‘When are you going to make fresh fish and mash for Rotimi? Or even just buy formula and milk?’
‘I’m busy,’ I said, crossing my legs so I could massage my knee.
‘Iya Rotimi, fear God-o. You are too busy to buy formula for your baby? If there is something that is bothering you, let us talk about it. Get it off your mind so that you can take care of your child.’
‘Has she finished eating? We need to get home before it is totally dark.’
‘Come and snatch the bottle from her now. You are not even listening to what I am saying.’ She turned to the child, ‘Rotimi, don’t you worry. I will buy some formula for you very soon. Don’t mind that woman, she will soon come back to her senses, I am sure.’
I yawned.
Dotun came to the salon the next day while I was braiding a little girl’s hair. I asked him to take a seat and wait because I never allowed the stylists in training to touch a child’s hair. I believed their scalps were too tender to be used for training. When I was done braiding the hair, I took my time rubbing pink oil into the lines in between each braid and waited until the girl skipped out of the salon before I went to sit beside Dotun.
‘Would you like something to drink? Coke or Fanta?’
‘No,’ he said and sighed. ‘I came to say goodbye. I’m leaving Ilesa tomorrow. For Lagos.’
‘Oh, OK. Did you get a job in Lagos?’
‘Something like that.’
I did not ask him to elaborate because I really did not care. The extent of my interest after Akin had injured him was to make sure that he lived. I wondered why he had come to me to say goodbye.
‘I will miss you,’ he said.
I looked at his face then – really looked. The bandage around his head had been removed to reveal a large scar where the glossy stitches would never allow hair to grow again. He appeared to have lost some more weight and there was a hopeful smile on his face. I wondered if he expected me to say that I would miss him too.
‘Safe journey. You should greet your wife and children for me,’ I said.
He looked away and touched the scar on his head. ‘I went to Akin’s office this morning. He told his secretary to send me away.’
‘Brother Akin,’ I said. ‘You have no right to call him “Akin”, he is not your mate.’
‘Wait, Yejide. Me?’ He jabbed his chest with a finger. ‘You are angry with me?’
‘Keep your voice down.’
He shook his head. ‘It is not my fault, you know, Yejide. It was all his idea.’
‘Dotun, you and your brother conspired against me.’
‘Look, Yejide, I thought you knew.’ He placed a hand on my knee. ‘He said he was going to tell you everything.’
‘You need to go now, Dotun. You can see I’m at work. I don’t have time for all this.’
‘I will miss you.’ This time he whispered the words and they sounded as if they were meant to convey something he could not say.
I pushed his hand off my knee and stood up. ‘Have a safe trip tomorrow.’
I walked away from him and went to an elderly woman who was hovering around the stylists, but had not taken a seat.
‘Good afternoon, Ma,’ I said. ‘Has nobody attended to you?’
‘Oh, they have, my dear. But I told them I would wait for you. I don’t want anybody to ruin the scanty hair I have left.’
I smiled and led her to a chair. In the corner of my eye, I saw Dotun stop by the door to say hello to Iya Bolu and Rotimi before leaving the salon. I waited as the woman in front of me removed her scarf, and thought about what Dotun had meant by repeating himself. He would miss me? The woman’s hair was not scanty at all, but full and long, streaked with white in front. I remembered who she was as I ran my hands through her hair. She was a retired principal who came in to have her hair braided once a month and always insisted on using nothing other than the shea butter that she brought in a plastic container.
‘Have I told you?’ Iya Bolu had come to stand beside me. ‘Have I told you about my niece’s wedding?’
‘No,’ I said, combing the retired principal’s hair.
‘It is happening next year-o, my brother’s first daughter is getting married. Was it not just yesterday they gave birth to her? Na wah.’ I could see Iya Bolu’s reflection in the mirror. She held Rotimi up and grinned at her. ‘Before you know it, we’ll be dancing at Rotimi’s wedding too.’
I was sure she had said the same thing about Olamide and Sesan and I was definitely not looking ahead as far as Rotimi’s wedding. Hope was a luxury I could no longer afford.
‘That is how it always seems-o, children grow up so fast,’ the retired principal said, smiling. ‘My youngest daughter got married last year. You know, I can still remember when I discovered I was pregnant with her, now she too will soon be a mother.’
‘Congratulations, madam,’ I said, picking up a wooden comb.
‘Thank you.’
‘So when is this wedding?’ I asked Iya Bolu.
‘Sometime in June maybe, they have not fixed the exact date yet.’
‘Hope the elections won’t affect the preparations,’ my customer said, bending her head so I could part her hair into four equal parts.
‘That’s why they are still waiting to fix the exact date. My brother wants to be sure about the exact date the elections will take place.’
