Being Lara

by Lola Jaye

  Brushing a film of dust out of her hair, Sandi said, “So what happens now? Do I help you sift through that first box?”

  “No, I’ll do it.”

  “What are you looking for, anyway? Anything in particular?”

  “I think… I think I’m about to go back to the future.”

  “Interesting use of wordplay, my dear Watson,” said Sandi in a posh voice. “You sure you’re gonna be all right? This all seems a bit deep.”

  “I’ll be fine once I find what I’m looking for.”

  “I’ll get out of your way then. A few hours suit you?”

  “Where will you be?”

  “Next door teasing Kieron.”

  “You know he’s married now, right?”

  “Just having a laugh. Take as much time as you need, kiddo.”

  The box without a date contained only a few documents, regarding her adoption mostly, plus the remaining one of the pictures Mum had shown her all those years ago. At the bottom of the box was a transparent polystyrene bag with something flat inside—a red, yellow, and green cloth that all at once struck her like a flash of bright lightning.

  She stared at the bag and the cloth inside, knowing it to be something significant, important. The feeling as she held it was so overwhelming, so strong, she knew it had most definitely meant something to her once. She was sure of it.

  Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang.

  Lara asked Yomi if she wanted a drink, feeling rather odd to be offering a drink to the woman who’d given birth to her, standing in the house where she’d grown up—without her.

  “No, thank you, Omolara. I am intrigued that you have called me to your home. A home that even Mama has not been to. It is a privilege.”

  “I want to show you something. Come,” said Lara, leading Yomi into the kitchen.

  On the wide wooden table, Lara had everything she needed spread out in front of them: school reports, a swimming trophy, two of her teeth, a dodgy painting of a one-eyed dog, marks for a Spanish oral, a “Happy Ninth Birthday!” card, a blurred picture taken in Paris with classmates, a naked Sindy doll, a copy of a 2.2 degree, a cake candle in the shape of a “four,” Michael Jackson’s Bad tape, a white-and-black key chain spelled out in the letters L A R A, and last, the collage Mum had presented to her on the night of her thirtieth birthday party just over six weeks ago.

  Yomi walked around the table, gazing down at Lara’s life on a kitchen table, forehead wrinkled in concentration. In retrospect, perhaps this had been a crazy idea, but as Yomi looked up, Lara spotted a quiet emotion slipping onto her face—something she hadn’t allowed herself to notice before.

  “This is me. Lara. My life. Everything you’ve missed out on.”

  “I do not know what to say,” said Yomi, her eyes moving up and down the collage. She looked at the touching rows of pictures: Lara making silly faces at the camera with Dad and Mum, Sandi, Aunty Agnes and Uncle Brian, their children; Peru; on the seat of a yellow tasseled bike; blowing bubbles; moody teenager; incomplete adult.

  “I have missed plenty,” said Yomi.

  “I don’t know if you’ve heard the saying ‘to move forward, it helps to stop looking backward’?”

  “I have heard this from my mama.”

  “So did I! She’s a very, very wise lady. She’s done so much to help me. She’s educated me on my background, even down to the color of Grandpa Soji’s underpants!”

  Yomi smiled warmly, still staring at the photos.

  “And she’s made me accept things I have no control over … things I can’t change. But now I need your help.”

  “I will do whatever you ask of me.”

  “I need you to tell me what happened. From the moment you found out you were pregnant and why you decided to make the decision you made. We do this and then it’s over. And I can live.”

  With the items and the collage spread around the table, both women seated at the table, Yomi began.

  “Omolara… I mean Lara… When I found out I was carrying you, it was such a complete and utter shock. I had obviously been pregnant for some time; I had felt it deep in my bones and in my heart, but I pretended it just wasn’t so.”

  “You didn’t want me, even then?”

  “That is not what I am saying. Please listen, Omolara.”

  An uncomfortable silence ensued.

  Yomi cleared her throat and continued. “It was not a good situation.”

