by Lola Jaye
“Make a wish!” Mum, in that new mauve cardigan, calls out.
Her lungs fill with air. The light switches back on.
“She’s not done it yet!” shrieks Mum giggly/angrily.
“Turn the lights back off!” commands Sandi.
It’s hard to hold her breath. Dad is by the door, next to him a woman in a severe blue-and-black head tie. Tie-dyed? They’re talking. He looks strained. Angry even—his face as white as a sheet. She doesn’t recognize the woman. She wants to exhale now; she can’t hold her breath like she used to when she was a kid.
She blows out the candles, finally. Clapping. A loud cheer erupts.
She’s staring at the woman. The woman stares back. She’s a stranger. Why is she here? She wasn’t invited. Who is she? Why has she come? The questions float around her annoyingly. No answers—but the strangest thing is, even though she doesn’t recognize her, Lara Reid is consumed by a strong, strong feeling, almost a certainty, that she has known this woman her entire life.
Yomi and Pat
Chapter 3
Yomi
1971
Thirty-nine years earlier and approximately thirty-one hundred miles away in a small area of Lagos, Nigeria, an eighteen-year-old girl with a gap in her teeth and plaits as thick as baby bananas sat daintily on one of six cracked sandy steps outside her home.
Yomi Komolafe was pleased the raining season had finally ended, as the soil would feel less slippery against her bare feet when she ran across it to fulfill her errands for the day. Ola, the family’s house girl, had been sent to market earlier, but in her haste had forgotten to buy enough ingredients for the huge pot of soup Mama planned to cook for the important and distinguished visitors, which included Chief Ogunlade, due to arrive that evening. As expected, Yomi was ordered to collect those extra ingredients from the overly expensive but very local trader, Mrs. Apampa, across the street.
Yomi was used to and accepting of her role in the house. As the oldest of six children and the only girl, her place had been rigidly defined from birth. Like her male siblings, she was expected to help around the house with washing and cleaning, but the cooking was what clearly set her apart from her brothers. Regularly assisting Mama and Ola in the kitchen gave her a distinction from her brothers, which she enjoyed, as it allowed her an identity in the large brood. She was already confident that her soup tasted sweeter than Ola’s, due to years of practice and Mama schooling her well on the basics: how to grind the pepper to the required texture; how to calculate the correct ratio of peppers to tomatoes; how to determine how soft the meat should be.
Yomi may have learned the art of soup making, but her confidence ended the moment a lid was firmly placed on the pan of pungent, bubbling ingredients. She also understood why she’d never be as beautiful as Mama, who boasted skin as smooth as that of an infant, a perfectly rounded body, and a sophistication Yomi could only imitate in her dreams.
Perhaps the only other arena she’d ever excelled in was English class at school. She daydreamed often about one day climbing into one of those planes she’d seen flying high above the house and being whisked away to that beautiful land named England. Huge castles and Big Ben as a backdrop as she confidently conversed with distinguished people such as Mr. Darcy and Emma Woodhouse. Perhaps greeting the Queen and her husband (a mere prince; Yomi often wondered why he was not a king!) on the way to Hampstead Heath where she would consume cucumber sandwiches and sip tea from a rose-decorated china cup.
That would all happen one day, but for now Yomi’s mind remained solely transfixed on selecting the best peppers for Mama’s soup and if she ran into him on the way … then that would, of course, be an unexpected bonus to her day.
Mama appeared in the doorway before Yomi set off. “I have decided we will need more things,” said Mama, a light green boubou covering her womanly frame. The familiar and comforting roundness of her body allowed Yomi to feel nothing but safety and no doubt kept Daddy away from the scandalous women in and around their street. Even without a head tie, her tough hair a little disheveled, Mama was clearly the most stylish and most beautiful woman in Chief Ogunlade Street. Six children had done nothing to dampen the light that radiated from the very pores of her dark skin, wherever she walked. And what strength, too. After Yomi had witnessed the birth of her youngest brother, Mama had merely rested a little, wiped her forehead free of sweat, and was quickly stooped over the stove assisting the preparation for that evening’s food.
