When We Speak of Nothing

by Olumide Popoola

  ‘Come, it is here.’

  The open sewer had loose wooden planks over it. Karl balanced, taking care that both feet were evenly distributed. It didn’t work if you started too far back and had no weight in the front. Gravity. Inevitably the back end would come up. They passed a single-storey house with a few tables scattered in front. People were drinking and eating, and music came from the inside of the house. A couple of guys looked up.

  ‘Long time.’ And shouted something else to Mena. She shook her head and laughed and her backside swayed more as she moved on. It was darker behind and they slipped between other houses, walking on a bit of raised concrete next to the open sewage. People were sitting out everywhere they passed, washing clothes, chatting. After a couple of minutes, they arrived at an opening, a yard, and Auntie stepped down from the low cement rise. Two women were in front of the building. Mena exchanged pleasantries and introduced Karl.

  ‘Nakale’s friend.’

  Karl said hello.

  ‘And my own.’ She poked him.

  The welcome was warm and one of the women waved towards the back. The front room led to a narrow hallway. It was a weird atmosphere. Not unfriendly, just expectant. There were about ten people there. Most of them looked up when Mena and Karl entered. A split sec of pause before the chatter resumed.

  Janoma was already present.

  ‘Welcome.’ She hugged Karl. Karl’s body got stiff and inside it melted. Her body. Close by. Touchable. He lifted his head a fraction. Was supposed to be a nod. All he could muster.

  Mena looked around. An old couch was at the far end. An old calendar on the wall. An even older ceiling fan was doing its rounds, making it clear that it was a chore. A shelf along the whole side of the one wall, books on it and piled in front of it. A table with papers spread out. Half of the group was standing there.

  ‘Nakale no dey?’

  ‘He’s delayed,’ Janoma answered and pulled Karl towards the couch. A young man in dark suit trousers and a short-sleeved shirt was sitting next to a woman with big glasses in a green dress.

  ‘My friends Lah and Alera. This is Karl. I told you. From London.’

  Lah grabbed his hand. Karl’s arm felt like it was coming out of his socket. They had obviously already heard about him. Alera was nodding as if she knew something Karl didn’t. Lah stopped the shaking.

  ‘Welcome.’ Karl’s head went red but he managed to reply a supposed to be casual ‘What’s going on?’ They made room for Karl and Janoma. Mena was across the room now, talking to an older guy with a beret.

  ‘Where is the music?’

  ‘What?’ Janoma whispered back.

  ‘The music. Don’t you have music at parties?’

  Janoma leaned to the side to see him better, confused.

  ‘What party? Is this another London-kid thing?’

  ‘Mena said I was going to a party.’

  A couple of people waved. They were leaving early. Or perhaps it wasn’t even early.

  ‘This is a meeting to finalise a newspaper. We’re all waiting for Nakale. She must have just told you because of John.’

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘Nothing, but since he works for your father who works for an oil company …’

  He nodded. His throat was itchy. Anyways, he was down with it, wanted to learn all things Niger Delta, all things Nakale-related. So whatever it was, it was certainly fine with him. Only it was hard to sit next to Janoma. He felt like a piece of wood; Janoma leaning into him, arm leaning on his thigh, friendly-arguing about something with her friends, always including Karl but he couldn’t hear them properly and didn’t really understand what it was all about. It was loud in the room. Even louder in his body. In parts he didn’t want to name. Brain foggy, he nodded and smiled his way through until Janoma left him to drift.

  An hour later, Nakale called the guy with the beret. A truck had turned over at Rumuokoro Junction. There was absolute gridlock. He wasn’t going to make it. The others started filing out. It would take long enough to get home on a normal day but now with the main junction even more congested it would be an absolute nightmare. Alera turned to Janoma.

  ‘Should we stay? There is going to be too much traffic anyway.’

  Janoma looked at Karl. His shoulder shrugging was instant. ‘Sure.’

  Mena dragged a chair over.

  ‘We wait small den I take Karl back.’

  There was time anyway. John had said not to come back too late. But it was only eight o’clock.

  Alera turned to him. ‘Have you been able to follow our programmes here?’

