Being Lara

by Lola Jaye

  She looked up at his handsome face. There was absolutely nothing they couldn’t face together, and as long as she had Henry, they could conquer absolutely anything.

  So they continued to meet in secret. Each time Mama sent her and Ola to market, Ola would sometimes go off alone so that Yomi could spend hours with Henry, then the two girls would meet at the corner of Ogunlade Street for the rest of the journey back home later. The deception made her feel guilty, but she could not possibly live without him. Sometimes Henry would wait outside the gate after dark, when everyone was asleep and they’d spend time sitting at the top of the steep hill behind Ogunlade Street, just talking and at times holding on to each other like it was the last time. Every minute spent with Henry felt precious and exciting, especially when they just lay entangled on a mattress with only the sound of a barking dog piercing the comfortable stillness around them. She loved to stroke the tiny tufts of hair that poked out of his chin, his eyes closed in a total state of relaxation, or to trace her tongue over the tiny hole at the top of his ear.

  One day, and as usual, Yomi pulled open the aluminum makeshift door that led to Henry’s room. Strangely, though, all that welcomed her was the old mattress and piece of paper held down by the old kerosene lamp that had been their eyes on so many occasions.

  My Dearest Most Wonderful Yomi,

  I have received a good offer to work and study in another town. I will not tell you the name, as I know you will try and find me. Please forgive me, but I have to do this.

  For you.

  As I write this, I am shattered, I am weary, I am broken.

  But I know I will heal one day as will you.

  Please know that wherever I am, whatever I am doing, my love for you will never wane.

  I will always love you.

  Good-bye my Yomi,

  Henry.

  A wounded yell rose inside her, but not a sound would come out of her mouth. Yomi could only crumple the paper in her hands, her body sliding to the floor like a liquid.

  And then finally, a sound. “No,” she said quietly and then with each repetition, a little louder. “No.”

  Her chest heaved with sobs, her words full of so much pain.

  “No,” she kept on.

  “No. No. No. No. No. No. No.”

  Until there was absolutely no strength left in her body.

  Chapter 8

  Yomi

  1977

  The steel-gated bungalow on Ogunlade Street had descended into organized chaos.

  Seamstresses, distant family members, and neighbors Yomi had once greeted on the way to market were now exercising authority with shouts and orders to “move this” and “move that.” Most were dressed in the allotted green, gold, and purple aso-ebi uniform that united the Ogunlade family and close friends for this special event, while others used the occasion to dress as flamboyantly as possible. The union of two people was something to be joyful about, after all—an event that belonged to the entire street and not just two families.

  Mama’s newly sewn buba and iro complemented her fresh makeup and the sparkling stiff gele that Ola had tied around her beautifully arranged hair, but it was Yomi who sparkled and radiated the most, at this, finally, her engagement party.

  Ola picked up the gold-and-green damask gele and began wrapping it around Yomi’s head as she sat rigidly upright on the stool, hoping her true thoughts did not seep through to the surface.

  “Why is your face like that of a goat at market?” asked Mama. “This is your engagement,” she continued as the stiff head scarf began to take shape. “Your mouth should be stretched from your left ear to your right.”

  “I apologize, Mama. I am well.”

  In truth, Yomi did feel like a goat awaiting slaughter as Ola rolled both ends of the gele, gently securing each side of the scarf as it began to take shape on her head. It stood proudly on top as Yomi slipped into a pair of sparkling yellow sandals to finish the colorful ensemble.

  “Do I look okay?” she said to no one in particular, distracted. In her mind, there was a glimmer of hope that Henry would return and claim her as his bride, apologize for the note that now lay flat within the pages of the dictionary he’d so lovingly given to her. She imagined him just appearing, whisking her away to anywhere. Perhaps they’d travel to Ibadan where she knew he had family. But the reality was, she’d heard nothing of him in almost two years. The friends he’d shared a home with had long dismissed her as the woman who’d driven him away and refused to tell her where he was; she’d no one to turn to and no place to seek refuge, if only from the hard reality that Henry was gone.