“Yes, Ma,” replied Yomi, aware she would now need her shoes for the trip.
“So you don’t need to go to that thief Mrs. Apampa; you will go to the market instead,” said Mama in the very good English many thought had resulted from a trip to England one day in the past, when in fact Mama had never even set foot on an airplane.
“Yes, Ma.”
“And take that foolish girl Ola with you! And if you see Mama Lanre on your travels, tell her to hurry up and come plait my hair. I do not have all day to wait for her! Foolish woman!”
“Why?” asked Yomi, not wishing to disrespect Mama but at the same time desperate to go to the market alone.
“Because I want my hair to look fine and not careless the way Ola does it!”
“Mama, I mean why is it so that Ola has to accompany me?”
“Who will help carry the bags?” Mama’s eyebrows rose with latent irritation.
“But of course, I will take her,” Yomi conceded grudgingly. Mama was not a woman to be contradicted—nor was anyone older, for that matter. It was just not the done thing and Yomi wasn’t about to turn into that type of person.
Yomi had no choice but to quickly come to terms with Mama’s decision, but this didn’t stop her indulging in a quick practice in front of the slightly cracked mirror in Mama’s bedroom, beforehand. Over the last few months Yomi had been busy mentally noting the way some of the fast girls swung their hips, commanding the attention of most of the single and not so single men in the area who shouted false declarations of marriage, a good life, and never having to worry about anything again. Yomi had quickly seen it as her duty to educate herself in the fine art of hip swinging on a daily basis until she’d perfected it. Until she managed to get his attention anyway. Because other than her scant knowledge of English literature, her hips were all she had.
Large, slightly blackened plantain, two yams, and of course a bag full of overripe round peppers stood out in Yomi’s mental shopping list as she and Ola swung open the large iron gates of their home. Mama had been proud of these gates when Daddy first had them installed. Not only did they keep out the thieves and help prop up an array of shade-inducing trees, but also showed the community that her family was of a certain standard. It didn’t matter that they cooked on a one-ringed stove or that the fridge was past its best because of constant area electricity cuts; those gates represented perceived wealth others in the village could only dream of—and that’s the way Mama liked it, and if she were truly honest with herself, Yomi did, too.
Yomi felt the rays of the sun, yet to reach their peak, soak into her skin as she focused on the route ahead, ignoring stares from the “ravenous” local men as she practiced her walk.
“Why are you walking like a snake?” asked Ola.
They both giggled heartily, baring bright white teeth, as a car rode beside them, struggling with the bumpy surface that would lead to the main road. Life was busy in Chief Ogunlade Street: children balancing trays of bread on their heads ready to sell, a wave from a neighbor, Fuji music from an aged radio, the sound of floors being swept, rubbish being carried to the local tip, the strong odor from burning rubbish making her eyes smart. Yomi’s eyes were alert, though, desperate to feed on the sight of him again. She wanted to check if he responded favorably to her walk as did the men around her, judging by their toothy reactions. She would be happy with an impressed smile, widened eyes, anything from him she could savor, devour at leisure, and retain in her memory. Because apart from pushing her knees into the ground an
d begging him to notice her, Yomi was ready to try anything to see if a small girl from the “village” could impress a man like him.
The two girls reached the main street with its reality of loud voices above noisy music, car horns, and beggars as Yomi felt a wave of disappointment. She’d yet to spot him out and about, chatting with friends or kicking that deflated football about with the local children. He’d not even seen her new walk, and it pained her to think it had been wasted on the local fools.
Ola hailed an approaching yellow bus and as it chugged toward them, Yomi felt a sprinkling of joy at hearing her name being called from afar.
“Yomi!”
Only he had ever said her name in such a way.
“Yomi?”
