Voice of America

by E. C. Osondu

  NDUKA CAME TO meet her at the airport with her “husband.” His name was Jonathan Smokes; he was tall and gangly and reminded her vaguely of a character from the television comedy Good Times. He wore his hair in curls and spoke in a soft singsong voice that she would grow to love in the days to come.

  Nduka gave her a big hug. He hadn’t changed much. He just looked a lot less relaxed than he used to be, and a bit impatient. She did not blame him. She had already noticed that the pace of life was faster here than what she was used to back in Nigeria. People spoke faster; she had to strain her ears to hear the questions the immigration officer asked her. The immigration officer had made a joke about mind over matter that she did not get but laughed about.

  “We will sleep at Jonathan’s place,” Nduka told her. When she asked him why he had told her to be patient, he responded, “This is America.”

  Jonathan’s apartment was tiny but very clean and beautiful. The walls were painted white, which added a touch of cleanliness to the place. Pictures of chubby-cheeked children—he said they were his nieces and nephews—adorned the walls. It also began to dawn on her that it was no coincidence that the guy’s last name was Smokes. He smoked a lot of cigarettes; otherwise he was very nice, called her I-Jay, and smiled a lot.

  Ijedi was surprised that he had put on an apron and gone to the kitchen to cook for them. After having a bath they had joined him in the kitchen. Nduka had whispered to her that Jonathan was a marvelous cook. She asked to help him out, but he only smiled and told her he was fine. In a corner of the kitchen was a hair dryer and piles of Ebony and Essence magazines. Nduka said Jonathan was a hairdresser, and Jonathan smiled at her, touching her hair and commenting on its fine texture. Ijedi was surprised that Nduka only smiled when Jonathan touched her hair. The old Nduka would not have let anyone touch his woman.

  She enjoyed the meal prepared by Jonathan. There was a bit of everything. It was as if they were eating out, and to top it off he made each of them a cup of coffee. And he did all of this smiling and seemed to be enjoying every minute of it. He even gave his bedroom to them.

  That night she was happy to be in Nduka’s arms again; they enjoyed each other. Their lovemaking before he left Nigeria had been beginning to lose the tenderness of their early days because of the pressure of her not yet getting pregnant. They had discovered each other again, and she felt happy.

  Nduka explained to her why he could not take her home. He had no home; he worked for a haulage company and lived out of a truck. He told her that was how he had managed to save up money to send for her. He said Jonathan was a very good friend who had agreed to assist them. He told her he was leaving the next morning for Delaware and would not be back till after a week. She wanted to ask him if he was not worried about leaving her alone with Jonathan but thought better of it, since it also meant she was bringing into question her own faithfulness. She followed him to the truck. It was quite nice, and the inside was cozy too. She could now see how he could live comfortably in the truck for weeks.

  By the time she took a nap and woke up, Jonathan had cleaned the entire house. The floor, which was made of wooden boards, was gleaming, and everywhere smelled of Pine-Sol. He was wearing an apron again and was in the kitchen expertly peeling the skin off a piece of fresh chicken, cutting it in cubes, rolling it in chili spice, and putting it into an oven tray.

  “Nd told me you like spicy food, so I’m making you something really hot and spicy,” he said.

  “Oh, no, you should have let me do the cooking this time; in my country men do not cook.”

  “Oh, really? Men don’t cook—that’s weird,” he said and began to laugh.

  “But it is true, cooking is seen as a woman’s job. Even sweeping the house; I was shocked to see you doing that.”

  “Wow, that must really be hard for the women. You mean Nd never helped you out in the kitchen when you guys were in Nigeria? That must have really been hard; he told me you had your own business establishment. So how did you juggle that?”

  “It was not that difficult. In my country women juggle a whole lot more, including large families and full-time jobs. It is even worse in the rural areas, where the women do all the work and the men sit under the trees drinking ogogoro, local gin.”

  Before they went to sleep that night, Jonathan sat across from her in his pink pajamas and slowly began to roll a small marijuana cigarette. Smiling, he offered it to her after he took the first drag. She told him she did not smoke, but that she had an uncle back home in Nigeria who did.

