by Lola Jaye
Under the table, still unseen, Pat placed the checks firmly back into her handbag and clasped it shut, blocking out the verbal lynch mob made out of her siblings. She turned to her mother, wanting to tell her about the loss of her much wanted, already loved, beloved baby almost three years ago. Her fears. She just wanted a hug from her mum, really. That’s what she’d always wanted every time she set foot in her childhood home, which is probably why she never hardly visited anymore—it was all just so hard.
“Remember, Maria’s coming round and I said we’d go out… I can tell her not to come if you like?” Pat felt excitement at the prospect of seeing her friend again, but mostly she was content to just snuggle up with Barry for the evening. But Barry had insisted she “go and enjoy herself,” and she suspected he was looking forward to a few cigarettes in front of the telly. So off she went to relive the old days with Maria.
“I haven’t fit into this dress since my singing days!” she complained to Maria, who pulled on a cigarette as they sat on Pat’s bed.
“What, three years ago? It wasn’t that long ago!” replied Maria, bright orange hair and a fresh tan from touring the Far East with an up-and-coming band. But to Pat it did feel like a long time ago. An eternity, in fact, because so much had happened since. So much had changed.
“Your figure’s as good as it’s ever been. And we’re going to show it all off tonight!”
Pat felt her insides double over at this statement, her eyes perhaps pleading with Barry to suddenly become the macho husband and demand she stay put. In reality, she probably needed the night out, especially with everything with her family; she was still undecided about whether to give them the money or not, their behavior still hurtful and fresh in her mind.
The inside of the pub immediately reminded Pat of her singing days in Old Compton Street, with fond memories fading away as soon as Maria air kissed one of two men sitting at the bar. Travis was a thing of the past, and Maria had embraced singlehood with gusto.
“This is Kayo,” she said, introducing the tallest of the two. He had the most piercing dark eyes Pat had ever seen.
“Hello,” he said with a shake of her hand. Pat couldn’t help flinching as Maria expertly stuck her tongue into the mouth of the shorter man. So, with no choice but to look at Kayo, Pat hoped he wasn’t expecting her to do the same. Of course he wasn’t. And why would he? Under a full cloud of embarrassment, Pat sat down at the table waiting for Maria to complete her tongue probe. This wasn’t part of her life anymore, thought Pat. She was an Essex housewife who actually enjoyed being an Essex housewife.
“And this is Raphael. Raphael, this is my pop star friend who is slowly turning into a middle-aged suburban housewife. Meet Trish!” Maria said with a laugh.
“A pleasure to meet you,” said Raphael as Pat pinched Maria’s arm playfully.
The four of them sat down to bar snacks as Pat tried to resist the further pull of embarrassment as her best friend and a man named Raphael smooched at the table like teenagers.
“Are they always like this?” asked Pat, turning to Kayo.
“This is my first meeting with Maria. But I suspect they are!” Kayo had a slight accent. Jamaican, maybe.
“I suppose it’s going to be a long night.”
Half an hour later, Maria and Raphael remained in a lip-lock.
“And my sister has five children,” continued Pat, unable to tell if she was boring poor Kayo to death as she described the entire lineup of her family.
“You seem very into your family—this is good. Family is very important.”
“It is … and I am…” Pat replied tentatively, tempted to give him the lowdown on her current family strife, before reminding herself he was indeed a stranger. Her mother had brought her up never to reveal too much in the presence of strangers or, put her way, “No one needs to know the ins and outs of a cat’s arse, Pat.”
“In my country, family is very important, too,” said Kayo.
“Where’s that?” she asked, thankful for the diversion of the conversation.
“Nigeria.”
Pat had never knowingly met a Nigerian before. She’d assumed most of her contacts in the music business had been from the Caribbean, so she suddenly saw Kayo as someone with a vast knowledge of a world she knew absolutely nothing about and this excited her.
“That’s so great,” she enthused.
“It is? You’re the pop star!” he countered, playfully.
