Everything Good Will Come

by Sefi Atta

  I thought about Niyi again. “My husband says he can name five men in our country who can pay off our national debt, and a hundred companies overseas who earn a higher turnover than our oil revenues. I think that it will be better when the oil finally dries up. Maybe then we can have leaders who will get on with the business of running this country.”

  “Maybe. But meanwhile their greed is our problem. Here and in the rest of Africa.”

  Drought, famine, and disease. There was no greater disaster on our continent than the few who had control over our resources: oil, diamonds, human beings. They would sell anything and anyone to buyers overseas.

  Grace Ameh reached for her portfolio.

  “You have to go?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “To be honest, I don’t know how much longer we can continue. We hold editorial meetings in churches and mosques these days. The government has warned us not to speculate about the coup. You’ve heard?”

  “I don’t speculate.”

  “They will arrest anyone who does.”

  “What keeps you going?” I asked, escorting her to the door. “You have a family to think of, and yet you risk your life to tell a story.”

  She smiled. “Because they detain us and fire bomb our offices? You can’t kill a testimony of a country and of a people. That’s what we’re fighting for, a chance to be heard. And the second thing is, I love my country. ”

  Did I? I believed I could live nowhere else. I hoped to be buried nowhere else. Was that enough to say that I loved my country? I barely knew the place. We had thirty-six geographical states, from the triad of North, West, East regions the British created before I was born. My father was from a town in the middle belt of Nigeria; my mother, from the West. They lived in Lagos. I was born here, raised here. Privilege never did blind my eyes, but there were parts of the city I’d never visited, parts I never needed to. Most of my country I had not seen, not even the Delta Grace Ameh spoke of. I only spoke one of our languages, Yoruba.

  There were times I’d felt my hand leprous, bringing out my Nigerian passport, in case an immigration officer mistook me for one of those drug smugglers who were giving us a bad name around the world; other times I’d felt happy to wave a flag for women in my country; African women. Black women. What was the country I loved? The country I would fight for? Should it have borders?

  Walking to the window, I caught a glimpse of Grace Ameh leaving our premises. She stopped to buy sugar cane from one of the women who sat across the road. The woman had been there from morning, would probably be there all day. Her ware couldn’t be worth more than twenty naira. The cheap pen in my hand was worth more. “People are hungry,” people liked to say, especially when the political debate heated up, “People are starving out there!” I’d heard it said, with some pride, that we didn’t have the same type of hunger as other African countries where people died because their bodies eventually rejected food. Hunger in my country always looked like a child with a swollen belly, and I strongly believed that no one, except those who were hungry, should speak of it. The rest of us, unless we were prepared to give up half our food, were only entitled to shut up. But this woman selling sugar cane, would she eat better on the promise of a vote? And if her children were hungry, could she tear up her ballot to slip into their mouths? I was almost certain she didn’t vote, but the result of the general election was considered to be the will of the people. Some brave people caught bullets in their chests defending this will. I was not one of them. I stayed at home that day. The government had warned us not to participate in the protest, and our mothers reiterated the message at home. What freedom was worth dying for? Soweto, Tiananmen Square. Remember.

  I was lying on my bed. One arm was over my belly, the other was behind my head. Through the mosquito netting across my bedroom window I could see a huge satellite dish perched on the house across the road. It was the sort of afternoon that made me want to rip my clothes off. We had no electricity.

  I was thinking of campaigns, military decrees, constitutional rights. In a democratic system, with a constitution in place, a citizen could challenge injustices, even if the system itself was flawed. With the military in power, without a constitution, there was no other recourse besides protest, peaceful or violent. I was thinking of my country, which I’d done nothing for. If she were a Lagos woman, she would be laughing right in my face. “Did you give me food to eat? Did you put clothes on my back? No. So, clear out of my sight, with your miserable face.”

