When We Speak of Nothing

by Olumide Popoola

  ‘We be friends, right?’

  ‘Yes now.’

  The heat was like a blanket. Thick one. Maybe it wasn’t going to be so bad. If you’re enveloped like that what could happen? What the eff could bloody happen?

  ‘You know, on my papers—’

  ‘Which papers?’

  ‘I mean my passport.’

  ‘Which kine problem you get for passport?’

  ‘No problem really, well sometimes …’

  ‘Karl, wetin?’

  ‘It never say Karl. There is no Karl. Not on my passport.’

  They were quiet. Nakale rolled on to his back and folded his arms behind his head. His face was turned toward Karl. Karl spread his legs a little because it was still warm but a small breeze had found its way through the window. No need for those thighs to stick together just because of a little sweat.

  ‘Me … I don’t know how to say am.’

  ‘Karl—’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For passport him say you be woman. Na be de thing you fi tell me?’

  There was an abyss again. Not a gap. Strike, defeat. No middle part. Nakale shuffled on his mat and one arm came away from under his head. Karl was looking for the right words that would stop this suction that was pulling him into the thin mattress through the floor into the bloody atmosphere and who the fuck knew if his body would hold, if it would remain in one piece?

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Mena.’

  ‘But how does she know?’

  ‘Maybe she feel am. Ah neva ask her. She say people pretend that we can know everything by looking and saying there is this side and that side. But we can’t. It is never like dat. She say to be a friend is to be there and wait for the time. For the time to talk. And then listen.’ He sat up. ‘When me and you become friends she tell me, make ah better be true friend if ah be any friend at all.’

  ‘She said that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And wetin?’

  ‘What do you think? I mean …’

  ‘Ahbeg, now you say it be problem?’

  Karl’s breath was shallow. How great darkness could be. No viewing of his emergency-lighting blush.

  ‘She ask if I be your friend make I be real friend. And me I think I be true friend. No be so?’

  He lifted his head, looking at Karl. Karl kept staring at the ceiling. There wasn’t anything to see in this darkness but still. You didn’t have to face your friend head on. Not all the time, anyway. Fuck that.

  ‘Karl, me I dey stay for here. You need some more explanation?’

  Janoma came at eight. Karl was still packing. He and Nakale had chatted for a long time and only fallen asleep in the early morning. He was now sitting in the parlour, breakfast in front. The few things Karl had brought were folded and stored in the backpack. Nakale said he might be able to swing something for Karl and Janoma, a minute of alone time, but when Karl was ready to leave the room that had been his for the last week, the bell rang. When he walked out, backpack on back, the father was just coming through the apartment door.

  ‘Good morning.’

  26

  * * *

  Not all surprises

  are justified.

  Janoma looked at Karl. Nakale looked at Janoma, then at Karl. John was at the door and greeted Karl’s father as enthusiastically as last time. Uzo came from the bedroom with Rose and showed her to Adebanjo.

  Janoma tried to catch Karl’s eye. Nakale was doing the same to see whether he could, should, you know – the good friend stuff. Karl was looking at his flip-flopped toes. What a difference a day makes. An hour even. Less than that. A few minutes later and he would have been at the fabric shop.

  The father spoke to John, looked at Karl.

  Karl just stood. Right where he had come from the tiny hallway into the lounge.

  ‘First you stay, now you want to leave so suddenly? You will come with me.’

  Not a question.

  ‘I was about to say goodbye to my friends.’

  No answer. The father nodded at John, at the others in the room, then walked out. Karl held Janoma’s hand. A quick squeeze.

  ‘Better to take your things. Your father can drop you.’

  ‘But there is hardly any time. When am I going to say goodbye?’

  John didn’t reply. Fathers superseded friendships; they could make any decision they wanted. Especially when the kid in front wasn’t your own.

  ‘Send me a message.’

  ‘I will wait in the buka.’ Nakale would have to be the most uncomplicated friend on earth.