“Er, yes,” she replied coyly and in a way she hoped Emma Woodhouse would approve of. She slowly turned, the way those beautiful women in those Indian movies she liked to watch sometimes turned to their suitors. She hoped she didn’t look too interested, yet hoped to look very interested. His shoulders protruded proudly from the beige caftan, trousers matching. A single bead of sweat lined the right side of his smooth face and Yomi suddenly wanted to lick it off.
“How are you, Yomi?” he asked in that perfect British Queen’s English he spoke, slightly baritoned in a way only a man could achieve. Yomi very much liked his voice. Even more than freshly fried dodo on a Sunday morning. In fact, more than anything.
He proffered his hand to her, and Yomi forgot how to breathe. She noticed just how much more handsome he’d grown since the last time she’d seen him (yesterday) and held on to his beautiful hand a bit longer than necessary, feeling enough electricity pass through her to light up the entire street during one of the power cuts.
She sighed resolutely as he insisted she and Ola climb onto the bus first. Hidden disappointment as she’d hoped to observe his perfectly formed idi.
Luckily, Ola sat up front with the driver as Yomi sat by a lady with two live chickens fidgeting manically, perhaps aware of their impending fate. The conductor hanging out of the window beckoned more passengers onto an already crowded bus, and the inside temperature rose to an uncomfortable level. But Yomi feared that more than just the searing afternoon sun was to blame for her discomfort. By merely practicing how to walk sexily, Yomi had omitted any thought of what to say if she actually found herself alone with him or if she ever felt the heat from his body mingling with hers, or if she was ever close enough to notice the small hole just above his right ear as they sat side by side. It was the most intimate she’d ever been with him, and she never wanted that sweaty, bumpy, and cramped bus journey to end. Ever.
They spoke briefly, with Yomi shyly answering his questions with quick yes and no answers. No breeze existed inside the permanently opened bus, but Yomi didn’t care. As long as she was near him, nothing really mattered that much.
He kindly accompanied them to the market even though he had mentioned being on his way to Agege, an area in the opposite direction. And while Yomi felt appreciative of this, she feared she’d soon run out of conversation and then what would she do? Also, her nose was itching unapologetically—just as it always did when she felt nervous.
Passing by a set of bleating goats, rams, and cows waiting to be sold, they walked through to the fruit and vegetable section, its utopia of bright colors and citrus smells a far more romantic atmosphere, Yomi thought. She prided herself on knowing a lot more about romance than any of her friends, because she’d read English books and loved watching those Indian movies on the fuzzy television of one of her schoolmates, the only person she knew who owned one. In the movies and books, there would be adversities to overcome, but in the end everything would work out happily. Happily ever after. So Yomi knew what being in love would entail and how it should feel.
It would feel like this, she mused, watching with pride as he bartered for the best price for the plantain and yams. Yomi became delightfully aware that the traders must have thought they were together—man and wife; Ola just a relative, perhaps. She was surprised when he mentioned going to Agege another time as the three of them carried the bags home, with Ola walking discreetly up ahead. The two of them discussed a shared love of English books. Oliver Twist was his favorite as it “showed that hunger and hardship is not just in Africa.” Yomi was worried about admitting to her love of the more romantic novels, but as soon as he’d admitted to enjoying a Jane Austen book in the past, Yomi felt one step away from climbing to the very top of a coconut tree and shouting: “This is my husband, O!”
Yomi kept her thoughts private, though, instead remaining quietly baffled that such a man as this existed in the world at all—let alone in Chief Ogunlade Street.
“Thank you,” she said as they packed away the last of the yams in the kitchen cupboard.
“It was my pleasure,” he said perfectly, his head bowed respectfully. Even so, that’s when she spotted it. A fleeting, tiny look that told her he felt something, too. She couldn’t be sure, as men were like open books that sometimes did not want to be read. But there was something “there,” airborne between the two of them. The energy was nothing like what radiated from the dirty men and boys in the village who called out “Sissy, come and let me eat yam!” as she wafted past in a flowery dress. This was something different. This man respected her and she respected him. And with that respect, she hoped, was a mutual hidden longing for each other that one day would be allowed to flourish in the sunlight and grow plentiful like a hibiscus tree.