  Downstairs my mother-in-law chatted to Niyi about frajon, a dish prepared for Good Friday. “Enitan can’t make frajon?” she was saying. “I’m surprised. It is so easy to make. All she needs to do is soak the beans overnight, boil them till they’re soft, then grind them with a blender, then stir in coconut milk, boil it with nutmeg. But she must wrap the nutmeg in muslin cloth. Remember how your uncle broke his tooth? You don’t want that to happen, eh? So. When the frajon is boiled, then she can make the fish stew. You have fish? Not too bony fish, and I prefer not to fry mine, but that is her choice. Frajon is easy to make. In my day it was real work. We used to have to grind the beans and coconuts on slates, sift it... ”

  I turned over, imagining they had wrapped me in white muslin cloth and dipped me in scalding frajon. When I died, I would be called to give account of my time here on earth. What a pity if I said I cooked and cleaned. What a pity, even, if I couldn’t give account of a little sin.

  I imagined I marched downstairs to where they sat, banged my fist on the kitchen table and yelled, “Get out of my house!” Filled my lungs so our president could hear it in his presidential palace: “Get out of my country!”

  I got up and stripped naked. The mirror on the dressing table was short so I could see my torso only. I liked the swell of my stomach; the roundness, tautness, softness of my hips; stretched nipples, darkened. I had not been touched in four months.

  “Enitan?”

  My mother-in-law stood in the doorway. I hurried over to my bed to retrieve my clothes. I was tripping and huddling over.

  “Sit,” she finally said.

  She patted the bed, and I sat next to her, disheveled. She spoke without mixing her words. “Niyi has told me everything. I don’t want you two to fight anymore. It’s enough now.”

  “Yes, ma,” I said.

  She took my hand.

  “I was not born into this family. I married into it. It was not easy for me as a young bride. I’d just finished nursing when I met Niyi’s father. He was a difficult man. Difficult. The Franco men are difficult. But you know, my dear, when two rams meet head on, nothing can happen until one backs down.”

  “I know, ma.”

  “So. What you did for your father, that was right. But you were wrong not to consult your husband first. He is the head of the house. He has a right to know. Now. What happened later, I think Niyi was wrong. To ignore your wife because she made a mistake like that. That was wrong, I told him, ‘You cannot, cannot treat your wife that way. Say your piece to her, as a man and let it go.’”

  “Yes, ma.”

  “You yourself, you must learn that a woman makes sacrifices in life. It shouldn’t take anything out of you to indulge your husband for the sake of peace in your house.”

  “Yes, ma.”

  “So, let this be the end of it. You hear me? I don’t want to lose another daughter.”

  She hugged me and I held my breath. I did not want to be that close. She drained me the way soft-hearted people did. Somehow I ended up deferring to her, as if to do otherwise would be taking advantage of her. She was fasting for Lent, she said, for the new baby.

  “Thank you, ma,” I said.

  Niyi and I escorted her to her car. After she drove out of our home, we faced each other in our small driveway. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t let you take a risk like that. I prefer that you hate me.”

  He twisted his soles on the gravel and stood up with his hands in his pockets. Four months separated us as if I’d
licked my forefinger and drawn an indelible line in the air. Where would I begin?

  “I don’t hate you,” I said.

  I dreamed that night, in the spare room, clear as a prophesy. I was holding a newborn baby. “He’s dead,” my mother was saying. I tried to console her, but the more I did, the more her sorrow. I realized the baby was mine. I woke up in such pain. I waddled into our bedroom and switched on the bedside lamp.

  “What’s wrong?’ Niyi asked.

  “The baby,” I said. “It’s kicking.”

  He patted my side of the bed and I slid in. I moved close to him, to calm my heartbeat. He placed his arm over my belly.

  “What’s going on in here?”

  My eyes were wide. “Is it normal?”

  He patted my belly. “Yes, it is. Whoever you are, let your mother rest.”