  And now the day of her engagement.

  Daddy appeared, looking impressive in his freshly sewn outfit of agbada and matching trousers. His fila, a round glittery cap, slid to the side. He was saying something to her, but she wasn’t listening. She felt useless, ugly, even though everyone around her kept saying how beautiful she looked and what a good wife she would make.

  The rest of the day went by in a hurried blur for Yomi.

  The family resembled a multicolored kaleidoscope within the large marquee standing under a soaring sun, showing the world that a happy event was about to occur; yet in the space where Yomi’s heart once rested, nothing. Yomi quickly gave in to the out-of-body experience, watching the proceedings of the day as if they were happening to somebody else.

  From a small holding room, Yomi could hear the excitement building from the marquee. An aisle in the middle separated the bride’s and groom’s parties. A large stage faced an assortment of geles competing for space in the air, cascades of jewelry shining above the banter of Yoruba and broken and Queen’s English. A live Nigerian Fuji band played in the background. Rented plastic chairs and tables were covered in white cotton damask, and two padded thrones were placed proudly on the stage.

  All for her.

  The music changed, and this was her cue. Yomi and two other impeccably dressed ladies glided into the marquee, faces covered in veils. The groom-to-be, dressed in material identical to Yomi’s, complete with dark sunglasses, approached them carefully before peeling off the veil of the first woman and then the second. When he reached Yomi, he carefully opened her veil as he smiled wildly.

  She couldn’t help noticing that even dressed in his sparkling attire, he hadn’t suddenly changed. Unfortunately, to Yomi, the forehead of her fiancé still resembled a large, yet particularly tasteless, loaf of bread, and his teeth were as yellow as day-old corn.

  Yomi took a deep breath and thought that perhaps if she didn’t exhale, she could actually and mercifully die on that very spot.

  She remembered Daddy removing his glasses, looking more vulnerable than Yomi had ever seen him, and she knew instantly the situation had become desperate. They owed rent on the land owned by Chief Ogunlade. Not enough money was coming in. Her whole family would be homeless, not to mention Ola and various other staff members. What about their families, too? The shame.

  What would become of the Komolafes?

  Yomi knew what had to be done. And with Henry gone, it would be easy. She’d grown up enough during her time with Henry to know that once again, she was an object of want and desire. It was obvious from the way Chief looked at her and brushed up against her a little longer than was decently necessary. Yomi realized the power was hers. She was the only one who could save her family.

  The wedding was held a few hours after the engagement party, where once again, Yomi was referred to as “radiant,” “beautiful,” and “a good wife.” Pictures were taken of her smile, mouth curved in gratitude that someone as rich as Chief would even have considered her to be his fourth wife. Mama and Daddy smiled constantly—perhaps with relief that their spinster daughter had finally been chosen—their happy faces turned toward the flashing light of the camera.

  “You will be happy with Chief,” reassured Mama as the guests danced away at the chief’s expense. The food was plentiful, the drinks endless, and the take-home gifts for the guests very expens
ive. As Ola changed Yomi into her third outfit of the night, a checkered caramel-and-black gown finished with a silk frilled hem and diamond sequins, she silently contemplated her wedding night and the rest of her life. She was about to move into a home that wasn’t where she’d grown into a girl, read books from England, and fantasized about marrying a man named Henry. She had new responsibilities now. Womanly, adult ones. But yet, at almost twenty-four, Yomi felt a mixture of emotions: the helplessness of a child as well as the bitter hopelessness of an adult.

  Chapter 9

  All the chief’s wives lived within a single large compound, with three of them each occupying one of his modest flats while Yomi stayed in the grandest house, which boasted four bedrooms and a private backyard the other wives did not have access to. The chief had sired nine children among his other wives, whom he would often visit at night when, it was obvious to Yomi, the children had to be asleep. Iyabo, his third wife, was a clear favorite of Chief’s, with visits often extending until sunrise. Yomi had seen in other polygamous households such an arrangement being a problem, breeding jealousy and resentment. But Chief had her silent blessing, because being at Iyabo’s meant Yomi was free to indulge in a classic novel or learn new English words from her dictionary, rather than lying back against her firm pillow as Chief made what he considered “love” to her uninterested, unresponsive body. This was a good arrangement.