  “My uncle thinks that the only way to achieve world peace is through ganja.”

  “Oh, really? Tell me ‘bout this uncle of yours. I’m beginning to like him already.”

  “He was an ex-soldier. He fought in the Biafran war and came back from the war with a limp and seven bullets lodged in his thigh. He had nothing after the war and started a marijuana farm. He came back home with all kinds of animals every day from his farm; he said the animals became jolly and dozed off after eating the marijuana leaves and seeds. He picked them up with his hands and used them to prepare delicious stews. My mother warned me not to eat the stew. She claimed he added ganja leaves to it, but I always ate it secretly, and often left his house feeling happy.”

  “Oh, my! You must have eaten the marijuana without knowing it.”

  “No, I doubt it. My uncle would not have done anything to endanger my well-being.”

  “Who told you marijuana would interfere with your well-being?” Jonathan said, laughing.

  He smoked the marijuana until it was completely gone and had to put the tips of his fingers to his tongue because he had burned them slightly. She went to him and took his hands, took him to the washbasin in the bathroom, and poured cold water on them. She could smell the almost raw smell of the ganja on his breath and his body, but surprisingly, she liked it. She held on to his fingers after turning up the tap, and then let go of them quickly, catching herself. He only smiled and went to the fridge and poured a drink of apple juice for them both. She took a seat in the sitting room and sipped her drink slowly, crushing the ice with her teeth and enjoying it as she used to when she was small.

  He began to talk to her. He told her about his grandfather, the Reverend Smokes, who always dreamed of returning to Africa. He said he wanted to be buried in the land of his ancestors. Unfortunately ill health had made him so poor that by the time he became old, there was no money to fly him to Africa. He had died an unhappy man. He told her some of his relations in Memphis said they had seen his ghost on occasion in the fog of the Delta mist. She enjoyed the story, but she was yawning. He took her hand, kissed her on the cheeks, and led her to the bed. He tucked her into bed and turned on the night lamp, gently closed the door, and went to the living room to sleep.

  They went to city hall and had the wedding. Nduka was there, and they all laughed through the entire ceremony, making the officiating person remark that he had not seen such a happy couple in a very long while.

  Later that night she asked Nduka why he had felt confident enough to leave her with Jonathan. She told him that she was happy he was very confident about her, even after a year of separation. Nduka only smiled, told her that he could trust Jonathan completely, and remarked mysteriously, “This is America.” She began running her fingers over his hairy chest. In the sitting room, Jonathan lit a stick of marijuana.

  Miracle Baby

  Every summer Ijeoma’s mother-in-law asked her to come to Nigeria to seek a solution to her childlessness. The previous year she had sent Ijeoma a video recording of Nigeria’s latest miracle pastor. The pastor’s name was Jehoshaphat. He had a long, well-groomed beard. He was shown in the video sending women into brief trances by gently blowing air onto their faces. He was said to visit barren women in their dreams and hand them babies wrapped in a white shawl. After the dream visitation, the women usually became pregnant and came to his church with their newborn babies wrapped in white shawls. The videocassette was filled with images of women
singing and dancing their way to the microphone and telling stories of how Pastor Jehoshaphat had visited them in their dreams, and a few days later they had become pregnant. Some of the women told stories of how they had gone to a witch doctor, a babalawo, in search of a solution to their childlessness and had been made to do all kinds of weird things. A woman in the tape said that she had been made to drink cow urine for nine months, “No water, only cow urine from a white cow, for nine months.” She emphasized each word. And yet she could not become pregnant. Another woman gleefully confessed that a babalawo had told her that the only way she could get pregnant was if she let him have his way with her. The babalawo was a wrinkled, toothless ninety-year-old. She confessed that she was so desperate she had slept with the man, and yet she had remained barren. Now she was the proud mother of twins after being visited by Pastor Jehoshaphat in her dream. There was another testimony by a woman who had been driven out of her matrimonial home by an irate mother-in-law. She said her mother-in-law wouldn’t let her grown-up daughters eat out of the same plate or drink from the same cup with her out of fear that she would infect them with her barrenness. She said after she got pregnant, the same mother-in-law had come to beg her forgiveness and was in fact in church with her today. The mother-in-law leaped out of her seat and walked to the microphone, and both women embraced each other. The crowd erupted, and lots of white shawls went up in the air like cotton buds in the Harmattan wind.