  On Good Friday I made frajon with my mother-in-law. She invited family members and I invited Sheri. Sheri and I sat at the kitchen table as Pierre washed dishes. Stacks of dirty plates surrounded him. We were surrounded by empty bottles of Star beer and Coca-Cola. We were tired. Sheri had brought her cousin’s children, Wura and Sikiru. Sikiru, we banished to the living room. He sat there rocking himself in a persecuted manner. A more falling-down four-year-old I had not seen, with a head so long he could pass for Nefertiti. Outside, he’d collided with pots, grazed his knees, bumped his head on a washing line pole. “Sikiru! Sikiru!” we cried out every time we heard his yelps. After a while, we sounded like pigeons, or one of those old aunts we thought we’d never become. His sister, Wura, sat with us, a five-year-old with her hair pulled back like a rabbit’s tail. She eyed my stomach until I got nervous and asked what she wanted.

  “Coca-Cola,” she said.

  “I was not allowed to drink Coca-Cola at your age,” I said.

  “My mummy lets me. From when I had chicken pops.”

  “Chicken?”

  “Yes. And my froat was paining me, that’s why.”

  She held her neck.

  “Throat,” Sheri said.

  “Troath,” she said. “And my body was pops, pops, pops.”

  She pinched her forearm and wagged her forefinger. “But no scratching. No scratching, because that is the rules. And if you scratch, your pops will only grow bigger, like a balloon.”

  She stretched her arms wide and mistook my amazement for sympathy.

  “It was terrible,” she said, in a husky voice. “Now, can I have my Coca-Cola?”

  I started breathing as if I’d gone into labor. When I served Wura frajon, it was, “Ee-yack, I don’t like this Free John thing.” “Fray-John,” I corrected her. “Can I have fish?” she asked. I gave her some of the stew I made from Mrs. Williams’s fish. “Ee-yack. Too much pepper in this fish,” she said. “Aunty, do you have biscuits?”

  I handed her a Coca-Cola. She drank it clean, burped, and went in search of her brother with caffeinated eyes. Dear Wura. “May I be askewed?” she asked. When I said yes, she said, “Fenks.” I immediately forgave her.

  “Are all children like this?” I asked Sheri.

  “Be prepared,” she said.

  Pierre dropped cutlery in the sink. I placed my bowl aside. I had already had two helpings of frajon and some of her stewed crabs, so tasty I’d hidden them from everyone.

  “I will be a terrible mother,” I said.

  Sheri stretched. “You’re not looking forward to it?”

  “I am. But I have not had time to think about it.”

  I did not feel comfortable discussing motherhood with her, but I was aware of a presence within me, as infinite as God. I did worry that I might spoil my child rotten.

  “It’s hard work,” she said.

  “I can see.”

  Niyi came through the door. “Pierre, water to drink. Quick.”

  He placed his hand on my shoulder and Sheri watched him the way she watched men, arching her brows and keeping her eyes on his midriff. Niyi rubbed my shoulder and left.

  “Is he talking to you now?” Sheri asked.

  “He is.”

  “You’re not still angry with him.”

  “I need time.”

  Time really wasn’t enough, I thought. Forgetting would be enough.

  Sheri sat back in her chair. “It is good that you met your brother.”

  “I can get to like him.”

  “I hope so,” she said.

  “I don’t have to like him, Sheri.”

  “I didn’t say you did.”

  “But I know what you’re thinking. In your family, everyone sticks together... ”

  “I never said we were perfect. We just happen to like each other, and thank God we do, because I don’t know what would happen in the little village my father left.”

  “You’re confessing something?”

  “If they keep to one woman our lives would be simpler.”

  “Ah.”

  “But we, too, are just as guilty for what we do to each other. I’ve never met a man who had an affair with himself.”

  “No.”

  “So. The blame is on two sides then. I keep telling my sisters. Stop letting these boys treat you badly. They tell me, ‘But we’re not strong like you.’ Strong. I don’t even know what that word means. But look at the way we were raised, two women in one house, one man. Mama Kudi’s turn to cook for Daddy. Mama Gani’s turn to sleep with Daddy. A young girl shouldn’t grow up seeing such things. But that is my family. I’ve accepted it.”