  ‘Me too.’ Janoma.

  Adebanjo took him back to the bungalow. His bungalow. The one in which he told Karl how he wasn’t needed here. Only with more harshness. Why was Uncle T in Lagos when Karl needed him? Lately he had got all Godfrey on him when they spoke.

  ‘Give him time, Karl. Whatever it is. He is still in shock. I’ll take care of it.’

  Karl couldn’t pull a whatever on Uncle T. He was too nice.

  ‘I brought you here because I want to talk to you.’

  Obviously.

  Karl didn’t want to run out of time just for some half-arsed attempt at bonding. A last meal at the buka, with everyone. Half of the people who mattered already waiting there. For him.

  The father seated him on that same couch where Karl had sat the first day of his visit to the city, wondering if he might be engaged in some action thriller intercity search for the father he had never met. His father was well. It was, like, so clear it hurt. No need to get all entangled in things that wouldn’t make a difference.

  ‘I have been thinking …’

  Karl knew enough about politeness. His eyes looked caring, his mind switched off.

  ‘… and understanding.’

  He was thinking of Janoma. How much time they would have? How soon he could get out of here?

  ‘People like you …’

  Time for the bracing yourself. The like you address was never a start to anything good. Followed usually by a version of: you people, you are not normal, but I am going to decide to tolerate you while I’ll keep making it obvious that I’m the one who is generous here. Because you are not normal. It wasn’t quite the same as friendship. Like Nakale. It wasn’t quite like I’m not leaving you. I dey stay for here.

  ‘I mean, I don’t understand it but it seems …’

  Karl looked at his father curiously. He was leaning forward, wanting something. What made him think he cared?

  ‘I would like for you to tell me more.’

  He could tell him that he was seventeen. That it meant he could start on testosterone if he wanted to. That he would. Soon. But you can’t open a door that has two polished blocks instead of handles. Your hands will keep slipping off.

  ‘What about your wife?’ Time to get some bloody answers. Things he was curious about, not the father’s version of some weak-arse explanation. ‘How come she doesn’t live here with you?’

  ‘She lives in Lagos. I just work here.’

  ‘You travel back and forth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How many children do you have?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘Four?’

  ‘Sixteen, twelve, eight, and six.’

  ‘OK.’ What else? He needed to get it all in there before the father continued on his anthropological investigations.

  ‘Have you told her about me? Your wife.’

  ‘Yes, she is the one—’

  Karl interrupted; his surprise Q&A would soon be finished. He had to hurry. ‘How comes Uncle T doesn’t know then?’

  There was a short, annoyed silence. The father turned around quickly. Until now he had looked at the floor in front of his shoes. Now his narrowed eyes scrutinised this person in front of him. Karl shrugged internally. You know what? Can’t be bothered at all mate.

  ‘Who knows what Tunde knows? He is a dreamer. If he does he probably doesn’t care. He has his own wa
y of looking at life.’

  The father got all authoritative again, composure restored.

  ‘I have done some research and my wife has supported me with it. She wants to meet you. I have arranged a flight to Lagos at the end of the week.’

  Karl didn’t say anything. He copied the father’s posture, leaning forward, staring at the floor in front of him, hands clasped. Then he looked up, head tilted. Haha. Yes, that easy. I wish.

  ‘How did you know I was still in Port Harcourt?’

  ‘Tunde told me.’

  It took Karl a minute to compose the answer in the clearest way. Polite.

  ‘Thanks for the offer. Appreciate it.’ Not. ‘Unfortunately, I have to go home. Immediately. I am leaving tonight.’

  ‘Yes, John said your friend is sick. OK, no problem, let’s change the ticket and we go to Lagos today. Then you can go home at the end of the week. I will call my driver immediately. We can go by the—’

  ‘I’m sorry. I will have to leave today.’

  ‘My son, one day will not make a difference.’