As is customary, he went to find Mama and Daddy, to greet them properly.
Mama was lying on the sofa, eyes closed.
“Who is this?” she asked, before opening her eyes.
“Good afternoon, Ma,” he said gracefully as he bowed in respect. Mama swung her legs off the couch and appraised him briefly.
“Hello, my son,” she said.
“He has been so kind to help us with our bags,” said Yomi.
“Thank you, my son. Will you stay for some food?” asked Mama.
“Thank you, Ma, for your offer, but I must return home.”
“He kindly helped us with the bags instead of going to his destination,” said Yomi, hoping she sounded remotely sophisticated.
“You are a kind boy, my son. Are you sure you will not stay for food?”
“I am unable this time, Ma. Thank you, Ma.”
“Another time, then,” Mama said with a smile.
Yomi accompanied him to the gates, thanking him, trying not to smile too much as she appraised him from behind. As he waved good-bye, Yomi already knew she wouldn’t be falling asleep that night, absolutely certain her mind would remain permanently occupied with thoughts of the lovely and very beautiful Henry Bibimsola.
So it was official—Yomi Komolafe could now see the world in glorious Technicolor vision.
The rusty aluminum covering Mrs. Apampa’s stall (that sold warm Bazooka chewing gum and overpriced hot peppers) sparkled in her vision. The muddy, rancid colored waters nestling in an oblong gutter by the bus stop now had a transparent glow.
Since that precious moment spent at the market eighteen months ago, Yomi had become a changed person, on a mission for Henry to see her the way she saw him.
It had begun with Yomi engineering more opportunities for them to speak and with an intensity she’d never known before. They would sit on the sandy steps drinking a bottle of Coke, discussing books, current affairs, most things, anything; and Yomi couldn’t shake the feeling that finding him was like discovering something so mysterious, so precious it had to be shared—but at the same time feeling a selfish need to have him all to herself. He was a passionate man when it came to education, knowledge, even the state of the economy. Yomi was not that learned, but he fueled her hunger for knowledge. She wanted to know more—as long as he was the one teaching. The sound of his voice, the way his mouth caressed each word like the feeling of honey on one’s skin—the moments were so precious and replayed in her mind so much, they were now magnified to proportions
that felt like a relationship and perhaps a lot more than the connection actually was.
Thoughts of Henry followed her around every single day, every hour and every minute. As she laid out newly washed clothes to dry on the grass, helped Mama with her siblings, pounded yam in the odo, assisted Ola with scrubbing the kitchen floor—although everything was completed efficiently as always, Yomi now did so with a continual smile and an easy attitude that Mama was very quick to notice.
“What is making you smile so?” asked Mama as she crushed some melon seeds, Yomi peeling a large yam and Ola filling a pan with water.
“No one, Mama,” she said as she felt herself blush.
“I didn’t say it was a person,” Mama said, placing a skinned piece of yam into the pot of water.
“Mama, I am just happy,” said Yomi sweetly as Ola smiled mischievously. Yomi had often confided in her, paid her off with sweets or extra food for her family whenever she listened or offered positive advice that Yomi liked to hear. She wanted to tell the whole world about Henry and shout it for all the street to hear, but she couldn’t and she wouldn’t. Not until she could be sure that the bulk of their “relationship” existed elsewhere than just in her head, that he, too, felt as she did.
One day, Yomi was accompanying Ola to fetch water from their pump in the yard and standing by the gates was Henry.
“I am very pleased to have seen you today…” he said.
Her heart lifted with cautious joy. He was clutching a brown paper bag and this intrigued her.
“Why is that, Henry?”
“I have two questions for you,” he said.
“Okay, I am listening,” she said calmly, her insides a fanfare of loud gangan drums.
“First, I was wondering if you would accept this.” He handed over the brown paper bag.
“May I open it?” she asked.
“Of course, Yomi.”
She placed her hand inside the bag and pulled out a book.