by Tim Butcher
‘I have something to tell you, madam,’ he said, his voice hoarse. She smelt alcohol on his breath. ‘It’s not pleasant, but I feel it is my duty.’ He gazed at the mobile in his hand. ‘I sit here, you see. I sit here and watch the world go by. There’s things I see.’ He paused, breathing heavily. ‘It concerns your husband and a certain female.’
He looked up at her, waiting for her reaction. She didn’t speak.
He passed her the mobile. ‘So when it’s juiced up again it beeps, that means it’s got a message.’ Ngobo gave her a sorrowful look. ‘It’s you I was thinking of.’
‘What do you mean?’ she whispered.
‘What do I mean, dear lady? I mean, I pressed the button and I listened to what the message said.’
*
Ernestine sat jammed against her husband in the bus. She couldn’t speak; she felt emptied of breath. Kwesi said nothing either but then he was a man of few words. His silence today, however, now she knew the truth, seemed pregnant with guilt. His bony shoulder and hip pressed against her – the bus was jammed with people – but now it felt like an alien body, a body that belonged to someone else.
Her brain felt sluggish, drugged with shock. The questions turned over and over, laboriously. How could he do such a thing? How long had it been going on? How often had it happened? How could be betray her, and his children? How could he?
The woman’s name was Adwoa and Ernestine knew her well. In fact Adwoa Shaibu-Ali was one of her best customers. She lived at the far end of the village and was a buxom, handsome, lazy woman with a brood of illiterate children, for Adwoa kept the girls at home to look after the babies that she produced at regular intervals and to do the housework which she was too indolent to do herself. Her thin, elderly husband worked uncomplainingly to keep her in the style to which she was accustomed – new make-up, new clothes, a monthly visit to Asseweya to get her hair-weaves put in. Few of the local women could afford the hairdresser and they wrapped their heads in cloths but Adwoa’s hair was always glossy, a curvy bob, ornamented with a selection of Ernestine’s novelty clips. Most of the day Adwoa sat around nattering to her neighbours, leafing through magazines and pausing only to cuff one of her children. And texting on her mobile. She was always texting.
The sun was setting by the time Ernestine got home. Normally it was her favourite time of day. Up in the trees the bats detached themselves from the bat-clumps that hung down like heavy bundles of fruit; they flew off, one by one, into the suffused sky. Today they looked sinister with their leather wings and sharp little teeth. Everything had turned upside down; it was as if Ernestine had plunged into the lake of her childhood, plunged beneath the placid surface, and found herself in a strange and menacing world, a warped reflection of the real one that she had so foolishly taken for granted.
It was still stiflingly hot. She watched Kwesi as he washed himself in a bowl of water. His chest was bare, his hair dripping. He wasn’t a handsome man, his nose was too big and his ears stuck out, but he was hers, and they had been man and wife for half her lifetime. Beside him, the unsuspecting Grace was stirring banku over the fire. She looked so pure, so innocent. Kwesi’s mother was chopping onions. Old and frail, she doted on her son. What was going to happen to their family, that a few hours ago had seemed so contented?
Night fell. Nobody noticed Ernestine’s silence; she had never been a chatty woman. She moved around in a daze, the voices of her family echoing far away. She was more hurt than angry – hurt, and deeply humiliated, that her husband had revealed himself to be no better than all those other men, the errant fornicators whose wives she used to pity. How blind she had been! In bed she lay rigid beside him, and when he put his hand on her breast she muttered that she was tired and turned away. Soon he fell asleep but for many hours she lay awake, her mind racing. What was she going to do – tell him she knew all about his affair with Adwoa? Kick him out of their home? The prospect was too terrifying, it made her blood run cold. Beside her slept her youngest boys, the twins. What would they do, without a father? And what would Grace do, a budding young woman, filled with such purity and fervour, when she discovered that her father was an adulterer?