  There was yet another video testimony by a woman who claimed to have been married to a “spirit husband.” She said she had had a pact with her spirit husband; that she would come to earth, get married to a man and cause her earthly husband un-happiness, and then die during childbirth and return to her spirit husband. But she had ended up falling in love with her earthly husband due to his caring nature, and had become reluctant to return to her spirit husband. This had made the spirit husband angry, and he would come into her bed every night and make love to her furiously. As a result of this, she was always too tired to make love to her earthly husband and would sometimes wake up in the morning to find her own side of the bed soaked with sweat from the lovemaking with her spirit husband. A friend had brought her to the church, and the pastor had delivered her from the powers of the spirit husband. She became pregnant and was now the mother of twins. She got a standing ovation for her testimony.

  Ijeoma lived in New York City and did in fact have access to some of the best gynecologists. But her mother-in-law told her that there was nothing wrong with looking for a “homegrown solution” to her problem. People in the Nigerian community told her she was lucky to have a mother-in-law who looked out for her. In many instances the mother-in-law would have sent her out of the marriage by bringing a nubile young girl for her son. Ijeoma had grown up living with her mother-in-law, and called her Mama. She had been sent to live with the woman who later became her mother-in-law by her parents when she was quite young, in order, in her mother’s words, to “receive good home training and to become a modern lady.” Her future mother-in-law was a schoolteacher and a caterer, and Ijeoma had been one of many girls sent by their parents to live with her. She had taken a special interest in Ijeoma, and by the time Ijeoma had lived with her for a few months, she announced that Ijeoma would be the wife of one of her sons. Though Ijeoma had never met the man who would become her husband, she was considered fortunate by the other girls because he was living in America. His name was Juwah, and he was said to be brilliant and kind and was his mother’s favorite.

  Ijeoma’s mother-in-law had a favorite saying: “Ignore what’s written on the body of the truck, and just get into the truck.” This was her mantra. She was a devout Catholic who never missed mass and was a member of the Catholic Women’s League, yet she believed in the new “miracle pastors,” as they were called in Nigeria. She also believed that when it came to curing Ijeoma of her childlessness, no solution was heathen. Once Ijeoma had suggested that the problem might actually be with Juwah, but her mother-in-law would not hear of it. Childlessness was always the woman’s problem, even if it was not always her fault, she had told Ijeoma. She had stopped short of telling her mother-in-law that Juwah, who was a computer programmer and worked from home, was always sitting in front of the computer, and each time he came to bed, his hands and lips were cold and his touch chilly like that of a corpse.

  During an earlier visit home, Ijeoma’s mother-in-law had taken her to visit the popular Baby Market in Ajangbadi, a rundown part of Lagos. As they got out of the car, a couple of girls with faces turned yellow by skin-lightening creams crowded around them.

  “What type of baby do you want? Boy or girl? Or even twins—I can have them for you if you pay me very well and take care of me,” one of the girls said to Ijeoma. Even that early in the day, the girl’s breath reeked of ogogoro and cigarettes.

  “Sister, I have customers from London and Germany, and I have their letters to prove it, I can help you. I have given birth to many fine babies, and there is no sickness in my body—I have my doctor’s report here,” another of the girls said, thrusting a sheaf of stained light brown papers into her face. All around them young men stood around smoking marijuana and smilingly watched the conversation and negotiations. There were other well-dressed women there, busy negotiating with the girls.

  What had grown into the Baby Market had been going on underground for years but had now come into the open because of the downturn in the economy. For a long time, many rich barren women would go to “white-garment churches” and come back home months later with babies. Quite often, the pastors of the white-garment churches had a flock of young men and women who were in their employ. Once there was a demand for a baby, the young people were given the go-ahead to sleep together. As soon as the girl got pregnant and had the baby, she and the young man were paid off and the baby handed over to the barren woman, who paid handsomely for the baby and walked away with it, no questions asked. There were no adoption agencies in the country, and the idea of adoption was frowned upon. Besides, no adopted person could inherit any property at the death of his adopted parents. The relations of the deceased would simply throw him out, referring to him as an outsider.