  “Good evening, Chief,” she said as his large frame sat on the edge of the bed, the smell of Iyabo’s strong perfume clinging to his agbada.

  “What is this?” he asked pointing to her copy of Great Expectations.

  “It is a lovely book.”

  He slipped out of his agbada and trousers and into the covers.

  “No, I meant this,” he said, pointing to the dictionary on the bedside table.

  “Oh…”

  “You are always reading it. It is not a novel,” he said vaguely, as if it were an afterthought.

  “It contains words I can learn. Of English. I have to do something while you are away at night.” She’d meant it to come out witty, nonchalant even, but knew from Chief’s accompanying look that it hadn’t.

  “Don’t be jealous, my wife. Iyabo is also my wife and you know I must visit with her, my other wives, and my children from time to time. If it were the olden days, all four of you would be in one house. How would you have liked that, eh?” He smiled that wide and unattractive smile to reveal a set of yellowing teeth. Mama always said that good teeth on a man signaled brilliance. Henry had good teeth.

  “I am fine, Chief. All is well. It is well,” she said, placing the novel on top of the dictionary and turning away from him.

  Yomi occupied herself with assisting the house girl with chores and cooking, entertaining important guests, and reading as much as she could. She’d read with an intensity that felt like Henry was willing her along, pushing her to gain as much knowledge of the world as she could. Yomi felt as if memorizing the entire contents of the dictionary would make him proud of her, wherever he was. She would often wonder what he was doing, if he too had married. Sometimes the pain was so raw, other times less so. But still, she thought of Henry, her lost love, daily and of course each time she opened the pages of her precious dictionary.

  One morning, Yomi awoke to the sound of raised voices and banging.

  “Chief, Chief!”

  The electricity had disappeared in the middle of the night, taking the inadequate warm breeze of the ceiling fan with it. Yomi had stripped off her clothes due to the heat, safe in the knowledge that Chief was out for yet another night.

  “CHIEF!” came the voice again, this time more frantic. She grabbed a wrapper, flinging it around her body, and raced to confront the commotion.

  “What is it?” she asked the small group of men who’d gathered outside the gates.

  “Sorry to bother you, Ma, but we have emergency!” said one of the men.

  Yomi thought of her parents and siblings. “What is wrong?”

  “The chief’s daughter Abimbola is very sick. We must take him to her!”

  The energy around her felt frantic. She wasn’t sure what to say, what information to offer them. She hadn’t seen her husband since last night, and he was more than likely visiting with Iyabo.

  “Have you tried Chief’s wife Iyabo?”

  “We have been to all the wives, Ma, and he is not there. What shall we do? She is very, very sick.”

  Abimbola lived on the next street with her husband. Yomi had not spent much time with her, but what she did know was that Chief was very proud of her achievements as a law graduate.

  “What do we do, Ma?”

  Yomi felt a wave of helplessness descend on her, and she suddenly longed to be in her bedroom, reading a novel, a glass of cool water by her side.

  She dressed and joined in the search for Chief, who was finally found three miles away, visiting land for potential development, but by which time it was too late. His second child by his first wife, Taiwo, had died aged twenty-five. No one knew what had caused Abimbola’s sudden death, but the street was abuzz with theories about Iyabo and her supposed quest to kill off Chief’s entire brood in order to keep any future inheritance for her children.

  Yomi mulled over the tragic events with Mama.

  “Everything will be okay. Just continue to be a good wife to Chief and soon you will have your own child.”

  Yomi felt a strong chill at that prospect. She was aware that within her marriage she must produce a child, preferably a boy first, but the reality of it had never really touched her until Mama said it. Now, the responsibility that possibility carried was great, and she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to cope with it all.

