by Janet Kelly
‘Cheeky little shitbag,’ she shouted after him, before his friends came back with him, also wanting a feel.
‘Get stuffed,’ she said swinging her bag at them and they fled, only to be replaced with some more determined young men, aged about twelve, who insisted on showing us round.
‘We show you all the lovely things of the market,’ said the leader, who spoke exceptionally clear English. ‘Stay with us and we find you many bargains.’
Stall holders called after us, ‘Please come and look, looking is free’, and so it was until you got hauled into areas behind curtains and fed a sales pitch intended to make you buy something you didn’t want.
‘Lucky lady, take this beautiful gift,’ said one elderly man who took pride in carving up bits of elephant tusk to resemble other animals such as giraffes and snakes. The irony seemed to be lost on him.
Three of our young hosts decided to take us through some back streets which led into a meat market, where whole sides of beef were being axed inefficiently into unrecognisable lumps for sale.
‘Aagh, that’s gross,’ said Tracey, as blood spurted out from one shop, hitting her in the legs.
‘Wish I’d kept those tissues now,’ she said, taking the offer of a grubby rag from one of the boys and spitting on it before rubbing the blood even further around her clothes. ‘I want shoes, not bits of cow.’
I didn’t bother telling her that the leather shoes she’d been trying on were also bits of cow and let her weave her way through the colourful bangles and cloth that lined the stalls.
‘Here, lovely ladies,’ said a man in a loosely fitting suit as he came out from a hidden alley. ‘Come with me, special discounts. Looking is free.’
His teeth moved up and down as he spoke, and I wondered if Nigeria had a second-hand denture trade, as his certainly didn’t seem to fit.
I wanted to walk past this man but he pulled Tracey by the arm and into a narrow passageway which led, after many turns and twists, to a workshop where a number of young girls were busy making carpets by hand.
‘Very, very good quality,’ said the man as he invited us into his office at the back of the shop, which I noticed looked out onto water. I also noticed that our young guides had disappeared, which I found disappointing, as they might have helped us at this point.
‘I don’t want a bleedin’ carpet,’ said Tracey, pulling back her top where it had been man-handled out of position. ‘I want shoes.’
‘You, lovely lady,’ he said, looking at me for rather too long. ‘You have good taste; lovely hand-made, beautiful carpets – any size or colour. You are rich lady. You can buy, no?’
I had to admit they looked good so I engaged in some conversation, keen to get out of the place. I was aware of the fact he kept staring at me. One of the girls brought us mint tea, which Tracey spat out on the first sip.
‘That tastes like toothpaste. Haven’t you got any builder’s tea?’ she asked, and was ignored by the man who sucked his teeth before turning his back on her. I thought he was very rude.
‘Anyway, we must be going now,’ I said, at which point he stood up and walked around the office until he was in front of the door. ‘Could you please just take us back to where you found us?’
He looked at me, again for too long, left the office and locked the door behind him. There were no windows on that side of the office so we had no idea what he was up to.
‘I want to go for a pee,’ said Tracey. ‘That bloke is getting on my tits.’
A bit like everyone else today, I thought.
It was only a few minutes before the door opened and the man, accompanied by another wearing a better-fitting suit, came back into the office. But it was long enough for panic to start rising. Getting kidnapped was becoming something of a habit.
‘See, it is her,’ said the first man to the other. ‘I know it.’
The second man looked at a piece of paper he had in his hand and then back at my face. He looked over to Tracey, who stuck her tongue out at him.
‘I need the loo,’ she said, crossing her hands across her chest defiantly. ‘When you tossers going to let us out of here?’
‘Aha, it is you, too,’ said the second man. ‘I recognise your English, sickly face.’
‘Get lost, rude boy,’ said Tracey, pinching her cheeks tightly and producing a red flush. ‘Nothing sickly about my face.’
‘You are wanted by people,’ said the second man. ‘We get money to hand you in.’
I groaned.
‘For goodness sake, we are worth nothing. Please just let us go.’