“Not anymore, Kayo!” she replied, knowing she was probably pronouncing his exotic name all wrong.
“So if I study law, try one case, am I not still a lawyer?”
“Good point.”
“But you are right, Nigeria is a fantastic place. It is Africa’s most populous country and I am very proud of it. But”—Kayo leaned in closer and she could smell the muskiness of his aftershave—“Nigeria is also the world’s eighth-largest provider of oil in the world and yet there is so much poverty.”
“I guess we can’t change the world,” said Pat, who as soon as she heard her own words immediately wanted to backtrack, because they were words her brothers would probably spit out over a pint of beer.
“But we can all do our little bit, Pat.”
“Oh, I agree,” she replied sheepishly.
Pat and Kayo were immersed in deep conversation as the love-birds, Maria and Raphael, went for more drinks.
Pat and Kayo discussed the political issues of Nigeria, the effect of colonization, and even the psychology of its people, with Pat deciding she could listen to this man all night.
“When people have been held down and made powerless for so long, it has a detrimental effect that can last generations,” he enthused to Pat’s robust nods. She wasn’t quite sure what he meant, but her ears did prick up when he spoke about a children’s home he was affiliated with. He reeled things off with a wondrous passion that she just couldn’t help but admire and could only wish her brothers possessed an ounce of.
“We started that place with a shack full of rubble, and now it is going from strength to strength.”
Much to Maria’s delight, Raphael allowed himself to be dragged off to a hotel, leaving Pat alone with Kayo in the pub. She didn’t mind though, since she was enjoying their conversation so much.
By the end of the evening, she’d been captivated by Kayo’s hypnotic energy. And they hurriedly arranged to meet again, this time at Pat’s house when Barry was working late and where they would not be disturbed by anyone.
Over a pot of tea they discussed life-changing issues. She felt guilt at what others had done in her name. She made promises she was determined to keep. And there were moments when she knew her emotions were ruling her head, bypassing what was normal or sensible or in fact anything she’d ever done before in her life. But so what? Why not?
What harm could it do, just this once? Life was short and it was time she did … something.
Chapter 12
Pat
1983
Trish Invests in an African Village!” read the rather inaccurate and tiny newspaper headline. Pat was hoping it was small enough to bypass her brothers en route to the back page, via page 3—a hope that faded as soon as she entered her mother’s kitchen.
“I see you’ve been giving your money away,” said her mother as she kneaded a tough lump of dough on the wooden table. The heat from the oven felt comforting and familiar as Pat sat down.
“Just a bit, Mum … to a charity.”
“Granna!” squealed one of her brother’s little boys as he ran into the kitchen, arms outstretched.
“’Ello boy,” replied Pat’s mother as she kneaded the dough. “You think I was born yesterday, dontcha?”
“No, I don’t! And neither was I. I trust Kayo; he’s put his heart into this project and I wanted to help him. Do you know the part the Western world has played in the destruction of the African continent?” replied Pat, defensively.
“No, I don’t, but I do know I was talking to our boy here. He j
ust wants to come to me so he can make his way round to my oven and he thinks I don’t know that.”
“Oh,” Pat replied sheepishly as she patted her lap, beckoning her little nephew over.
“But if you have things on your mind, then that’s nothing to do with me.”
Pat’s cheeks colored as she produced a lollipop from her bag and gave it to her nephew.
Pat’s brother came into the kitchen and tickled his son weakly on his neck. “’Ello there,” he said before turning to the fridge. “You are such a mug!” he then said derisively.
“And why is that?” asked Pat with a sigh, aware that if his son wasn’t about, her brother probably would have called her something a lot stronger.
“My mate showed me that article about you giving money away to some African village!”
“It is for charity.”
“What does Barry say about it?”
“Behind me a hundred percent.”
“Always a sap, that one.”
“Don’t speak about Barry like that,” she replied, close to tears.