The next day Ernestine went to the monthly meeting of the women’s savings group. In normal times she looked forward to this; the twelve women had formed a close bond based on mutual trust and a shared stake in each other’s financial matters; besides, it was a chance to catch up on each other’s news. Ernestine was proud, that she had saved up her money each month to start her own business, that as a respected member of the community she now held one of the keys to the money box. Today, however, she was filled with dread. As they sat in a circle under the trees, she looked at the faces around her. Did any of them know? Did the whole village know, and had everyone been whispering behind her back? Would she soon be like Dede, the widowed mother of little Mustafa the water-seller, who lived in such abject poverty that she could only contribute one cedi a month and had frequently been bailed out by the other women, much to her shame?
Adwoa didn’t belong to the group; she was a stranger to thrift and female empowerment, she let her husband do the work while she sat at home on her big bottom, leaving messages to Ernestine’s husband on her mobile phone. Ernestine wondered what Adwoa was doing – primping herself up for a tryst with Kwesi? Rubbing Imam Shea Butter on to her skin and anointing her lips with the Yana Luxury Lip Shimmer she had bought the week before, the better to kiss him with? Ernestine felt sick. Kwesi’s patch of land was not far from Adwoa’s house; was it there that they met, hidden amongst the cassava bushes? Ernestine hadn’t heard the message, Ngobo had deleted it to save her blushes, he said, but the gist of it seemed to be how much Adwoa was longing to see her Kwesi again, she could hardly wait. Her Kwesi.
Now Ernestine thought of it, Adwoa’s youngest baby had a big nose, just like Kwesi’s.
‘Are you ready?’
Ernestine jumped. The two other key-holders were waiting. Ernestine rallied and the three women opened the padlocks. They all sang a song together, gathered round the tin box and got down to business. Dede, whose husband had died of AIDS, was saving up for a piece of land to grow maize. Humu was supporting herself through school by running a food stall. Lydia was setting up a biscuit bakery. Ernestine gazed at the scene – the dappled shadows, the chickens scratching in the dust, the kids walking from one woman to another, selling sweets and plantain chips. Her secret weighed her down; she had a strong urge to confide in somebody.
There was a burst of laughter. Nancy and Irene sat together, sharing a joke. They also shared a husband, Joseph. Two years earlier, when Joseph had taken the young Irene as his second wife, all hell had broken loose. The savings club, however, had brought them together. Previously both women had made a meagre living selling cassava, which they chopped laboriously by hand, paying a middle-man for the milling. But with the help of the tin box they had clubbed together to buy a milling machine and now they worked it together, joking about Joseph’s shortcomings as the machine whirred away. Could Ernestine ever imagine sharing her husband with another woman?
The idea was disgusting. She would rather die. Later, back home, she inspected her face in the mirror. It gazed back at her, naked, square-jawed. She had never worn make-up. Perhaps she should use some of her own products to woo Kwesi back. She could pluck her eyebrows and lighten her skin with Dimples Skin Lightener. She could perfume herself with jasmine and use her Cote D’Azur make-up kit, complete with brushes, to shadow her eyes and paint her lips. Maybe then she could win back his love.
Or she could visit Giti, the witch. Everyone feared Giti. She lived alone behind the mosque, she was known to have the evil eye. Only the other week a headless chicken had been found outside her front door. Giti could put a curse on one of Ernestine’s skin creams. When Adwoa bought it, her face would erupt in boils and Kwesi would run away in horror.
What else could Ernestine do? She could go to church and pray. She could storm into Adwoa’s house and t
ell her to lay off her husband. She could have a showdown with Kwesi.
Or she could do nothing and hope it would pass.
Ernestine was a coward; she did nothing. The sun sank behind the trees. The bats detached themselves and flew away. She swept the floor and washed her mother-in-law’s hair. She separated her squabbling sons. Her older children came home from school. She cooked them jollof rice and red pepper sauce. Her husband came home from the fields and put his mobile on the shelf, where it always sat. Grace came home, her books under her arm. She didn’t say a word. Ernestine caught Grace looking at herself and Kwesi with an odd expression on her face. Did she know something was up?
*
The days passed. Ernestine went out selling her wares but she avoided Adwoa’s house, she couldn’t bear to see the woman. On Wednesday the girls’ football team played a match and Ernestine, working the crowd, made a large number of sales. Grace had backed out of the match saying she didn’t feel well. She was nowhere to be seen, and wasn’t at home when Ernestine returned. At the time Ernestine thought nothing of it, presuming Grace was menstruating. She had too many other things on her mind.