  Turning to her mother-in-law, Ijeoma had whispered that they should go to one corner of the Baby Market to talk privately. Thinking they were going to talk about money, one of the young men had accosted them and started to explain. “Auntie,” he said to Ijeoma, “are you married to a white man ? Don’t worry, we have many half-castes among us here who can give you a very yellow baby—even, sef, when your white husband sees the baby, he will swear that the baby is his own, I swear to God.” Ijeoma looked at her mother-in-law and began to drag her toward the car, but the young man was unrelenting.

  “Or is it the money that you are worried about? We accept installment payment, sef—even if you are living abroad in London, America, or Rome you can go with your baby and send us our money month by month through Western Union money transfer,and don’t worry yourself about any problem in the future, we can never come to ask for the baby, in fact we sign a guarantee paper and we even swear with Bible and ogun if you like that we can never come to disturb you or try to take away the baby.”

  Ijeoma had dragged her mother-in-law away at that point, fighting to control her rising temper.

  “Mama, don’t you see that most of them are drug addicts and drunks—who knows the kind of sickness they are harboring?”

  “Everybody who needs a baby in Lagos comes here to patronize them, and there has never been any complaint concerning them,” her mother-in-law replied.

  “But Mama, for these people it is only a business, and a baby should be conceived in love. A child is not a commodity, you know.”

  “It is you who will give the baby love when he is born, not these people,” her mother-in-law replied with her sometimes impeccable logic. But Ijeoma had not been convinced. She suggested that she needed time to think things over and promised that they could return the next week when she had thought sufficien
tly about it.

  “My daughter, it is because I want to carry your baby on my knees before I die—this is why I am doing all of these things. Don’t forget that I am getting old and I cannot be with you forever,” she said to Ijeoma in a tone that sounded woebegone but wheedling.

  By the time they went back to the Baby Market a week later, the place had been raided by the police. There were reports that some Lagos women were using the babies they bought from the place for moneymaking juju rituals. A few months later, the Baby Market resurfaced in a new location and was said to have grown even bigger. It now had the police on its payroll and was receiving police protection. All that had happened during her last visit, and this time she was hoping things would be different. She had no wish to return to the Baby Market.

  The weekend after Ijeoma arrived, her mother-in-law chartered a taxi to take them to a church in Badagry, on the outskirts of Lagos, where the prophet’s church was located. Badagry used to be the center of a famous slave market in the days of slavery, which housed the place that used to be known as the “point of no return.” It was said that once a captured slave reached this spot, he had no chance of ever going back. It was said that to this day, the slaves’ voices could still be heard, crying out that they did not want to leave their fatherland. It was now a tourist destination; there was also a Museum of Slavery that housed chains, shackles, and other paraphernalia of that infamous trade in black people.

  The prophet’s church was a large white hall surrounded by canopies and tents. Behind it were little shacks made out of palm fronds. Members of the church and supplicants who had traveled from afar wore white flowing gowns and walked about on bare feet; the prophet had designated the location of his church a holy ground, and no shoes were allowed. All around women and children in dirty white soutanes sat waiting. Some of the children played in the sand, while a few played in puddles of urine. There were flies everywhere, and the heat was stifling. The majority of those waiting had apparently been fasting, and their lips appeared to be coated in a white film. Big cooking pots were boiling atop large fires, and the smell of boiling beef and rice filled the air. According to a brochure that Ijeoma bought at the entrance to the church, the prophet had started out as a carpenter and coffin maker. One day while he was in the bush, cutting wood, a little black bird had called out his name. As he stood still listening to the voice of the bird, he had fallen into a deep trance, and when he woke up, a voice had spoken to him and told him that from that day onward he would become a giver of life, rather than a taker who built coffins with which people were buried.