“Charity begins at ’ome in my book. And how can you trust them Nigerians anyway? You should be at home having a kid. What’s taking you so long, anyway? Old man Barry not up to it?!”
That stung, especially as Pat and Barry had finally decided to be at peace with the fact it was probably never going to happen, that perhaps she was not as fertile as her sister. They’d sat in the garden, held each other close, and decided to focus on the possibility that this happy life they lived was probably their lot and, if so, that was more than okay. They had each other. An unbreakable bond, which was a lot more than some people had. A lot more than what her own mother and father had.
However, her brother’s comments, as usual, hurt. Not to mention the “them Nigerians” bit. Time had clearly not evolved any of her siblings into decent human beings, and she was sick of them.
He continued. “There’s probably no school anyway. Just a load of natives having a laugh at your expense. As I said—mug!”
Pat held on to her nephew tightly, as if feeling him would prevent her from saying something she may or may not regret or from bursting into tears.
“Your sister’s not stupid,” said her mother in a rare show of support. Pat quickly glanced over to her, as if to offer silent thanks, but her mother resisted any eye contact as she continued to knead that lump of dough.
On the way home, Pat acknowledged that her brother’s words had stuck to her like watery leeches. She was due to hand over the remainder of the money to Kayo—ten thousand pounds—but hadn’t actually seen the building in question. There were shots of building work that could have been taken anywhere and at any time and staff who could actually be Kayo’s family members posing for the “stupid English woman with all the money.” A strong wave of doubt began to surge through Pat’s body, making her feel as stupid as her brother had implied. She’d trusted the friend of a man Maria had known for about five minutes and pledged money on the basis of an evening’s chatter! A sickening feeling of dread followed her as she made her way home.
“You’re back!” she exclaimed, running into her husband’s arms as soon as he walked through the door five minutes after she had. Pat had been craving the security of his presence, the reassurance of his voice, and yet now, that just didn’t seem enough.
“Am I an idiot?” she asked, finally slipping out of her coat. The night had turned blisteringly cold, yet strangely enough, Pat was sweating.
“Who have you been talking to, love?”
“Please answer me, Barry. Am I some guilty fool trying to make up for the actions of some faceless ancestors by wanting to give this money to Kayo?”
“You,” he said, cupping her face in his hands, “are the most loving and generous woman I have ever met. You love children and simply want to help them out. If that’s being a fool, then sign me up, Trish, because you’re one in a million and I love you for it.”
She could always count on Barry to say the right words, even if her doubts weren’t immediately erased.
“Besides, you’re not giving it to Kayo, it’s for the children!”
She kissed his forehead playfully and suddenly became breathless. Giddy even. “I want to go.”
“Where to? I’ve just got in, love!”
“Not now. In a few weeks. I have to. I just have to!”
“You’re not making much sense, Trish.”
“I want to go to the Motherless Children’s Home. I want to go to Nigeria!”
During her brief stint as a pop star, Pat had ventured into a number of European countries, but nothing had prepared her for the musky, unfamiliar heat of Lagos as she stepped off the plane at Murtala Muhammed International Airport. The faulty carousel and bureaucratic delays just made the experience all a bit worse. For Barry there were less adverse effects as he functioned as usual, a solitary bead of sweat trickling past his ear, the only sign he was in Africa and not navigating the brisk winds of the Sussex coast.
Outside, away from the air-conditioning and under the searing Lagos sun, a swarm of bright yellow-and-black taxis littered the area like killer bees searching for prey. Drivers shouted their wares from inside the vehicle as men with paper pads and small goods for sale approached them.
“No, thank you,” said Pat on continual loop.
“We’re waiting for somebody, but thank you,” added Barry.
As her eyes searched the crowds, the skeptical words of Pat’s brother echoed in her ears. Perhaps she had been gullible. Barry hadn’t verbalized his unease, but maybe he was just prepared to go along with anything Pat wanted: she wanted to be a singer, let’s do it; she wanted to fly thousands of miles away to an African country with a dodgy reputation, let’s do it.