The first man stood in front of me. ‘Well, we could let you go if you match the finders’ fee for handing you in. Fifteen thousand naira would do it. We’re not greedy people.’
I thought of the MOT fine and how that money might have come in very handy right now.
‘Have you any money, Tracey?’ I asked, knowing it was unlikely. Any cash she managed to get was usually ‘borrowed’ from her purse by Baz almost the minute she put it in there.
She opened up her bag and let out the predictable lament about her husband-to-be and how he was always taking her cash. I thought she had some dollars but, if she did, she was hanging on to them.
‘I’ve got about three hundred naira,’ she said, looking up at the two men. Then, in a flash of inspiration that altogether surprised me, Tracey suggested the men take her bank card and her PIN number and go and get the cash themselves.
‘That way you’ll know you’ve got it and that we will be here waiting for you.’
I didn’t for a minute think they would go for it, but they were soon on their way armed with Tracey’s Nectar card and a fictional PIN number of seven digits.
They walked through the door and made sure to lock us into the office.
‘Well, that’s all great, Tracey, but what happens when they come back empty-handed?’
‘We won’t be here,’ she said. ‘Look, the window’s unlocked. We can get out here.’
The drop the other side wasn’t as bad as I thought it might be. There was a narrow pathway around the water’s edge, and just as we were making our way round what looked like a makeshift jetty, the boys who’d been showing us around appeared in a small boat.
‘Come on board, ladies. We take you to safety.’
There was just enough room for us, and I was delighted that they could row even better than Tracey and get us to the road leading to the car park, way before our escape had been noticed.
‘Thank you so much,’ I said to them, but they refused to leave.
‘We need a reward,’ said the lead boy.
‘I don’t have any money,’ I explained, but they weren’t worried. They wanted a phone.
‘Here, have this,’ said Tracey. ‘It’s the only one we’ve got.’
I thought of the one I had, which Tom had given me before this trip started. I’d have been happy to hand it over.
Once they had gone, happy with their day’s takings, Tracey explained that the phone could be locked and even traced back to them.
‘It’s worth nothing to us, really, but everything to them,’ she said. ‘For the moment, anyway.’
We got back to our bungalow, pleased with ourselves. We were safe and sound. I didn’t tell Lady Osolase about the MOT business, or the attempted kidnap. It just seemed better to keep it to ourselves.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Lady Osolase hadn’t wasted any time setting the wedding wheels in motion. Being a churchgoer and having such high standing she had no trouble finding a suitable minister. The speed and efficiency at which she worked was inspiring. She was a woman after my own heart, one who got things done.
‘It’s all arranged,’ she told us only hours after agreeing the date. ‘We have da priest and da church. I haf my son ready and he will do da decent ting.’
She’d also booked for Tracey to see a dentist, no doubt thinking of the wedding pictures, and offered up the services of her own dressmaker, Noelle, to make whate
ver clothing was required for the day.
Tracey was a bundle of nerves on the big day and on numerous occasions lit up a cigarette, only to cough violently and put it out again. She was marginally pleased with the dress Noelle had made for her, after much discussion, and although the shoes weren’t the Louboutin copies she’d asked for, were sufficiently high-heeled to prevent a major tantrum.
‘I wish me dad could be here,’ she said, tripping around on the shoes like a kid playing dressing-up games with her mum’s clothes.
‘We can take photos,’ I offered by way of consolation.
‘He’s been dead ten years, so he won’t be able to see them,’ Tracey said, matter-of-factly.
‘I’m sorry,’ I offered, wondering whether Baz would be so keen to have family witnesses to his impending marriage.
‘Don’t be. I hadn’t seen him for thirty years before that. Wouldn’t recognise him if he came up and punched me on the nose.’
There was a knock on the door and Lady Osolase came in, bringing with her three glasses of brandy, which she placed on the coffee table.