The next morning, needing to replenish her stock, she rose early, to travel into Asseweya with her husband. It was hard to believe that only a week had passed since her last visit.
The sun was rising as they climbed into the bus. It was just pulling into the road when someone yelled.
‘Wait!’
Ernestine looked out of the window. Adwoa hobbled towards them, one hand clutching her long, tight skirt, the other hand waving the bus to stop.
Adwoa squeezed herself into the seat behind them. She was dressed in an orange and green batik outfit; her hair was embellished with one of Ernestine’s gardenia-clips, and she was perspiring from the unaccustomed exercise.
Ernestine froze. The harlot greeted Kwesi politely, as if she hardly knew him – she nodded to him as she nodded to the other passengers from the village. Her mascara was smudged and she was breathing heavily.
She leaned forward to Ernestine. ‘My dear, I’m spitting mad,’ she muttered. ‘I’ve got a bone to pick with my brother, the good-for-nothing drunk.’
Ernestine’s head span. She glanced at her husband but now the bus was moving he appeared to have dozed off. It was all pretence, of course.
Adwoa was jabbering away. It seemed to be a family quarrel about a will. ‘… left him some land but he can’t farm it, the rascal’s a cripple! …’ The words seemed to come from far off. Ernestine’s mind was busy. Was this a pre-arranged tryst between her husband and Adwoa?After all, it was unusual for her, Ernestine, to go to Asseweya two weeks running. The two fornicators were certainly playing a clever game, Kwesi feigning sleep and his mistress engaging Ernestine in some incomprehensible story about a drunken cripple.
When they arrived in town Adwoa pushed her way to the front of the bus. Ernestine watched her big, gaudy body work its way through the crowd. She was heading for the phone-charging booth.
And now Adwoa was standing there, shouting at Ngobo, the man with the mobiles, the man who never moved. The man who, it turned out, happened to be her brother.
*
People said it was God’s will, that Ngobo was born a cripple. People said it was an ancestral curse. People said it was just bad luck. Some people had shown him kindness; some had bullied him. Mostly, however, people had ignored him. When he was a child he had begged at the crossroads outside Asseweya, where the traffic streamed between Accra and the north. Every day one of his brothers or sisters would push him along the central reservation and leave him at the traffic lights. He sat on his little cart, his withered legs tucked beneath him. This was a prime spot for the disabled and fights would break out between them as they jostled for the best position.
But the worst fights were with his sister, Adwoa.
Adwoa, who throughout his childhood bullied and teased him. Who stole his sweets and ran away on her strong healthy legs. Who ridiculed him to the other girls. Who left him on his cart, in the rain, while she disappeared into the bushes with her boyfriends. Who stole his money and taunted him to come and get it. And who now was trying to steal back a cassava-patch their father had left to him in his will.
A cripple has to develop alternative methods of survival. Over the years, Ngobo had learnt to be wily. Of course he was bitter – how could he not be? But he had his wits. Each day, at his stall, he watched people coming and going, busy with their day, blessed with their children, people who took it for granted that they could move from one place to another, dance, have sex, have a life.
All Ngobo had were his mobile phones. They sat there on his table, rows of them, plugged in and silently charging. Within them lay the only power he had – the power to settle old feuds, to pay back his tormenters … And to make mischief.
*
How did Ernestine discover the truth – that Ngobo had lied, that there was no message on her husband’s phone, that Ngobo had simply wanted to take revenge on his sister? Why had he chosen Ernestine and her husband, a respectable, hard-working couple who loved each other? What had they ever done to him?
I’ll never know because at this point the trail grows cold. I suspect that Ernestine’s strong, unadorned beauty had inflamed him, that he was half in love with her himself, and bitterly jealous of her happy marriage. That he had watched her on her visits to the beauty shop on the other side of the road, and wanted her for himself. Who knows? I heard the story from Lily, who owned God Is Good Beauty Products. She’s my cousin, and I dropped in on her when I travelled to Ghana to visit my relatives.
