by Lola Jaye
Yomi’s fears were solely related to connecting with and getting to know Lara.
And now she was becoming more fearful because her six-month visa had already lost two weeks from its date stamp and was running out fast, as were the funds put by for the trip. This meant less time to spend with Omolara and to convince her of the truth—and the thought of returning to Nigeria without progress would be almost worse than not coming at all.
Yomi had stupidly assumed the transition from stranger to mother/daughter would have been much smoother than this, a tearful and joyous reunion sprinkled with tireless embraces, tears, and a face aching with loving emotion. Instead, she’d walked in on a family who clearly resented her mere presence, her mere existence. To them she was a troublesome cockroach to be eliminated, her voice like a tiresome bleating of a goat.
An irritation.
But that was okay with Yomi. She’d traveled thousands of miles for a reason, and she wasn’t about to, as the British say, throw in the towel. She’d traveled this journey not only in miles, but in so much more.
Before embarking on the trip to England, she’d been very cautious about the cold weather. Her last trip on a plane had been to the United States of America to visit with her brother Kunle’s children, who resided in Atlanta, and she’d foolishly assumed the weather would be the same in England. But nothing had prepared her for the England cold, even if it was supposed to be summer!
She’d dreamed about coming to England for such a long time, just like many of her friends and acquaintances in Nigeria who yearned for a “better” life and to tread a floor “paved with gold.” Her earlier fascinations with Jane Austen novels persisted somewhere deep in the back of her mind’s past, but the misery of real life had long since eliminated old and pleasurable fantasies. Realism, and a stark reality that life can be harsh, had now taken their place.
According to all who knew them, a loveless marriage to Chief had produced no children—a mortal sin where she came from and even more so when married to such a prominent man. Therefore, he was perfectly within his rights to marry another wife, which he did without a qualm. This was fine. Yomi had expected it. But the humiliation of Chief Ogunlade’s fifth wife being Ola, Mama’s former house girl and the only other person on this earth who knew of Omolara’s existence, was something Yomi could never have foreseen. When she’d first seen Ola returning from Chief’s room one evening after Yomi had visited with Mama, her worst fears were realized and she’d kept it to herself for days, unable to take the problem to Mama for more than one reason.
Confronting Ola had been easy but short-lived when she’d hissed, “Oppose me marrying Chief and I will expose you. I will tell everyone what you did, I promise you!”
Yomi recalled the hate in the girl’s eyes. Years of loyalty disposed of with the promises of a better life for her and her family that someone like the chief could easily provide. So Yomi had no choice but to stand back and watch the public spectacle of her husband, Chief Ogunlade, marrying a mere house girl.
Iyabo, Ola, the gossips—they had all won and Yomi was once again back where she had started, only this time without the luxury of youth. Instead she was a broken woman still haunted by the decisions made in her life and yearning for the luxury of going back and starting over.
Chief was gracious enough to build Yomi a home away from the compound—a small bungalow added to the end of Ogunlade Street not far from her mama and daddy. But the building felt empty, which it was, save for a house girl and the odd visit from one of her brothers who were always quick to judge her and comment on the mistakes she’d made—constant reminders of what she’d lost and what she’d never again have. She managed to run a small trade in clothes, linens, and handmade jewelry, which had done well enough to finance the trip to America with Kunle’s help. Then with sales steadily rising, she was able to muster up enough cash and enough courage to brave a visit to the country of genteel fellows, castles, and her Omolara.
But at Stella’s house in Bexleyheath, England, Yomi spent most days staring at a beaded doorway, listening to the sounds of a barking dog next door and car horns being tooted for no apparent reason. England was not how she had imagined, and neither was Omolara’s reaction. The way her own child, her only child, had looked at her with such anger couldn’t have been more different from how she’d looked the day Ola had placed her into Yomi’s arms. Just as Yomi hadn’t been prepared for the love that had oozed out of her thirty years ago, she hadn’t bargained for what Omolara now thought of her. Yomi was only thankful Mama had quickly decided to accompany her to England. Mama: the secret weapon she’d never even considered.