‘Ma goodness. There’s a treat for da eyes,’ she said kindly to Tracey, looking over in my direction for support in her false praise. ‘She clean up well!’ she added, holding up her glass. ‘Let’s have a toast!’
‘Oh, I’m too nervous to eat,’ said Tracey as she swilled the brandy in one swallow. ‘And I don’t think we’ve got any bread.’
Noelle and one of the kitchen maids came in, holding bunches of beautiful pale pink flowers and a larger orange bouquet of lily-like stems wrapped in lemon and red silk. They handed the bouquet to Tracey.
I sneezed seven times and, after recovering, told Tracey she was the perfect bride. She beamed and I was surprised not to swallow my tongue, having had to place it so firmly in my cheek.
As if on some kind of hormonal timer, Tracey started to cry, a habit I was beginning to find somewhat nauseating.
‘This is so emotional,’ she blubbered. ‘And now I’ve gone really hot and sweaty,’ she added, waving her hand in front of her face as its colour increased from a pale pink to an extreme red.
Lady Osolase swiftly took Tracey by the arm and moved her towards the door, gesturing to us all to follow.
‘Come. Da car is waiting. It has air conditioning.’
Throughout the drive Tracey was mopping her face and armpits with a cloth handed to her by Noelle. She was sweating profusely, and cried at every available prompt, particularly one suggesting she might have hit the menopause.
‘I ain’t that bleedin’ old,’ she said and I kept quiet about her being exactly the average age for such hormonal depletion. I know, as I was the same age when my eggs said goodbye to fertility and started causing havoc with the essence of everything I’d trusted to be my true self. It started with a sense of agoraphobia and general anti-social behaviour, then escalated to bouts of paranoia, extreme aggression and a constant desire to exterminate anyone who was in my way for any reason. I can see why women don’t often get jobs as airline pilots. Flying a plane full of moaning passengers on a bad day could have very serious implications.
When we got to the church, Tracey had cooled off physically and emotionally. A last-minute burst of oestrogen must have saved the day, which was a blessing considering there were about two hundred people waiting outside to join in the ceremony. The women, who’d gathered together in one big group, were dressed in bright colours and wore hats with oversized flowers, while the men, skulking in more dispersed bunches depending on whether they were smoking or not, were in sharp but lightweight suits that oozed sophistication and expense. Gospel music was blaring through the church doors, and the atmosphere was buzzing.
‘Who are all these people?’ said Tracey, who was like a rabbit in the headlights at the sight of the crowd. Her thoughts, directed earlier at me, were that there would only be a dozen or so people in attendance. Something she’d worried about, as it didn’t fit with the persistent childhood dream of her wedding day.
‘I’ve waited a long time to get married and I’m gonna do it properly,’ she’d told Noelle and me as she demanded an off-the-shoulder number in white, with maybe a few bits of colour here and there. Noelle had got on with making the best job she could with the tools she’d been given and Tracey was happy enough being the centre of attention while this progressed. She gave her commands on what she wanted to wear and issued instructions where she could on food, drinks and music, but had little input on who she wanted to attend other than me – and Baz, of course.
‘They are your guests, ma dear,’ said Lady Osolase as she swept her arm across the vista of faces. ‘And some of dem will soon be ya family.’
Tracey had told me the prospect of marriage to such a family was very exciting, adding she was ‘totally loved up’, which apparently means you have very strong romantic feelings for a partner who feels the same. That didn’t seem to apply to Tracey’s intended, who appeared to be the complete opposite. I’m not sure if ‘loved down’ is an expression, but if that is what he was, she hadn’t noticed. Whatever I thought of the arrangement, every dog has its day, and hers was her wedding, however shambolic the circumstances.
I looked more closely at some of the people. They wore expensive clothes and spoke with confidence, as if they had always been told they were important. They had an air of entitlement and status, which was all rather splendid in the circumstances. I was looking forward to meeting some of them.