  If it was that easy, you would take the bait. You would hang, wouldn’t you? Sit the whole thing out. See what’s on the bloody horizon. That’s the thing. At any junction something can happen. Something unexpected, big. But it’s only when you turn into one of the roads, and get around the corner, that you can get a good view of whether you care for that oh hello surprise thing or not. Often you fall for that effing bait, dangling in front of you like wow, this is some amazing opportunity. But sometimes you know, just know, that from zero to two hundred in no time is unhealthy. To say the least.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Karl paused. ‘He needs me. And his family does.’

  ‘They just accept you?’

  ‘I’m not going to lie. It took a bit for the parents just to understand. Once they got it they didn’t have a problem with me staying at Abu’s all the time. They never rejected me in the first place.’

  He didn’t feel like there was any need for this convo to continue hijacking the bit of time left. There was a shortage. He had places to be, people to see.

  ‘Maybe I’ll come back some time.’

  ‘I think it would be better if you finish the things you have started now.’

  ‘He is critical. He could die, you get me. He could die any minute.’

  ‘I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.’ He paused then added, ‘Karl.’

  As if things were different. As if saying ‘Karl’ now, without some major contortion, was enough. Karl rose to his feet.

  ‘Can you drop me at John’s house, please?’

  27

  * * *

  In and out …

  (fill in the gaps).

  If not for Abu’s long, frantic breaths, nothing moving except his chest, up and down, but often enough to make sure his body was on track with its oxygen supply, it would have almost been impossible to know he was still there.

  Karl? Like, distraught. Proper. Sitting there next to the bed, all tanned from days of life somewhere else, the Nigeria of the West Africa, of the bloody other side of the world.

  Nothing was funny. Nothing.

  The hospital, the long corridors of hush hush rush, the overfilled rooms. Karl tried to avoid it, at all cost, even when his mother had her stints there. Now it seemed worse, lonelier, more sterile, even less hopeful than it usually was.

  First, of course, that vital thing for liveliness was nowhere to be found: Abu’s consciousness. Then, let’s face it, the babbling, the never-shut-up-when-needed that was missing, made not only the room but also the halls vibrate in silence. Abu’s mother in the corridor. The twins running around further down, in the waiting area. Abu’s mother, a handkerchief between her hands, folding it, refolding it, unfolding it, neatly putting it in squares and sideways and over the top each fucking way, this and the other, looking at her hands, head down, trying to keep herself in. Keeping herself from just leaking out into the bloody hallway so that she wouldn’t be swept up by the cleaner and disappear in the huge, transparent plastic bags that they tied around the metal ring with a plastic lid that opened when they pedalled on the bottom. If she didn’t make it, who would be there when Abu came back? If she lost it? Abu’s father had tired eyes. His arms were around Karl’s shoulders.

  ‘It’s good you are back,’ he said when Karl walked into the hospital room.

  Godfrey had been at the arrival gate, a big bear-like hug and an if you do that again look that had a hard time competing with the relief of seeing Karl back in one piece. Godfrey and his good kids I knew you’d be back here in one piece and look at you pride that Karl thought was out of place. He hadn’t heard when Abu called him. Had not been there. Hadn’t returned. Not been a good friend. None of the things he was sure Abu would have done. But then Abu’s life was different, always was, always had been. It was shit, really shit. Godfrey had seen Karl’s face. All tensed and taut, all I’ve been away, I’ve grown up, see it in the way I look now, independent, head-on gaze, straight into Godfrey’s eyes. No head tilting or shyly avoiding contact, nothing but an I need to do some stuff. Ain’t no point stopping me now.

  And in the car, an angry mother, a very angry Rebecca, waiting for them to come out of the airport. Waiting only because she didn’t want to lose it in public. Nigeria? What were they thinking?

  There was no stopping Karl. That boy. You could tell he had a new stubbornness. It was troubling.

  Abu had been lying there for a little more than three days. Movements yes, pain response, yes, pupils dilating when shone with light, yes, yes. Words? None. Waking, any type of wakeful state in the common sense? Nope.