And yet a part of her now felt envy at how well Mama and Omolara got on. Yomi saw it as some type of punishment. She’d lied to her own parents about Omolara, after all, telling them she’d died when all the while she languished in the Motherless Children’s Home.
What had happened the day Mama found out the truth was a memory Yomi had tried and failed to banish from her mind. She could still hear Mama’s painful wailing, which seemed to go on forever. She could still remember Mama’s collapse, and then her recriminations and terse insistence that this secret should never get out. If Mrs. Apampa and company were to find out, it would be all over Lagos; and if any of the deceased chief’s family ever knew, their lives would not be their own. He was still a well-connected man even in death.
Yomi shuddered at the thought, quietly determined to make sure that Omolara one day would know the truth—everything—if it was the last thing she ever did.
Chapter 22
I insist we see the Princess Diana statue Mrs. Apampa’s niece is always talking about!” A five-minute snooze on the bus had left Mama rejuvenated, her energy suddenly boundless as she insisted on dragging Yomi to a second visit to the Houses of Parliament and a “quick” dash to Harrods.
“Oya!” was Mama’s favorite word, which basically signaled she was ready to go to whatever appeared next on her mental list, which could be anything.
“And when are we going to see Omolara again?” she asked as they walked out of Harrods’s doors and onto Knightsbridge.
“When she calls us,” replied Yomi weakly, unsure of when that would be.
“Let us go to Harvey Knickers.”
“Where is this place?” asked Yomi.
“That girl is as stubborn as my Soji; I see it in her eyes. She will not call you now that she has purchased for me a new mobile phone. You must strike first, my dotter.”
“I will leave it a few days, Mama.”
“No, you will call her now, before we go to Harvey Knickers,” said Mama, reaching for the phone.
“Oh, look at this, flashing…” said Mama, staring intently at the phone. “Someone has put a letter in the phone for me. Can you deal with it, child?” Mama handed the phone to Yomi, and sure enough, the letter symbol flashed.
“It is a text message, Mama. From Omolara.”
“I don’t know these things. Can you open the letter, please?” Mama was not one for technology. Yomi herself had just about grasped the Internet, but only as something she regularly saw advertised in the numerous Internet cafés that had recently sprung up in and around Chief Ogunlade Street. One of the young boys from the village had mentioned something about finding people on something called Goggles, a type of engine that apparently sits in the machine. Yomi had at one time wondered if she should try to locate Henry Bibimsola in such a way. Yes, she thought about Henry at times, but not often. A few times a year, perhaps—when a title of a classic book caught her eye; on his birthday; seeing a hint of a wide smile on a stranger’s face.
Not every day. Just sometimes.
She looked down at the message on Mama’s phone.
“It says on this text message that she, Omolara that is, would like to take you out.”
“And you?”
“No, Mama, she has not included me. It just says you.”
Pat carefully pulled out the glistening leg of lamb from the oven with the yellow oven m
itts Lara had bought her for Mother’s Day, just over twelve years ago. In those days, Sunday dinners were well-thought-out events, with Brian, Agnes, and the kids at times popping over for a bite, a chat, and the omnibus edition of East-Enders; and it was during such times she missed her mother the most. Sunday dinner was a time she, her siblings, and parents would all come together and just … eat. Of course, the odd table squabble would ensue between the boys while Pat’s moody sister stared into space. Her parents engaged in small talk, a mere stop-gap between her father consuming a large and satisfying plate of meat, greens, roast, and boiled potatoes covered in a delicious sheet of gravy before sleeping it off in the armchair. But that was her family. A huge part of her life she would always miss, however unsatisfying it may have appeared at the time.
