by Sefi Atta
Your husband slipped a cassette into the stereo in the sitting room: Ella in Hamburg. You poured drinks into crystal glasses, a gin and tonic for him and, for yourself, a sherry.
On afternoons like this, he sometimes left home without saying where he was going, but you knew he would be with his other family for a while. You would read paperbacks by Jackie Collins and Harold Robbins. You had a section for them in the bookshelf under the staircase, next to the leather-bound English literature classics. They took you to exotic places, where people’s motivations were revealed and you didn’t have to speculate as to why they got up to misdeeds. Other times, you knit sweaters in colors like pink, yellow and sky blue, which you gave to your staff. Your cook was always a willing recipient before you got rid of him. He was in his late sixties, but he had several young children. He lived in the boys’ quarters in the backyard and his wife and children lived somewhere on the mainland. His wife had just had another baby when you sacked him and your husband couldn’t believe that. “These people,” he had said. “They never know when to stop.”
You took a sip of sherry. “But why would that even cross her mind?”
“Don’t mind the girl,” your husband said, with a dismissive wave. “She is just spoiled.”
“Should we call her back?”
“No. Leave her alone. We can’t indulge her. She will get over it.”
Ella Fitzgerald was singing “Mood Indigo,” part of an Ellington medley. You grew more agitated thinking about Biola’s phone call until your sherry began to taste vinegary. Perhaps you should have listened to her instead of handing her over to her father.
The driver brought Oyinda and Deji back from the Club and you snapped at Oyinda, who whined about her tennis coach’s body odor.
“A little smell won’t kill you,” you said.
Deji handed Oyinda a bottle of Coca-Cola from the fridge that he had shaken up, and he laughed when it erupted on Oyinda’s tennis whites.
“Both of you,” you warned, “don’t try me today.”
You were particularly tired that evening, of the NITEL boys who had not yet come to fix the phone, and of NEPA. The local office did not restore electricity until nighttime, by which time the smell of kerosene had permeated the house. You switched on the electricity generator and the noise was, as usual, insufferable. Patience’s stupidity drained you further. She had left the door of the fridge ajar until it began to leak.
“Look here, my friend,” you said. “You do that one more time and you leave this house. You understand me?”
It was just a threat. You needed at least one extra pair of hands around the house because your children were of no use. All they wanted to do was go to the Club during the day and at night, play their cassette tapes or watch videos in the sitting room. Between the electricity generator, their music and the television, you had no peace until they went to bed.
That night, you were sleeping when the phone on your bedside table rang. You answered it and initially didn’t recognize the voice. It was Biola, who sounded as if she had developed a cold.
“Mummy?”
No, she was crying. You switched on your bedside lamp. “Biola? What time is it? It’s almost eleven. What happened? Why are you calling so late?”
“I’ve been arrested.”
You sat up, your negligée slipping off your shoulder. “Why?”
“I have been arrested, Mummy.”
“What for? Where are you calling from?”
“From the station.”
“Which station?”
You pictured trains as Biola said she had been arrested at Victoria tube station. A tramp had been following her around and the cops should have arrested him, but instead they arrested her.
The story made no sense. You shook your husband’s shoulders. He was asleep, which wasn’t unusual. You were the light sleeper in the house. That was why the phone was on your side.
“Frank, wake up. It’s Biola again.”
It took him a few moments to adjust to the light from his lamp and the information you relayed. You watched as he spoke to Biola. He slipped his hand under his pajama top and scratched his shoulder.
“Yes, my dear. No, that’s OK. What happened? I said, what happened?” He frowned. “Why? Of course not. Let me speak to her. Yes, let me speak to her. Please.”
“What is it?” you asked.
He shook his head. “Yes, I am her father. Yes, I am a lawyer.” He was silent for a while, then he asked to speak to Biola again, this time saying, “Don’t worry, my dear. I’m coming for you. No, no. There is nothing to worry about. I will be there as soon as possible. Tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow night latest.”
He handed the phone to you and confirmed that Biola was in police custody, but not for the reason she had given. She had assaulted a fellow passenger at Victoria tube station. You held your head as if you were adjusting your mind, rather than your scarf, as he added that the police officer had also said Biola was showing signs of a psychiatric illness. Since she was insisting she had no next of kin in London, the only safe option was to hold her in custody until morning and take her to the nearest hospital that would admit her.
“I will go there tomorrow,” he said. “You stay here and look after the others.”
He slept that night. It took him a while, but he managed to. You couldn’t. You kept thinking of your late sister, Ebun, who at the age of nineteen began to mope around the house. Ebun cut off her hair and was bedridden. The doctors called it brain fatigue, caused by studying, and it wasn’t until you were an adult that you learned how Ebun died. Ebun killed herself. How, you still did not know. Suicide was illegal back then and never discussed.
You and your husband had multiple-entry British visas so you could travel to London at short notice. He left on Monday night, via British Airways. He had an account at the Five Star travel agency and his secretary handled his ticket reservations.