All I heard was that a few days later Ernestine’s daughter Grace, who had been acting so strangely, drew her mother aside and told her that she was expecting a baby. The father was a taxi-driver who used to stop at her auntie’s stall to eat her fried fish. He had promised to marry Grace but he was never seen again. Poor Grace, so rigid and intransigent, and who, it transpires, didn’t manage to practise what she preached.
When I arrived in Accra I stayed at the Novotel. They put me on the second floor. Through my window I could see the pool, the sunbathers, the waiters serving drinks amongst the bougainvilleas. A high wall surrounded the garden.
When I returned from upcountry they put me on the sixth floor. This was above the wall and when I looked out of the window a different Africa was spread below me: the Makola Market which stretched as far as the eye could see … a heaving mass of people, vegetables, goats. The room was air-conditioned and the window sealed, but in my heart I could hear the voices and the music, I could smell the exhaust fumes and the frying food. …
I watched it for hours as the sun set and the swallows swooped. And then it was gone, as if it had never been. When night falls Africans melt back into the darkness, into their unknowable lives. Then the hotel reception rang to tell me my taxi had arrived, to take me to the airport.
Africa evaporated into the blaze of the terminal building. All I had was Lily’s shea butter, which I rubbed into my hands. I smelt it on my skin as I slept all the way back to England, leaving Ghana, and her stories, behind.
Ovarian Roulette
KATHY LETTE
Kathy Lette first achieved succès de scandale as a teenager with the novel Puberty Blues. After several years as a newspaper columnist and television sitcom writer in America and Australia, she wrote ten international bestsellers including Foetal Attraction, Mad Cows, How to Kill Your Husband (and other handy household hints) and To Love, Honour and Betray. Her novels have been published in fourteen languages around the world. Two have been made into motion pictures. She lives in London with her husband and two children and has recently been awarded an Honorary Doctorate by Southampton University.
BRAZIL IS A Catholic country, so copulation equals population. What about the Rhythm Method, I hear you ask? Well, do you know what you call a woman who uses the Rhythm Method? Mum.
I’m in Brazil. I know. It’s a long way to go for a wax. In fact I’m in th
e equivalent of an unwaxed pudenda – the north east of the country, Maranhao, on the edge of the rainforest, home to the country’s poorest people. I’m not actually here for a Brazilian (this is the only context in which you’ll ever hear me say this, but Bring Back Bush!) but to see what Plan is doing to improve the lives of young women in this impoverished place.
I wanted to tell the story of one girl. But all the girls I met – Maria, Jeanine, Rosana, Lorena, Amanda, Marina, Cintia, Melissa, Nataly, Teresa, Ana and Johanna – had the same sad tale. It’s a story of child prostitution, teenage pregnancy, HIV, no contraception, illegal back-street abortion, sex tourism, single mothers, macho men, irresponsible, absentee fathers and domestic violence.
*
Teresa is typical. She is fifteen and already has two baby girls. Her sisters fell pregnant at twelve and fourteen respectively. The question is, did they fall, or were they pushed? With no access to contraceptives and brash, cocksure boyfriends who refuse to wear condoms, especially when deflowering a girl – it’s a game of Ovarian Roulette.
A pregnancy test is the one test you can’t cheat on – and these teenagers fail it far too regularly. The placenta is known locally as ‘the partner’ – and in most cases, it’s the only partner there at the birth. The fathers are U.F.Os: Unidentified Fleeing Objects. Brazilian men seem to approach commitment with the same enthusiasm a nude guy approaches a barbed-wire fence. To them a ‘paternity suit’ is the latest look in men’s leisure wear down in Rio.
The town I am visiting, São Luís, is nick-named ‘The Love Island’, because of the high number of pregnant teenagers and AIDS patients. The slum where Teresa lives is called, ironically, the Olympic Village, Cidade Olimpica. 70,000 people squat here in destitution – going for Gold in the Misery Olympics. With fetid garbage strewn on every street corner, no running water but plenty of running raw sewage and decrepit buildings scarred in graffiti, you could say that on first view, the favelas lack charm. On second and third sight too, actually. But the charm of the women I met made up for it. Despite their penury, in each ramshackle dwelling young abandoned teenage mothers greeted me with shy generosity and warmth.