he will be fine. She couldn’t even predict the outcome of his literary competition. She won’t mention prayer. He might take offense. He thinks only thick people pray.
“We’ll go to Paris,” she says. “After it’s over.”
Paris, she thinks. How ridiculous, but he doesn’t have a retort.
“How’s Ola?” he asks.
“His name is not Ola.”
“You haven’t said much about him.”
“I’ve mentioned his name.”
“When?”
“Think!”
“It’s confusing! You keep going on about all these inconsequential people! Ola, Bola, Fola!”
“What is his name, Bandele?”
“I’m just saying.”
“I knew you weren’t list
ening.”
He laughs. “I can always tell when you’ve been to Nigeria.”
“How?”
“The hostility quotient goes right up.”
All she remembers is that she was loved there and surrounded by people she knew, Olas, Bolas and Folas.
She reads him the telephone number of the clinic and after she hangs up begins to research business training on the Internet.
An e-mail comes from Kate, who has seen her report on the malaria NGO. Kate considers her criticism of LINK’s vetting policies “a gross betrayal,” to Deola’s surprise. She says it makes her and Graham look bad. Deola never thought Kate was capable of being confrontational. She skims the rest of the e-mail, her eyes resting on phrases like “I fought for those programs,” “Graham was reluctant to offer you the position” and “We were both concerned that you were so eager to accept a salary that was clearly not commensurate with your experience.”
To Deola, the e-mail reads like, “Deliveries are through the side entrance.”
She types: You stupid cow.
She hits delete.
She types: Evidently, I did not know you as well as I thought I did.
She hits delete.
She types: Perhaps you were not listening when I told you.
Then she trashes Kate’s e-mail. Why bother to reply? She is going home, where she will have a lot to deal with, but not this rubbish anymore.
z
On Thursday evening she drives Bandele to the clinic. He smells of cigarettes and Thai food. It is too cold to have her window down and she is gambling again, speeding through traffic lights after Vauxhall Bridge.
“Will you slow down?” he asks.
She gambles the other way around when she gets to Camberwell, waiting for traffic lights to change to red.
“Um, could you go a little faster?” he asks.
She turns on her car CD player and they listen to “Love All the Hurt Away.” The song makes her want to cry. Her legs are shaking. The symptoms she had when she first went to the clinic are back.
“Who’s this?” Bandele asks.
“Aretha and George Benson.”
“Is it an old one?”
“Eighties.”
He huffs. “I hate eighties music. I hate duets.”
Bandele listens to black music so old it’s gone white. He bites his bottom lip. She would give him a pat on the shoulder, but that might mean he has something to worry about. She ejects the CD. It is a relic she recorded, labeled Ballads.
They get to the clinic and Bandele, who normally refuses to identify himself as Nigerian, begins to show signs of the most common Nigerian phobia—of situations that remind him of his mortality. He is so petrified that he huddles over as he walks from the car park to the clinic. It is not that cold this evening.
“Are you all right?” she asks.
“Yeah,” he mumbles.
He waits for her to speak to the receptionist. She has to fill out his registration form. He can’t think of a suitable fake name other than “J. M. Coetzee.”
“No one will be able to pronounce that,” she says. “What about James Baldwin?”
He nods. The waiting room is full. She wonders how many of them will know who James Baldwin is. The receptionist calls out his name and Bandele, who once called Nigerians a bunch of backward religious fanatics, lets out a cry, “Christ!”
He doubles over. The receptionist comes to his aid. “Are you all right? Does he speak English?”
Everyone watches as Deola helps him up. She assures the receptionist that he is fine and speaks English. She leads him to the doctor’s office and prods him in. She prays as she waits, begging, whining, accusing and bargaining, conscious that she has prayed harder here than she has in any church. If only she could go to clinics every Sunday.
Bandele comes out still huddled over. Instead of stopping in the waiting room, he walks out of the clinic and she follows him to her car.
“Open the door,” he says.
He sits in her car. She knocks on the window several times, but he won’t wind it down. She gets into the car. What should she do now? Drive off? Call the police?
She, too, has another common Nigerian phobia—of mental illness. She makes some attempt to rub his back. When it looks as if he is unlikely to budge she ends up going back to the clinic to get his results.
The receptionist is pleasant as usual. “I’ll send you in when Dr. Srinivasan is free.”
“Thanks,” Deola says.
She hoped she would never see Dr. Srinivasan again in her life. She waits another ten minutes for the doctor, whose expression has not changed. Nor have her clothes. She wears the same black shirt under her white coat and the same ornamental gold earrings. It is almost as if she has been waiting for Deola’s return.