“This is great, love,” said Barry, just as her father used to say to her mother. Barry enjoyed his food—a clear contributor to the soft roundness of his tummy. But that was okay because Pat loved and would always love every inch of that stomach, every part of him. Of course, privately and away from it all, she could admit to herself their marriage wasn’t at all born from a passion the likes of which Maria seemed to thrive on. For Pat, her early relationship with Barry may have been based on the premise that here stood a man who’d do absolutely anything for her. He enabled her to believe she could do anything she put her mind to, however daft, even if that included becoming a pop star! Pat wasn’t into all the psychobabble people seemed to live their lives by these days—that just wasn’t her way. But recently, she’d started to look back on her life in a way she hadn’t before. Perhaps it had something to do with entering her sixtieth decade. Perhaps it was because the distant past in the form of Yumi was back, haunting their lives with an unknown threat.
Perhaps.
One of the things Pat was most proud of in her marriage was that, unlike her mother and father’s relationship, she and Barry still talked (admittedly mostly focused on Diagnosis Murder since Barry’s retirement). But as a couple they laughed, joked, discussed, and if something began to peck away at her, interrupting the flow of a peaceful day, then Pat would always feel she had the space to bring whatever was on her mind to Barry.
Until now.
“I added some garlic to the meat, to give it a kick,” she said needlessly as Barry tucked in. Her husband nodded his approval as Pat forked half a baked potato and moved it toward her mouth.
Opening her mouth to receive the food, she spoke instead.
“Barry?”
Forever the well-mannered man, Barry pointed comically to his full mouth and she understood.
He finished chewing. “What is it, my love?”
“It’s… It’s trifle for afters.”
“Great!” he said, full of appreciation.
An hour later, Pat was hunched over the sink rinsing the dishes.
“I’ll dry,” said Barry, standing beside her.
“What are you after? You never dry up,” joked Pat.
Barry lifted up a plate and moved the BEST MUM IN THE WORLD teacloth over the wet plate.
“We need to talk about Lara,” said Pat. At last. It was out there, in the ether. Days of sullen looks, hidden thoughts, and fears once only recognizable through the stare of saddened eyes, were now words.
“We do indeed,” agreed Barry as he clasped his hands around her wet fingers and slowly led her into the lounge. It was going to be a very long night.
Pat glanced over at her sleeping husband, on his back, snoring peacefully.
Last night they’d talked until the early hours about Yumi’s reappearance and what it could mean. Pat had expected anger, fear, a reflection of her own feelings, but what Barry had said shocked her. She had watched his eyes blaze, becoming sharp and filled with anger, and he used words like hate in relation to a person they did not even know—this from her own husband, who’d never judged anyone and took everyone at face value until they disappointed him, and this woman hadn’t actually done that yet. Of course she’d given her child up, but that had directly benefited them, after all. Even Pat could see that, which allowed some of her own feelings of anger to subside. It was hard to figure out where Barry’s anger for Yumi as a person was coming from, and Pat could only conclude it had to be from the same place her own strong feelings originated—a fear of losing their daughter.
That fear had always served as a basis for the way they conducted the handling of the whole thing. Perhaps they could have dealt with things better when Lara was a little girl, spoken to her about Nigeria and her adoption more instead of just handing over a few yellowing newspaper cuttings and a couple of pictures. But deep down Pat had never wanted Lara immersed in that past because she had a future. In England. With them.
So now, although the fear still existed, Pat had reassured her husband that as a thirty-year-old woman and not a child, there’d be no legal battles, no long drawn-out emotional nightmares. Lara was theirs, had always been theirs, and if Yumi wanted to have some form of communication with Lara, then they would stomach it. She could, anyway. But Barry had been adamant that it should never happen. That as soon as Yumi got on that plane and not before, everything in their life could then return to normal again. Pat didn’t tell her husband he was sounding irrational, manic even, or that she’d never seen him so wound up, his face red, spittle flying out of his mouth as he spoke. Or that his notions were a little naive and on par with one of the fairy tales she used to read to Lara. Instead she allowed herself to verbally agree with him as they held each other at two in the morning and finally succumbed to sleep.