  ‘Which one?’

  Karl didn’t add that he found it difficult to follow TV when he had tried watching at his father’s house.

  ‘Alera is a very good singer.’ Janoma straightened her blouse. ‘She can’t wait for the new season of Nigerian Idol to start.’

  ‘Oh like American Idol? The singing show?’ Karl looked at her.

  ‘She loves it too much,’ Lah said.

  It seemed true. Alera moved her head to the side and paused there. Smiled. Content. With herself. Janoma was watching Karl. He shuffled on the couch.

  ‘We don’t actually have it. I mean not any more. The idol one.’ He was getting himself into some speaking disaster. ‘Something similar. I mean we have something like it. It’s called The X Factor.’

  Yes, Alera had heard about that one. Mena turned towards them.

  ‘No be Charly Boy dis time?’

  ‘Yes, Auntie,’ Janoma replied. ‘Have you heard of him, Karl? He is going to be one of the judges this year. Charly Boy. Everything he does … people talk about him.’

  ‘Why?’ Karl replied.

  ‘He’s like the Area Scatter of our time. He used to dress as a woman—’

  Dressing as. Karl flinched. You couldn’t see it but his insides were on alert now. It wasn’t being like. Doing as if. Not for him.

  ‘—then he was a punk—’

  ‘Dat one no be like Area Scatter,’ Mena interrupted. She put her hand on Karl’s arm. ‘Today everything na promotion.’

  ‘But still. Auntie. He kissed a guy; the photo was everywhere.’

  Janoma filled Karl in on the previous year’s scandal. Charly Boy had kissed another male musician on the mouth during a photo shoot. The press had eaten it up.

  ‘Oh, wow. Must have been something.’

  ‘It was,’ Janoma laughed. Karl moved away a little; there was air between them now. His thoughts were muddled again, racing. Like his heart. Mena took his hand and moved his arm up and down, playfully. Absent-mindedly. Apparently.

  ‘But who cares.’ Janoma seemed bored with the topic now.

  ‘Exactly, who cares!’ Alera addressed Karl again. ‘My dream is to be on the show. One day.’

  Karl’s voice wanted to do a runner through the back door. He managed a ‘Good luck’ and got up from the couch, Mena’s hand dropped. He stretched.

  ‘Me, I’m getting tried.’

  Lah agreed. ‘It’s a long way home. Better go now.’

  When they arrived at John’s, Mena filled in the missing link.

  ‘Nakale, he want to show you about our place here, the Niger Delta. Dat’s why he ask you to come. All de people dere, they do something. Like Nakale, they write small things. They take samples. They try.’

  ‘OK.’ He couldn’t see more than her silhouette. They were standing in front of her closed shop. ‘Hopefully I get to go again.’

  ‘He will take you. No problem.’

  ‘Do you also work for the magazine?’

  ‘Me?’ She turned so suddenly she must have been surprised. ‘No. Me I just cook. Sometimes I help Nakale. And Nakale ask me if I can take you because he was not free today to bring you.’ She brushed something off her arm. ‘And I live closer to here. Easier for me to bring you home.’ Her face moved to him. ‘But no need for John to know, Karl.’

  ‘Would he mind?’

  ‘It no be good for him to know everything
. He doesn’t know which way he should go. John.’ He could feel her eyes on him. ‘OK?’

  ‘I think he is solid.’ It had burst out. ‘I mean he is a good guy John. No?’

  ‘Oh, he is very good. Too good. Don’t worry yourself. Just sometimes it’s different if you have to be good to too many people.’

  Allegiances. Loyalty. Karl used to have that to other people. Now he was stuck with decisions that couldn’t be made. Not easily anyway.

  He was ready to go up. They day felt long. Mena held on to the hem of his shirt.

  ‘Area Scatter. He was a musician. But long before you born. One day he go away, many months. Then come back. As a woman.’

  The crickets were at it and it felt safe. The darkness. The chirping. Mena’s soft voice. They stood. You didn’t always have to say so much, did you.