You remained in Lagos, as he had directed, and you banned Oyinda and Deji from going to the Club without giving an explanation. They asked why and you answered, “Please, this is not the time.”
You did say their father was going to London to bring Biola home and they accepted the news in silence. Perhaps they thought Biola was pregnant, as you had when your sister, Ebun, became bedridden, and you might even have preferred it if Biola was.
You called London several times the next day until your husband answered late at night. He had been to the hospital and had brought Biola back. You asked to speak to Biola and, though you insisted, he said, “Just leave her alone for now. You can speak when she gets home.”
“But how is she?”
“She is fine, don’t worry.”
“Did she tell you what happened?”
“She did. I will tell you when we get home.”
Two nights later, the driver took you to the international airport on the mainland to meet Biola and your husband. You found Biola looking skinnier than she had been at twelve. Her jeans were baggy and her eyes unfocused, as if she was on tranquilizers. Her short-back-and-sides haircut, which you had always argued about, was standing on end. She looked like a captive prisoner.
Where had believing your husband ever got you, you thought, as you hugged her. You gave him an accusing look over her shoulder before inspecting her face.
“How are you, my dear?”
Biola managed a smile. “I’m fine, Mummy.”
Her skin was dry and her breath smelled of orange juice.
“We’d better get going,” your husband said and ushered you through the crowd in the arrivals area.
None of you spoke on your way home and you saw nothing. Not the street hawkers walking between cars and carrying trays of wares on their heads. Nor the market stalls, which were still open and lit up by kerosene lanterns. The driver reached Third Mainland Bridge and you did not even notice the lagoon beneath, though you seemed to be staring at it. It was too dark and the street lights on the bridge had never worked anyway.
; You got home and the driver carried Biola’s suitcase indoors. Patience took it upstairs and Biola followed with her rucksack. She locked herself up in her bedroom and Oyinda and Deji, who had been waiting for her, remained downstairs looking as if they were guilty of some wrongdoing. They had been watching a video, but they switched off the television now, as if they had lost interest.
That night, you ate lamb chops and roast potatoes for dinner without Biola, and your husband instructed that everyone leave her alone until she was ready to talk. You were irritated by his reticence, not Biola’s, and it occurred to you that this was how he had managed to keep his secret from you, by controlling when and how you spoke to each other.
Not until you were in bed did he tell you how he had found Biola at the hospital. She was cursing the nurses and calling other patients “schizoids.” She claimed an Indian doctor had given her an injection to turn her mad. He did not want to leave her there.
“The facilities were not the best,” he said.
He did not specify what he meant, but you could imagine the starkness of a National Health Service psychiatric hospital. He had thought of taking Biola to a private hospital and had even called around. Then he went back to the NHS hospital the next day and spoke to the same Indian doctor, who told him Biola had a chemical imbalance and would have to take medication to control her condition. He asked for how long and the doctor said, “Probably for the rest of her life.”
“What does she mean by that?” you asked.
“I don’t know,” he said.
He paused as if he was in danger of breaking down and you could easily have asked to read the doctor’s notes. Instead you said, “These people. What injection did they give my child? What injection did they give her, for heaven’s sake? Now see what they have gone and done.”
The weekend passed and Biola did not leave her room, except to go to the bathroom. Patience took her meals upstairs on a tray and brought them down when she was finished, but she was not eating much. She spent too long in the bathroom, which wasn’t unusual, and Oyinda and Deji did not bang on the door and shout “Hurry up,” as they normally would. Instead they were polite to her, saying, “Hey,” whenever they saw her and Biola would reply, “Hey,” without returning their lopsided smiles.
On Monday morning you and your husband took her to the teaching hospital on the mainland to see Professor Ajose, the dean of psychiatry. Professor Ajose was one of those. He was married to a white woman and he wore paisley bow ties. He had a bald patch and gray beard. You found him antiquated and his wife snooty. She was a tall blonde who wore her hair in a bun. She had a reputation for being curt.
After Professor Ajose’s consultation with Biola, he confirmed that she had been diagnosed with a chemical imbalance. He mentioned the words “depression” and “bipolar” for the first time and advised that Biola continue to take the medication she had been prescribed.
“The important thing is for them to take their medication,” he said. “They often fail to take their medication. If she fails to take her medication, we might have to admit her here, so we must continue to monitor her.”
Already annoyed by his mention of bipolar and depression, you were infuriated by his use of the words “we” and “they,” and the manner in which he talked about Biola as if she was not actually sitting in his office.
You and Biola lagged behind as Professor Ajose gave you a tour of the female psychiatric ward, with narrow beds and dusty windows. Nurses dragged their feet around in the midst of patients who appeared outright mad, the kind who walked the streets naked. One scratched her armpits as you walked past. You could smell urine and antiseptic from the toilet at the far end of the ward.
“Mummy,” Biola said, moving closer to you. “I can’t stay here.”
You patted her back. “You must remember to take your medication, my dear.”