“He’s had a breakdown before,” Deola says. “I didn’t think this would trigger another one. I just want you to tell me if he’s okay. I’ll tell him if you want. There is no guarantee how he will take it.”
“I can’t do that,” Dr. Srinivasan says.
Her demeanor suggests she may not have encouraging news, but Deola is unsure: perhaps she is just irritated.
“Please,” Deola says. “All I need is a hint. I won’t say anything to him.”
She rubs her leg, which has since gone numb. Why Bandele? After everything he has been through. The traffic lights were not in his favor.
“We’d better get out there,” Dr. Srinivasan says.
As they approach her car, they don’t see Bandele and Deola hurries over. He is still there, but his forehead is practically on his knees. She knocks on his window again. What has she caused? Is he in shock? Dr. Srinivasan motions to her to wait and gets into the driver’s seat. Bandele sits up obediently and Deola leans on her car, unable to watch. She stands up straight when Dr. Srinivasan comes out.
“He’s fine,” Dr. Srinivasan says.
Deola shakes her hand. “Thank you.”
Dr. Srinivasan smiles. “He might want to go to somewhere else next time. Somewhere he can get the care he needs.”
Dr. Srinivasan returns to the clinic with a heroic strut. Deola gets into the driver’s seat and Bandele is now slumped against the window.
“Are you all right?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“Sorry I brought you here.”
“It was my fault.”
“I’m glad your test was okay.”
“Me too. I didn’t mean to give you a scare.”
His contrition doesn’t last. On the way back, she is driving past Kennington Park when her phone rings and she asks him to answer it. The lights of the tennis courts are already on. The call has to be from someone at home, her family or Wale calling to check up on her. Wale never speaks for long, but he writes her e-mails asking if she is keeping well and getting sufficient rest. She laughs out loud at his accounts of the daily events in his hotel he calls “Fawlty Towers.” He always ends with a “Looking forward to your safe return. Yours, Wale.”
“Wally who?” Bandele asks.
Deola signals to him to hand her the phone.
“No, you haven’t got the wrong number,” he says. “No, she can’t take your call right now.”
“Give me the phone,” Deola says.
Bandele dodges her. “I’m her friend. Pardon? I said I’m her friend. Yes. We’re off to Paris. Pardon? Yes, I’m sure she’ll call you when we get back.”
He cuts Wale off. Deola keeps her eye on a cyclist ahead.
“Why did you do that?”
“He’ll get over it.”
“Bloody hell, that was so childish of you. We’re finally beginning to talk.”
“He’d better do more than talk.”
“I can’t believe this. I don’t play games. Give me that phone.”
“God, I feel as if I’ve taken a sleeping pill after speaking to him.”
“Give me my phone back!”
“No.”
“Bandele!”
> “No! And I’ll tell you this, this isn’t another job in Wolverhampton!”
“Wembley!”
“Wherever. You’d better get more demanding. He’d better know what you’re worth. This might be your last chance out of spinsterhood.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“No! The least he can do while you’re getting fat is call you!”
“Give me back my phone.”
“Go on, then. Call him, if you must.”
She doesn’t, but she has had enough of Bandele. She decides she won’t see him for a while.
“I can’t go to Paris with you,” she says.
“Why not?” he asks.
“I’m not allowed to travel in my first trimester.”
He looks her up and down. “You little liar.”
She doesn’t admit to lying and she resists pushing him out of her car when she drops him off. He takes too long to say goodbye.
“I just don’t want to see you acting so feeble anymore,” he says. “No, really. I don’t think you get it. I don’t think you get it yet. You need to be more demanding. I know I may go on at you about this or that, but you’re a good friend. A really good friend, and I’ll miss you when you’re gone. No, really, I will. Don’t look at me in that way. I’m being serious here, for once, and I just… I just don’t want anyone taking advantage of you. Why do you keep looking at me like that?”
She wants to go. Wale might be calling her at home.
“I’m serious. He’d better be nice to you. That’s all I’m saying. I don’t know what he’s like, but if he’s anything like the others, then don’t do that to yourself.”
“I won’t,” she says, to hurry him.
“Good, because you’re better than that. You are, Old Fanny, and it’s time you start demanding more. You can’t be too timid. ‘There are casualties, but there is nothing to fear.’ Those were your words.”
“When did I say that?”
He smiles. “Well, to paraphrase.”
She is exhausted. Bandele exhausts her like no one else.
“Say hello to Charlie,” she says.
He raises a brow, then seems to remember he is having a kind moment.
“I will.”
“Does your family ever ask why you’re not married?”
“No.”