Cameras flashed around us as Tracey got out of the car. A big cheer went up and three photographers crowded round her, taking picture after picture. I noticed how one of the photographers seemed to be focusing most of his attention on me and I hoped he didn’t think I was a relation of the bride. Thankfully he left earlier than the others, which I thought was a bit strange, but maybe he wasn’t there so much for the wedding but because it was an event hosted by Lady Osolase.
Lady Osolase asked them to move away to allow the bride to get through. As we approached the church doors a nervous-looking Baz was waiting, wearing a white suit and a pale green shirt with a dark green tie. He looked handsome, but scared as hell.
‘Say hello to ya bride, son,’ she barked at him.
‘Hello,’ he said dutifully.
Tracey threw her arms round him and kissed him full on the lips. He didn’t respond, but stepped backwards to regain his balance. Cameras continued to click around us as we and the guests made our way into the church and into pews assigned with various names, including some that were prefaced with titles such as ‘Rt Hon.’ or ‘Minister’, suggesting they were from very high places indeed.
The ceremony was over in less than five minutes, and Lady Osolase didn’t leave her son’s side until he’d signed the register. He and Tracey were officially married, and in front of enough witnesses to ensure he could never deny it.
Caterers must have worked overnight on the massive banquet that had been ordered for the wedding breakfast – held in a marquee at the back of the Osolase home. All of Tracey’s requests had been honoured, and she was delighted, particularly with the chicken nuggets and mini cheese burgers she didn’t expect to be available.
Lady Osolase was remarkably happy to oblige with all requests, even those for a karaoke machine and tequila shots as welcome drinks. There were various other minor details such as a visiting Elvis impersonator, those nasty mint crisps that everyone had at dinner parties before Hotel Chocolat was invented – and the possibility of a comedian, if one could be found in Nigeria. Certainly a direct woman, Lady Osolase was generous in her dealings with Tracey, explaining to us both that she was disgusted by her son’s behaviour and would insist he put things right. She added he’d be a good husband, which was something I doubted, given his actions to date and the fact he’d have to tolerate Tracey as a wife. I supposed that children would be out of the question, which was undoubtedly a blessing.
After everyone had eaten, Lady Osolase stood up and gave what might have passed as a best man’s
speech in any other circumstances. There didn’t seem to be any other contenders for the role. If there had have been, I suspect she’d have found something else for them to do, a long way away.
‘My son is very lucky to haf met such a nice British girl,’ she said, to a silent audience who neither assented nor disagreed. ‘Tracey is welcome to our family, and we wish dem a long life together,’ she added, without any sign of having crossed her fingers. As she sat down, she added: ‘Now ma son would like to speak.’
Baz looked horrified and turned to his mother, his eyes pleading for clemency. There was none.
‘Um. Thank you all for being here,’ he mumbled. He was about to sit down but his mother coughed loudly and pointed to his pocket, nodding her head in its direction while she did. ‘Er. I’ve a present for my wife.’ The last word nearly choked him, and I was sure I could see tears in his eyes that didn’t appear to be from joy.
He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket which he opened up and showed to be a cheque. It was for five thousand pounds. He shoved it in Tracey’s direction without looking at her.
‘For you,’ he added, and quickly sat in his seat, taking a large swig from the drink placed in front of him.
Tracey was speechless, I was pleased to note. Otherwise I suspect she would’ve stood up and said something entirely incriminating. She shoved the cheque inside the small clutch bag she’d been carrying and smiled weakly around the room, looking at the guests, who were still cheering at her husband’s extravagant ‘gift’. She looked over at Baz but he was clutching his head in his hands, or at least he was until his mother knocked his arms off the table, bringing him to a near collision between head and plate.
Before anyone had a chance to think about what had just happened, the music started and various guests were up on the dance floor moving in a way only black people can. I remembered dancing with Darius to ‘Mrs Robinson’ and fantasised about him making a sudden appearance, so he could declare undying love and waltz me around the floor, winning every spectator’s admiration. As I watched the crowd sway easily to the music, I wished I possessed that sense of self and oneness with the beat.