  * * *

  Abu sat on his bed. Clothes covered the floor. His mates had sent a bbm earlier: come by hackney l8r. He wasn’t up for going. Let them come for him then. Time for him to grow up. Be the man he always pretended to be.

  He got up and put the unworn clothes into the wardrobe, piled the dirty ones by the door. The bed was bundled up. He straightened the duvet, flattened out the creases, looked around. Yes, now this was what Karl was always talking about. Tidiness. Not bad, not bad at all.

  Karl. He didn’t want to think about him. This being ‘away’, not coming back. Be a good friend but come on! There were limits. Forget even Rebecca and Godfrey. Forget that everyone was like way mad because Karl wasn’t coming back. There were needs. Abu’s needs too.

  He lined his trainers and shoes up on the wall, took out a clean shirt, changed and left his door wide open.

  ‘I’m going out, just downstairs. Probably won’t be long.’

  His mother came out of the living room.

  ‘I don’t want you to go.’

  ‘It’s just downstairs.’

  She hadn’t said anything the last time he’d left. When she had made it clear not to. Her eyes had done the talking. He could hear both his parents later, discussing how to handle this. What the best approach was. Enforcing discipline might only send him further away. Might rupture their bond more than it already had. So they had finally realised that he was here too. That things were changing. He needed some attention, some time. He wasn’t really trying to take advantage of his parents’ new method. The waiting for him to open up. It was just … life was major shit. And you would suffocate if you stayed at home. Abu looked at her eyes. Looked at his trainers. Opened the door. It was hard. So hard to resist the face, the eyes that were pleading. Sad and hopeful. All at the same time. Abu’s foot played with the doormat.

  ‘I don’t want you to go, Abu.’

  She went back inside. She knew her power. The way Abu couldn’t resist wanting approval in her eyes. That sudden smile when she realised he was doing what she wanted him to do. When he was doing the right thing. She was in the living room already. The TV was coming on.

  ‘I know,’ he replied. ‘I’m sorry. I have to.’

  He left the door open.

  * * *

  Karl stepped into the small shop. It was so dark his eyes couldn’t make out anything but contours and shapes.

  ‘Close the door please. My aunt has already finished. I don’t feel like dealing with any late customers.’

  The enclosed space amplified the scratchy sound his red flip-flops produced on the painted cement floor. How much more aware of yourself could you be?

  ‘Really push it; it’s a little stuck.’

  Janoma switched on a lamp opposite the entrance. It got all cosy.

  ‘Choose any material.’ She smiled.

  Karl nodded. The fabrics were divided in sections according to main colours. Rows all neat and efficient, using all the space from ceiling to floor.

  ‘You’ve done your hair,’ Karl said.

  ‘If I don’t plait it my parents complain. Then my mother wants me to get a weave. I don’t want one.’

  ‘I didn’t think it was long enough to get it done.’

  ‘Oh they can, as you can see.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Karl mumbled. He had nothing to say. He just liked her face. Liked it so much. The tight braids showed rows of scalp all neat and tidy, like the set-up in the shop. Janoma stood out against the backdrop of colour.

  ‘You know, we don’t really go to tailors in London.’

  She laughed. ‘That’s what we do: give material as presents. Just choose something. Your mother can use it on top of the bed.’

  The skirt Janoma wore was ‘figure-hugging’, as they said here. Tight from waist to calves, flaring in pleats. The top was sleeveless and tailored. In the UK sense.

  She fumbled in her handbag, then turned around again, CD in hand.

  ‘I burned some music for you. Afrobeat, the current pop music. Maybe you’ll like the vibe.’ She laughed and made a step toward Karl.

  Karl’s body switched on, head burning up.

  ‘Did you bring your laptop? Or do you want me to put it on your MP3?’

  ‘My phone.’ The noise that came out of Karl’s mouth: a frog’s attempt to free itself from serious captivity. He was trying to get his hand to let go of the door handle, trying to leave this looking at her, instead touch the material, the fabric which covered almost all surfaces, and allow it to cool his burning palms. And the burning in his throat. The burning that just wouldn’t leave since Janoma had taken his hand a few days ago when they were sitting together in the taxi. The burning that had returned when she leaned on him at Nakale’s ‘party’.