Then, she heard the sound of her name, which finally pierced the growing bubble of negativity that had been surrounding her for weeks.
“Mrs. Reid!”
She looked up and Kayo moved toward them, eyes as piercing as ever, skin glowing against the midmorning sun.
“Welcome!” he greeted them, vigorously shaking Barry’s hand and then hers. She didn’t want him to notice just how relieved she was to see him or her silent crowing she couldn’t wait to share with her brothers.
“It’s so great to see you, Kayo!” She smiled as Barry squeezed her hand.
A dusty blue Peugeot pulled up, and Kayo opened the door for them to get in.
“Welcome!” said Kayo again as they pulled away, smiling widely before explaining their itinerary for the trip. Hotel, shower, food, then the car would arrive to take them to the Motherless Children’s Home.
Barry squeezed her hand again as the car drove away from the airport. Her gut was finally beginning to fill with optimism and hope. She stuck her face out of the window, absorbing the welcome breeze that now accompanied them, inhaling a pungent mix of sweaty heat and dried plants as strange-sounding music and what sounded like tribal singing flooded out of the radio.
“I’ll turn the music off,” said Kayo.
“No, keep it on. Who is it?”
“King Sunny Adé! Our very own pop star of Nigeria. Just like you are in England.”
“I think he’s probably a lot better than I was!” laughed Pat, staring out at the large cactuses and neatly arranged palm trees lining the lengths of a smooth road. As the car moved farther away from the airport, a subtle change in scenery began to emerge—like watching an artist’s canvas take form. Ikeja, the sign said, housed a number of small hotels, neat buildings, and large pharmacies, along with a neatness she hadn’t expected. Pat was now desperate to view the whole portrait.
“Kayo, is it all right if we go straight to the Motherless Children’s Home?”
Kayo turned to Barry who shrugged his shoulders in response.
“But wouldn’t you first like to freshen up at your hotel?”
“I just… I’d just like to see this place. I suppose I’m a little excited.”
“As you wish,” he said,
before addressing the driver in Yoruba.
As the car ventured farther away from the hotel and closer to its new destination, the amount of people on the street seemed to quadruple. There were men and women dressed in colorful traditional costumes, some in Westernized jeans and shirts. Mothers ferried children on their backs as they balanced trays of freshly baked bread on their heads. The noise of old cars competed with the sound of music, similar to what was playing in the car, a woman preached through a megaphone, and the potent mix of frying meat and petrol became part of a new smell as Pat took in the hustle and bustle of Lagos for the very first time.
The car stopped at an intersection, and Pat was horrified to notice the absence of any traffic lights. In fact, she’d only seen them earlier, such “luxuries” having disappeared once they’d driven farther away from the airport. The thick traffic and vast number of people made it necessary for the car to proceed at an unbearably sluggish pace, honking its horn as Pat became drenched in sweat.
“I’m sorry, Barry, we should have gone to the hotel first,” she said, noticing his reddened face. The car’s air-conditioning was nonexistent, and the open window gave little relief from the intense Lagos heat.
“It’s okay,” he replied as Pat squeezed his hand. She gazed out of the window hoping to hide her guilt, continuing the optical tour of the city that would be their home for the next two weeks. To her it was the most interesting and beautiful place she’d ever seen.
Kayo, now their tour guide, spoke of places she’d never heard of before. The school on the corner next to the barber’s shop with a piece of steel as a door was where some of the older children from the home were sent for studies. The lady crossing the road, dressed in an Ankara green-and-blue caftan, had been a volunteer at the home twice a week for a year even though she was a widow with four children and very little money.
“I myself have been surprised by the kindness of strangers. And now after a chance meeting, you offer a very kind donation,” he said, gesturing to Pat and Barry. Pat could only smile in embarrassment, touched at his gratitude and once again reminded how her siblings’ reactions to similar generosity would have differed.