  “So soon after Abimbola, Mama?”

  “Nonsense! This is just what Chief needs after his terrible loss. You need it, too. There is nothing better than becoming a mother, nothing,” said Mama, with such passion that Yomi was willing to believe it. Besides, Mama was right, it was her duty as a wife. And perhaps with the chief’s baby inside her, she’d finally be set free from any further romantic thoughts of Henry, her lost Romeo, her Mr. Darcy, coming back to claim her.

  Chief seemed to age ten years in the months after Abimbola’s death. He and Yomi hardly spoke; their contact in bed, nonexistent. Yomi spent her days running the house efficiently, paying the house boy and house girl when Chief forgot to, cooking for her husband’s younger children and Abimbola’s mother. She hadn’t much to fill her days and what was worse, she’d finished all the novels she owned and reread them each at least once—except Great Expectations, which she’d read and enjoyed three times. She’d also exhausted her vocabulary with words from the dictionary—its presence in her life more to do with having a piece of Henry with her at all times. It was her emotional crutch within a very, very lonely marriage.

  Yomi enjoyed going back home though. A short walk across Ogunlade Street to spend time with her siblings and Mama as Daddy snoozed in his large chair in front of the radio—now free to dream instead of enduring the constant threat of homelessness. She had to keep reminding herself that marrying the chief had been worth it for that alone.

  After a huge plate of Mama’s amazing pounded yam and efo, Yomi helped Ola clear away the dishes as Mama stood over them, hands on hips.

  “Time for you to go back home; your husband needs you,” said Mama.

  Yomi’s heart sank. “I know, Mama, but he never wants to sit with me. He is always out. More than before. It is like he cannot bear to look at me.”

  “In time, it will pass. He is in pain. It is unnatural to lose a child. It is all so wrong.”

  “Yes, Ma,” she said.

  Yomi and Ola hugged tightly before Ola shut the gate behind her. As Yomi ventured up the familiar Ogunlade Street, the path of her childhood and now bearing her very own surname, she felt as always, like she was leaving a part of herself behind.

  Then she saw Henry Bibimsola.

  Seeing Henry again, if only for one day, a
fter all that had passed was hard, heartfelt, but totally necessary—like it had been scripted from a novel. Yomi would finally be allowed the chance to say good-bye properly and not just via a crumpled note and an old dictionary. She’d finally have her moment. Instead, seeing him brought back a mass of emotions. An amazing rush at first sight. A crushing blow when he said good-bye yet again. But instead of absorbing this negatively, Yomi directed her energy onto a new sense of purpose, with something shifting, as if a skin had been shed and she was now free to become someone new.

  So that very night, Yomi did as Mama had suggested and started to repair her marriage.

  No longer content to just sit idly by while her married life with Chief fell apart before it had a chance to begin, Yomi felt she owed it to her family and to herself to make it work.

  So a few weeks after saying good-bye to Henry for the second time in her life, Yomi entered her home and immediately ordered the house girl out of her kitchen. She could not be sure he’d be home that night but she’d risk preparing Chief’s favorite meal, hoping he would eat it fresh. Cow foot, ẹbà, soup, fresh corns, full bottle of palm wine—everything lovingly prepared for her husband’s arrival. Indeed, when Chief arrived that night, his face was quickly transformed with a type of smile she’d never before noticed on his face. He looked almost handsome.

  “Yomi, what is all this?” Chief never ventured into the kitchen, but Yomi believed the sweet-smelling aroma of her soup had led him inside.

  “All for you, my husband,” she said.

  “Very good,” he said approvingly, and for the first time, Yomi allowed herself to receive his compliment and not just store it away in an unmarked box, as she had done many times in the past.

  That evening, Yomi and her husband spoke. Not weak gossip about their neighbors or family matters as usual, but sensitive issues, with the chief really opening up about the loss of Abimbola and his plans for his business. For the first time in their young marriage, Yomi truly felt like a wife.