  “Granny told me about Iyabo. Was it because of sorcery? I mean, I know that Africans believe in all that witchcraft stuff and what with Abimbola having died in strange circumstances, maybe you thought you were trying to save me. Granny mentioned how much her threats scared you.”

  “Stop, Omolara, and please listen to what I am saying.”

  Yomi closed her eyes, opened them, then said, “I denied to myself that I was pregnant because I didn’t want to face the truth that—”

  “That?”

  “That I was carrying a child that was not my husband’s. I did not conceive you with my husband. Chief Ogunlade is not your father.”

  Henry Bibimsola looked just as handsome as the last time Yomi had seen him.

  “My Yomi,” he said with a mixture of surprise, folding her in a tentative hug, which she happily melted into. He smelled the same, almost looked the same as before, except for the weariness in his eyes. Whatever he’d been through had brought him back to Chief Ogunlade Street, and Yomi could not contain her joy at finally being reunited with him. Her marriage was a sham, with her longing for Henry on so many nights as she lay beside her husband, hoping he’d understand the book in her hand meant she did not want relations with him that night. Or any other night because, to be frank, she found her husband odious, pompous, and someone she knew she could never, ever love. She knew it wasn’t becoming of a respectable married wife of a chief to be lustful of another, and she tried to remove Henry from thoughts that lingered around her marital bed. But as soon as Yomi and Henry found themselves alone that fateful day, she held on to him tightly, willing their bodies to meld into one, not wanting to let go in case he left her again. Their passion was still strong, still alight after many years spent apart.

  They made love on a mat with dusky shades of orange woven into the fabric. A small oil lamp rationed a tiny glow of precious light, just like in the heady days of their early relationship.

  She felt safe in Henry’s arms, like no harm would ever befall her, like they could stay that way forever—her mind home to a series of plans that would involve them running away together and becoming a real couple, getting married. They would get as far away as possible to start a new life together. Yomi wasn’t sure of the logistics, but they would make it happen. It had to happen.

  She began to verbalize these plans, but what stared back at her from Henry’s expression was an antithesis to what she felt.

  “How far would we get with no money, Yomi? Also, once word has followed us that we had disgraced Chief Ogunlade, no one would want to trust us or give us a chance. We would face a trial with the elders. We would be disgraced. I cannot do this to you, my Yomi. I cannot.”

  His face in his hands, he said, “Why oh why did you beckon me? Why couldn’t you have just allowed me to walk on by? I have brought nothing but misery to you and I am so ashamed.”

  “Henry—” she whispered softly, their fingers entwined, his chest rising and falling with emotion. She had never felt such intense love for anyone in her life before and knew with a resolute sadness that she never would again.

  “Henry, we can do this,” she said hurriedly, searching his face for agreement.

  But none came. “You must go to your husband, Yomi, and make a good life for yourself. Forget about me, please. Forget about me.”

  “And that is when I ran back to my house and eventually burned that dictionary he bought me. He had hurt me for the second time in my life. So I did what he asked of me and returned to my husband. To make a life with him.”

  She continu
ed.

  “I knew that Chief must never find out the truth, that I had been unfaithful. If he did, he would divorce me and evict my entire family. He was a very powerful man in my area. My daddy would have lost everything, and I would have been a disgrace not only to him, but also to my family. I could not do that to them. So when you were born, my parents had gone to visit relatives in Ibadan and it seemed easier to pretend you had arrived too early to have survived.”

  Yomi’s words shot a neat hole into Lara’s chest.

  “According to Mama’s calculations, I would only have been seven or so months’ pregnant as this was how long ago I had slept with Chief. We didn’t lie together very much, so I knew.”