  ‘What is the problem? You’re marrying that door? Try at least to look like you are choosing something.’

  Ha ha, he wanted to laugh. Nothing wrong with a little affection for our functional items, innit, he wanted to reply. Something funny. Amuse her. Respond. Do anything. At all. He felt unsteady as he stepped into the room.

  ‘You know,’ he started.

  ‘What?’ Her face was starting to glow. The sweat.

  ‘You know,’ he tried to continue.

  ‘I do actually know quite a lot of things. That’s why I am studying. So which thing are we talking about?’

  He smiled. She had to be that damn smart-arsey, didn’t she.

  ‘You are …’

  ‘I am, that is true. Very philosophical. I hope that’s not all of it.’ It didn’t seem like she was still mocking him. More like a question. They were now facing each other.

  ‘I’m not … I mean, you are …’

  Fantastic sort of sense-making, bravo Karl, real fucking brilliant.

  The what to do and when to place it. The how to undress and how much to leave underneath. The give someone all that could hurt oneself. Or them. And then stand still. Just stand.

  ‘Why are you not doing anything?’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ It wasn’t a rhetorical question. Karl was sweating. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Nineteen. Why? How old are you?’

  ‘Seventeen. Eighteen. I mean, my birthday is next week.’

  She pulled back.

  ‘Eighteen? OK.’ She was quiet for a moment. ‘So you have done this before?’

  ‘What?’

  She laughed. ‘If you say “all the time” now I’ll know that you are lying.’

  Her eyes opened but she couldn’t see anything, their foreheads still glued together.

  ‘So what is it?’

  Her mouth tasted fresh, it felt clean, in an all is good here way. The way her breath travelled from ear to neck to collarbone to lips. The sucking. His head spun. Her hands lowered on to his bum.

  ‘Cute.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He stood stiffer than before.

  ‘You know—’

  ‘That one again.’

  She moved her head away and looked into his face.

  ‘I’m trans.’ Karl paused. ‘Transgender. Some say I was born a girl. I don’t agree with that, but anyway, it’s complicated.’

  It was warm. H
ot. Too bloody hot.

  ‘And?’ She kept looking.

  ‘So?’

  ‘What’s your real question?’

  ‘Are you still interested?’

  The door opened. Janoma jumped.

  ‘Good evening, Auntie.’ She grabbed her blouse, trying to hide behind

  Karl’s lanky frame. It was a hush hush situation and Karl was amazed how she managed to get the blouse on so fast, superwoman on a mission, not to save the world but her ass.

  Luckily, Auntie was not coming to check on her but to show a visitor from out of town a particular cloth. They had been talking about it beforehand, it seemed. They were so engrossed that Auntie only half responded to Janoma as she lowered herself step by step, backwards down the steps, still in conversation.

  ‘You’ve done well. Not just the import-export business, but also traditional fabric.’

  ‘Yes. The other store is much bigger. We sell everything from dresses to suits, jeans and T-shirts. All ages. I will show you tomorrow. It has expanded a lot since.’

  ‘And you still bring things from America?’

  ‘Yes.’ She turned towards Janoma. ‘You remember Janoma, the daughter? She is now studying fashion and clothing technology at Uniport. She helps out here. She came top of her class this year.’ Her pride brought all action in the small space to a halt. Long enough for Janoma to straighten her clothes and Karl to ask his face to lose the bloody fluster.

  ‘That is good. God is great.’

  ‘Amen,’ Auntie concluded.

  Janoma greeted the lady. Then she put her hand on Karl’s arm and turned his to face the two newcomers. The auntie smiled at Karl and did the usual ‘How do you do Mister, isn’t it a lovely evening?’ in what she thought was the Queen’s English and which she had done each and every time she had met him over the past weeks when he and Nakale stopped by.

  ‘Good evening, ma,’ Karl replied.

  ‘This is Karl, a friend of Nakale and Janoma’s, visiting from London. Britain. He is choosing some fabric to take home. For his mother. He’s leaving soon. This is his first time in Nigeria.’