Driving from the teaching hospital to Ikoyi, Biola sat between you and your husband in the back of the car. The driver was going fairly slowly. Pedestrians were crossing the median of the highway, commuters were scrambling on buses and children were selling bread and oranges. Most of the children were shoeless and you were confronted with the dilemma that, no matter how much money you had and no matter where you could escape to overseas, you could not save yourself from your own country.
You noticed a woman selling tinned milk. The woman would have an easier time dealing with Biola’s problem, you thought. She would take her child to the Celestial Church or to some other superstitious cult for prayers, or to a babalawo for exorcism. If she earned enough, she might even take her child to the teaching hospital. You would never consider doing any of that, and soon half of Lagos would hear about Biola’s problem, people who were jealous of your family.
“They can’t even keep their wards clean,” you said.
“Hm,” your husband agreed.
“Wasn’t Ajose one of those who trained in Russia?” you asked.
“No,” he said.
“I thought he was one of those who trained in Russia.”
“No, he went to Trinity College.”
“Trinity College where?”
“Dublin.”
“Isn’t his wife Russian?”
“No, she is German.”
You shook your head. “I have never liked that woman.”
That night, he canceled your trip to Sardinia. Oyinda and Deji again accepted the latest development without a word. Biola didn’t care. “I didn’t want to go anyway,” she said, shrugging.
The week passed and she seemed to be taking her medication. It made her feel like a zombie, she said, but she was sticking to her regimen. She did not want to end up in the teaching hospital.
Another three weeks passed and one morning you woke up to find Biola dressed and alert, which was unusual. She said she was feeling much better. She had just been under a lot of stress from studying. She had changed her mind about going to university. She had been up all night thinking about it. She would go to King’s College after all. She wanted to be a lawyer. She would work with her father, but she would only do pro bono work.
Biola followed you to the kitchen as you unlocked the backdoor to let Patience in to sweep and dust. She wanted to eat breakfast on the veranda because she felt grateful to be alive, and the sun was shining and life was absolutely wonderful and she could smell rain.
“Isn’t that smell amazing?” she said. “If only I could bottle it. If only I could find the formula, as perfumers do. Actually, who wants to find the right formula for the smell of rain anyway? The only reason people appreciate it so much is because they catch a whiff”—she sniffed—“and then it’s gone.”
The sky had darkened and, by the time Patience brought her breakfast to the veranda on a tray, the rain was beginning to pour. The tiger lilies in the garden brightened and dripped. You watched Biola make a bulky sandwich out of her sausage and toast, then you went to the kitchen to ask Patience to shut the windows. Not finding Patience there, you were about to do it yourself when you saw someone running into the garden. At first you thought it was the gardener, but he worked fort-nightly on Sundays.
It was Biola, raising her hands heavenward. She disappeared for a moment and you assumed she was coming into the house. Instead, she returned to the garden with the watchman, who was wearing his black tunic and white skullcap and carrying prayer beads. She forced him to waltz with her. The watchman was trying to free himself without hurting her.
“That’s enough,” you called out, as thunder rumbled.
The watchman managed to disengage himself as lightning struck. You went outside to meet Biola on the veranda.
“Are you taking your medication?” you asked.
She was wringing her T-shirt. “Of course I am. What do you mean? Why wouldn’t I?”
But later in the afternoon, after the rain had stopped, she interrogated Oyinda’s friend who was visiting, a fourteen-year-old who complimented her about the weight she had lost. Biola said it was typical for
women to judge each other by their looks.
“I got into King’s. You could have asked me about that. Why don’t you ask me about that? Isn’t that an achievement? Why is losing weight such an achievement?”
She went on and on, until Oyinda, embarrassed, took her friend by the hand and led her away. Biola went back to her bedroom, just as Deji began to play his cassette on the stereo, a funky song with lyrics that went, “Outside in the rain, let’s make love out in the rain, all night.” You kept picturing Biola dancing with the watchman.
“Will you turn that thing off?” you asked.
“God,” Deji said, “you can’t do anything in this house.”
You suspected he had a girlfriend at the Club. He was always on the phone to someone in the study while his father was at work. He and Oyinda were enjoying Lagos. Here, they fit in without trying. They rarely bothered to mix with the expatriate children at the Club.
Deji huffed as he switched off the stereo.
What selfish, spoiled children you had, you thought to yourself. England had done that to them, or they had inherited it from their father. Perhaps it was even your fault. He had always said you spoiled them.
You toyed with the idea of calling to tell him what Biola had done, then you decided to wait until he came home, which he did on time as usual.
“I don’t think she is taking her medication,” you said, in the privacy of your bedroom.
He had taken off his shoes and tie and normally you would give him time to unwind, but you were fed up with talking to him on his terms.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I will take care of the matter.”
For dinner, you had rice and chicken curry. As you ate, Biola told him about her plans to go to university and to come home to practice law and clean up Nigeria. Even Oyinda and Deji, who were pleased to see her doing what she normally did at the table, could tell the difference. Biola was never this animated. Her eyes were never this wide, and then there was her absurd conclusion: that Nigeria had so much potential.