Chapter 23
Yomi’s trip to America last year may have buffered any cultural shocks England could throw at her, but what she hadn’t bargained for was the rapid change in weather experienced in the space of twenty-four hours—sunny morning, rain in the afternoon, sunny early evening, cold night. Her body felt confused with it all, hoping it wouldn’t suddenly start to snow. She held on to the LONDON RULES! woolly hat Mama had purchased from a street vender near 10 Downing Street, just in case.
She glanced over at her mother, asleep on the chair. As much as she’d liked having her around, she was pleased Mama would soon be returning to Nigeria. Omolara had spent a whole day with Mama yesterday, while Yomi had stood in the background like a naughty child. And if she were really honest, Yomi hated the way Mama looked at her with more disapproval each day. Her anger toward Yomi and what she’d done was far from diminished.
“You denied me my granddotter! You denied a man time with his granddotter before he died!” she’d shouted, palms pressed on top of her head as she let out long drawn-out howls. That was how she’d reacted the very day she was told by Yomi of her granddaughter’s non“death” just before collapsing. A terrible day that was.
Of course she hadn’t done that since, but Mama’s anger and hurt could be clearly seen in every look and every action, whenever Yomi watched her interact with Omolara, as if to say “This needn’t have been the case. Omolara could have grown up in Nigeria, with us all—Daddy, your brothers and sisters—instead of with strangers who didn’t even know how to cook amala and cow feet.”
Mama opened her eyes and slowly leaned over to retrieve her phone. Postslumber clumsiness ensued, but her eyes widened as she navigated her way around the phone. “This is stoopid. Why can’t they make phones with bigger numbers? We old people can’t read these stoopid numbers. By the time I have found the name, seen the number, and dialed, the raining season has already arrived in Lagos. Ah ah, I am fed up o!”
Yomi knew she was trying to call Omolara. Perhaps to fix a time to meet again—without her. The two of them conspiring, talking, whispering without her involvement.
Mama sucked her teeth and muttered something under her breath, and Yomi gently took the phone from her and scrolled to “O.” Olu 1, Oyin 2, Olumide 3. But no “Omolara.”
“Mama, where have you stored her name?”
“I don’t know. I just gave it to the child and she tap, tap, tap and
gave it back to me.”
Sure enough, “Lara” appeared among the “L’s.”
“She has put it under Lara,” said Yomi irritably.
“Don’t be making your face like that, child. It is her name now.”
And Mama gave her “that” look again.
Pat stood across from the small semidetached house, looking for signs.
A sign that she perhaps shouldn’t be there. A sign someone was home. Or perhaps a sign that would go some way to convince her to cross the road, knock on the door, and wait. But nothing came. Just a sign that the once blue sky was edging toward a murky gray and that it could rain at any given moment. She shifted her weight onto the other foot and glanced at her watch. She’d been standing in the same spot for over half an hour, her mind conjuring up many different outcomes, some positive, some ending in the police being called. But that was just silly.
She wondered if this was how Yumi had felt standing outside their house in Essex, just three weeks ago. The not knowing, the uncertainty of what she’d face. And suddenly, Pat felt a new respect for the woman.
An older lady, clutching the smallest dog Pat had ever seen, walked by eyeing her suspiciously; the dog did also.
This wasn’t Pat’s first visit. There’d been a handful over the last twenty-seven years. Once when Lara was small she’d stood on this very spot, clutching her tiny daughter’s hand, willing herself to walk across and knock on the door. Lara had been impeccably dressed in a lovely blue pinafore dress and blouse, looking every inch adorable as Pat swelled with pride beside her. But as she’d put one step forward to move toward the house, Lara shouted out, “I need to pee!” Usually cute to hear, but at that moment, bad timing. So instead of knocking on the door of that house, the two of them had dropped into the nearest café, after which Pat and her baby promptly hopped on a bus and went home.
Another one of her visits had coincided with Barry’s first health scare. At the time, she’d felt almost swallowed whole with anxiety and Pat had needed more than Maria’s “He’ll be fine! A cigarette now and then won’t hurt him!”