  We accepted the world we were born into, though we knew what felt right and wrong from the start. The protesting and detesting could come afterward with confirmation that our lives could have been better, but the acceptance was always there.

  Pierre left the kitchen with a bottle of water and I dared to cross a line.

  “Are you curious about your mother?”

  “Hm.” Her lips were thin.

  “Enough to look for her?”

  “Not like that.”

  “Why not?”

  “What if she doesn’t want to know me?”

  “What if she’s thinking what you’re thinking?”

  “I’m not ready. I’m not.”

  “I’ll be behind you when you are.”

  I couldn’t imagine being that estranged from my own mother. We listened to the Francos’ chatter in the living room for a moment.

  “Can you see yourself married?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “If I meet someone with sense. But what I’ve seen so far: rich man wants to own your future, poor man wants to own your past. Some are just plain untidy, and you know me, I can’t stand the mess. Some must have children, and, well... ”

  “Aren’t you sometimes angry?”

  “Why?”

  “Looking back.”

  “I’m a today-tomorrow woman. I can’t look back. I have my business, plenty of children around me. Someone will always chase me. I still have a pretty face. Abi?” She sucked her cheeks in. “It’s other people who worry about me. Me, I have no worries, except when I die.”

  “Why then?”

  “Because who will bury me?”

  “I will,” I said, poking my chest.

  “What if you die before me?”

  “Then my child will bury you,” I said.

  Sheri had two mothers. Why couldn’t my child?

  “What I really want,” she said. “Really, really, sha, is to work for children. You know I practiced saying that for Miss World? I memorized a whole speech even, children are our future, all that. I didn’t care about one word. I was annoyed the judges eliminated me before I had a chance to use it. Then one day I was thinking about the speech. Children beg on the streets here and people drive past them. Everyone is fed up. You open the papers and someone is asking for their child to get treatment abroad. Why not raise money for them? I started thinking... ”

  “About?”

  “A charity. I’m good at asking for money, I know people and these photographers are always snapping me somewhere. Why not
use them? The one thing that has stopped me is that I can’t stand people knowing where I am and what I’m doing. But I think I can get used to that. It’s a small price.”

  The work suited Sheri more than she thought. A charity. Her unfriendliness was an asset. People were intrigued by her. Those she approached would feel privileged. She would thrive.

  “You have to do it,” I said. “You will be so good and you’ll be surprised how much you’ve missed being around. You’re not a background person. What, you want to hide for the rest of your life because people talk? Let them talk. One day they will ask themselves what they’re doing with their own lives. Any social event in this place, people will come whether or not they care about your cause. They will buy tickets, give money, so long as they’re recognized. You have to do it, Sheri. If you had told me this before I would have sat on your back.”

  “I’ve been thinking seriously, end of this year hopefully. I need to find a name and trustees... ”

  “Put me. We will arrange the paper work for you at the office. You’ll be the best charity in Lagos.”

  Her birth mother and motherhood taken away from her, and she wasn’t thinking of tearing her clothes off and walking naked on the streets. She was stronger than any strong person I knew. The word strong usually meant that a person was being short-changed emotionally and physically and had to live with it. I had always been motivated by fear, of lowliness, of pessimism, of failure. I was not strong.

  Sheri was planning to make the next pilgrimage to Mecca. I couldn’t imagine her becoming an Alhaja. She would have to get a gold tooth, at least, to fit my image of a Lagos Alhaja. More guests arrived and she decided it was time for her to leave. I saw her to her car and when I returned to the kitchen, my mother-in-law was serving more frajon for them.

  “I’ll do that, ma,” I said, reaching for the bowl.

  “No no,” she said. “You’ve done enough.”

  She tugged at the same time I did, and we found ourselves fighting over the bowl. I stood back as she bent over the pot. I thought she was searching for her life, the unborn child, who had given birth to everyone but herself. She too was strong; strong enough to live with a man who wouldn’t even look at her when she spoke to him. She was a human shock-absorber.