  Karl ran his hands over the brown skin. Abu’s arm was floppy but warm. The skin cold but warm underneath. There was life, that much was clear. A sturdy step on the floor behind him got Karl’s attention; he could feel Godfrey inching closer.

  ‘As expected, she’s very upset.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  There are replies that are pointless and everyone knows it, so why bother.

  ‘You’ve heard what she said, right?’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘It could all be fine. No internal injuries, so that is good.’

  ‘How’s a head injury better, Godfrey? It’s the bloody brain, you get me? The fucking brain!’

  ‘But nothing has happened so far. A little bruising. Most likely he’ll wake up and everything will be fine.’

  ‘If he wakes—’

  ‘When he wakes up.’

  ‘How are you so sure? How can you be so bloody sure when nobody knows these things?’

  ‘I just know, Karl.’ He placed his big-bear big-brother hand on his shoulder, not smiling. That would have been too much, considering, despite his never-ending, happy-ending optimism.

  ‘I just have a feeling. Can’t tell you why or how. Just know. Just like I knew I could let you go to Nigeria—’

  ‘You didn’t just let me go. I went. I made a point. Wasn’t your choice.’

  ‘I could have prevented it. You’re not eighteen yet. That visa would have not happened if I didn’t have some—’

  ‘Legal guardianship on me, I know.’

  ‘Karl, I’ve always had your back. You can’t say I haven’t trusted you. You can’t say that. I shouldn’t have let you go, that’s the point. If anything had happened … your mother … she’s pretty mad with me.’

  ‘That’s why I said she didn’t need to know.’

  ‘She’s your mother, Karl. How long did you want me to keep it from her? It was supposed to be two weeks. You ran away. Officially. This time I’m not covering, for none of it. You ran away. Not to Nigeria, but in Nigeria. That’s how I see it.’

  ‘Suit yourself, if that’s how you want to spin it.’

  ‘It’s how it is.’

  Karl wrapped his fingers around Abu’s wrists and used his other hand to check for the few hairs that his friend seemed to have been nurturing since his absence. A lot of things seemed to have changed in those few
weeks. Karl started laughing.

  ‘It’s not really all that funny, Karl. I am pissed off with you. I’m just too relieved that you are back.’

  The giggling went all proper belly laugh. Karl got up to place his whole hand on Abu’s cheek.

  ‘That’s not why I’m laughing man. Look, he’s growing a beard, or not really.’

  ‘And that’s funny? It’s what happens. Hormones, you might have heard about it some time back when you were still attending an educational institution.’

  ‘Come on, Godfrey. It’s funny. Three hairs, but I can just hear Abu’s voice, saying, “Well the ladies like a Brad Pitt stubble. A little five o’clock shadow goes a long way.”’

  And the laughing continued, and Karl pulled Abu’s hand closer, no longer holding it between his fingers but just hand in hand. Godfrey’s lips now jumping too, his head coming closer to have a little look. He slapped Karl on the shoulder. ‘You know how to play a man when he’s down.’

  ‘You the one who said you know he’ll be fine.’

  ‘When I said talk to him, I meant nice things like “Come back, we need you.”’

  ‘I did all of that. The whole flight. Now I got to talk to Abu the way we talk. Otherwise what’s the point? He ain’t gonna come back to hear some bloody bullshit just cause we’re all shitting our pants. You know him.’

  He put Abu’s arm back under the blanket and straightened the white cover so it looked smooth and tidy. He placed Abu’s head smack bang in the middle of the pillow. He would have got a fit if he had known Karl was getting carried away like that. Karl couldn’t stop; it burst out again. The laughter shook and rattled and went tsunami, face all wet from the tears. Godfrey banged him in the ribs.

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘His mother … Can you get a grip on yourself?’

  And there she was. The small woman who had never needed anything from Karl before. Her shoulders were hanging low, the twins on each side of her, their faces concentrating, zooming in on their brother in the bed.