  She cleared her throat. “They and everyone else just believed you did not make it because you were too small. In our culture, the burial of an infant is a very discreet affair, as it is considered a very bad thing to happen. So I was able to tell my parents that we had sorted everything out while they were away.” Yomi closed her eyes. “Chief, as the parent, is not permitted to attend the funeral of his child, so it was easy to… Besides, Ola assisted me…”

  Lara was trying her best to process what was being said but it was hard. She was trying. Only Ola, our house girl, was aware of the truth. That Henry, the love of my life, had given me the most precious gift I could ever want. Henry Bibimsola, your father.

  “As you know, Granny has only known you were alive since Chief’s death. That is why she is so pleased to see you. When I told her, she collapsed. I thought she would hate me. And for a long time she would not speak to me. The day she came to me and spoke was the day she said she would accompany me to England, to see you. I didn’t want her to die and not see you, like my daddy. I myself did not want to die and not see you in the flesh again. I have been following you as much as is possible, with friends who live here. When they invented that Internet thing, I gave your mother’s name and some details to one of my neighbor’s sons who found out some small things about you. Your working place. He used this Goggles.”

  Lara smiled, oddly appreciative that Yomi had validated Patricia Reid as her mother within the context of this current crazy conversation. “This is the bit I am having trouble with; why didn’t you just pass me off as the chief’s child?”

  “Because of this.” Yomi leaned over the table and pointed to the top of Lara’s right ear.

  “The minute you were born, I saw it. Just like your father’s. It is a family trait of Henry’s and everyone would have noticed it.”

  Lara absently brushed her thumb against the hole. Sandi used to tease her about it, but for the most part, she’d forgotten it was there—not knowing how much of a part it had played in the shaping of her past, present, and future.

  “I began to think: what if one of my husband’s wives, like Iyabo, noticed it, too? She was already making threats. I didn’t know what she could be capable of. I was just a child myself, and all I wanted to do was protect you, my child.” Yomi’s body shook. “I promise you, Omolara, I was only going to leave you at the Motherless Children’s Home for a short time and then return for you.”

  “So why didn’t you?”

  “I did try. I would sometimes walk up to the gate and see you playing, sitting on somebody’s back, smiling. You smiled so much, I was reassured they were taking good care of you.

  “And then sometime later, I saw that Mr. and Mrs. Reid wanted you. They looked so kind. And as a married couple, I could see they loved each other so much. They reminded me of the way a husband and wife should be. The way Chief and I could never be. I knew then that they would take good care of you.”

  Lara felt a wave of warmth at the way Yomi had just described Mum and Dad, and at that moment she’d never loved them more.

  “You were right about them—they did take good care of me. They really did.”

  Lara felt soaked with emotion. She needed time out.

  “I’ll make us something to eat,” she said.

  “Yes, that would be fine.”

  “Okay… How about an omelette? I think I can just about manage that,” said Lara, reaching into the fridge her parents had owned since she was fifteen.

  “Yes, you prepare the food and I will tell you everything about your father, Henry Bibimsola. How we met. Everything.”

  Yomi’s story was clear and concise. There were moments of laughter and sadness, reflection and regret. But by the end of it, Lara started to feel completely bereft, like she’d just lost something that really hadn’t been hers in the first place.

  “Do you know where he is? Henry?”

  “No, not since the beautiful day we conceived you. But I did see a friend of his sometime later who told me he had moved away to Abuja. That is the last I have heard of him.”

  Lara wasn’t sure how to feel about that, so she decided to pack it away for later. She had so many more questions and decided to ask one of them as Yomi poured out two glasses of lemonade.

  “Did you ever think of me? You know, all this time?”

  “Every single day.” Yomi blinked rapidly as droplets of water sat on each of her eyelashes. “You do not know what it has been like for me. You have no idea, Omolara.”

  Lara wanted to counteract that and say something quick and unapologetic on the lines of “it wasn’t a picnic for me either!” but any such urges quickly drifted away as Yomi pulled something out of her bag. An item. A piece of cloth so blinding it allowed Lara’s insides to tense up and she had to catch her breath.

  Entwined within Yomi’s fingers was a red, yellow, and green cloth identical to the material in the transparent polystyrene bag rescued from the attic. Yomi slowly unfurled it to reveal the shape of a wide-armed blouse.

  “This is a buba—a blouse. It goes with the wrapper, which is also here, in my bag.” She retrieved an identical piece from her bag, unfurling it to reveal a rectangular shape. “It is a three-piece Nigerian suit for a lady. One piece is missing though. The head tie.”

  “I know where it is,” Lara managed hoarsely.

  She found the bag in the box, her heart racing with absolute urgency as she handed it to Yomi, who took it gently, like it was the most precious thing she’d ever set eyes on.

  “The final piece,” whispered Yomi, her eyes wide, tears now streaming down her cheeks.

  “It’s identical,” confirmed Lara.

  “Small enough to wrap you in the day I took you to the Motherless Children’s Home. I cannot believe it has been with you all this time.” Yomi gave one big sob and then waved her hand frantically. “I can’t believe it is here.”

  Yomi handed both pieces to Lara, who automatically held them to each cheek as Yomi kept hold of the head tie, dusty and dulled by time. Each piece was identical though—musky, old, yet wonderfully familiar.

  “I never forgot my baby, and anytime I was scared for you, thinking you were sad or crying, I held these close to me and would whisper over and over again: it is well, my sweet Omolara. It is well.”

  “Really?”

  “I could feel you so close to me. I know it is sounding stupid.”

  “It doesn’t sound stupid,” said Lara, her chest heaving, still holding the clothes against her cheeks, symbols of who she had been, who she could have been, and who she had become. It’s then Yomi moved in closer, tentative at first, and when Lara didn’t protest, placed her arms around her daughter, the two pieces of cloth still held against Lara’s cheeks, and they began to sob. The two of them encircling three bits of cloth, which meant nothing to anyone else but everything to them. Tears, memories, and for the first time … hope.

  And that’s how they stayed until the phone rang.

  Chapter 29

  Lara woke up the next morning, in her own bed, with a smile, knowing the person she’d see reflected from her bathroom mirror would look the same as normal (except for the braids), while inside she had completely changed her outlook, belief system, and life script.

  It was only ever clever to trust yourself.

&
nbsp; Never rely on anyone.

  That way no one can ever, ever hurt you.

  The infamous mantra she’d previously lived her life by now felt irrelevant, silly even—and, most of all, untrue. So much had happened to pierce it, to contradict a belief system Lara had energized and breathed life into for a very, very long time. Like the appearance of Yomi and an eighty-plus-year-old woman who stooped when she walked, wore an I WENT TO LONDON T-shirt with a tie-dyed traditional wrapper, couldn’t send a text message, yet now had “Sexual Healing” (because of the nice beat) as a ringtone. Like almost losing Tyler, almost losing Dad…

  Lara had grown up into who she’d always wanted to be. Of course, she still had a lot to learn, but she would do so surrounded by those she absolutely loved and adored and couldn’t imagine being without. She’d do all she could to enjoy these people while they were around, while she could touch and smell them and be a part of their lives as much as was possible. At the same time, she now felt wiser and accepting enough to know that even though things may not last forever, she could cherish them while they were in her life.

  She wasn’t just Lara Reid anymore; she was also Omolara. Her life had so many different layers, which she now felt happy to accept as part of her and without the need to rely on something so reductive as her prior mantra anymore. She’d been fighting her way through an internal war, torn between two sides, and now, for the first time, she was feeling like a winner.

  She padded into the kitchen, enjoying the beautiful sunlight peeping through the window as she bent to pick up the mail. She immediately spotted the long gold envelope shining out of the pile, expecting to read something about a “win” on a Swedish lottery (subject to credit card details). Instead, the contents gave further proof to an earlier prediction that today was going to be a good day.

  Dear Ms. Reid,

  I am pleased to announce your nomination for Inspirational Businesswoman of the Year!

  We would like to invite you to the reception to be held on September 20. Please see attached information for more details.