I scoffed. ‘Do you think there will be any elections? This Babangida who has postponed the date time and time again?’
‘Transition,’ my customer said. ‘This is a transition. A transition is a process. It is not a one-off event. There is no need for us to be cynical. There have been setbacks, but I think they are quite understandable.’
‘Me, I don’t think the man is going anywhere. This election story is another fraud. They are just deceiving us, these military people.’
‘This time he is leaving, I’m telling you. Just remember I said so. At least we have civilian governors now, and the legislators will take office by December. It is a gradual transition, step by step, my dear. That is the only way to ensure lasting change.’
I stuck the wooden comb in one half of her hair and began to braid the other half. I had no faith in the so-called gradual transition. My customer was obviously invested in the whole process. She reeled off dates and statistics like someone who spent her days reading newspapers. I nodded as she explained why the federal military government had every right to create and fund the two political parties that existed in the country. She found a way to justify the fact that the government had written the constitution of both parties and designed their emblems.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘it is not the perfect situation, but once we move into a democracy, things will be different. Let’s just get the country into a total democracy first. After we do that, we can get everything else in line.’
I let the issue go because I didn’t care that much about it. As far as I was concerned, 1993 would come and go and at the end of it we would know if the government was serious about its promise. I had no intention of registering to vote.
‘By the end of this year, the government will tell us when the elections will be and my brother will fix a definite date. And you, Iya Rotimi, you must go with me to Bauchi,’ Iya Bolu said. ‘Whichever day the wedding is, you must go with me-o.’
‘Bauchi, ke? That is where your brother lives? That is a long journey-o.’
‘That is why I am telling you now. Start preparing your mind.’
‘OK, I will think about it,’ I said. ‘But I’ve not agreed to go yet, Iya Bolu. I will keep it in mind anyway.’
‘You know if you go with me, you can buy gold in Bauchi to sell here. Remember my customer who was asking if you sold jewellery? Now you look at me, abi? I know that one will entice you now. I talk about business and your ears stand up. My brother’s wife is into the gold business. She can show you all the places where you can buy, and who knows, maybe Bauchi gold will sell here.’
‘That is an inte
resting idea,’ I said as I rubbed shea butter into my customer’s scalp.
35
One Monday afternoon, Linda, my secretary, came into my office and gave me a letter. I usually went through the correspondence in the morning, once I was done reading newspaper headlines, before my daily meeting with the head of operations.
‘This just came in, sir,’ Linda said before I could ask her why the letter hadn’t been included in the folder of mail that she made sure was on my desk before I came in each day.
I examined the envelope and recognised the cursive handwriting immediately. Each postage stamp bore Australia 45c above the image of a long-tailed rat. I tore open the envelope and pulled out the single sheet it held, spreading it out.
Brother mi,
How are you? As you must know from the stamp, I am now in Australia. I arrived here just last week. Please let Moomi know I’m safe.
Let me start by saying thank you for all you did for me after I lost my job. I didn’t have the chance to thank you before I left. I want you to know I appreciate all your efforts to help me secure another job and get back on my feet. I am really grateful to you for giving me a roof over my head after I lost all I had.
About everything that happened before I left Nigeria, I want us to forget about it all. We can’t keep fighting over this thing, you know. We are brothers, we are blood. A woman can divorce you, family can’t. I’m still surprised that you did not even grant me an audience when I came to your office. I can excuse what happened at your house, you were angry so you beat me up. I can forget that, we can both put it behind us and move on. But from the way you turned me away from your office, it appears you want us to start a feud over this issue. Brother mi, get this right. You can’t fight with me. You can’t fight with family.
Is Yejide still with you? I’m sorry if she left, because I know you loved her. At least I think you did. You can’t blame me for her leaving. Your marriage already had problems. She is such an understanding woman. She would have listened and understood you, I’m sure of it. I didn’t mean to tell her any secrets. I thought you had told her everything, not half-truths. I just assumed that you had told her like you promised.
She is an easy woman to talk to. An easy woman to love.
Anyway, the important thing is that we must forgive each other and move on. As for me, I have already forgiven you.
I will be expecting to hear from you very soon.
With all due respect,
Dotun
I considered throwing the letter in the shredder, but I tore it up instead, into tiny pieces. I wondered if he’d told Yejide that he was leaving the country, if she’d given him money for his flight. The Dotun I knew was broke. I couldn’t figure out how he could have managed to travel anywhere without my help.
Dotun’s letter destabilised me, but answered the only question I’d wanted to ask him after I’d caught him with my wife. It told me he’d been stupid enough to discuss me with Yejide. I’d been wondering how much she knew and I’d almost concluded that Dotun had already told her the secrets I’d confided in him. It was there in the defiant way she carried herself, the movement into another room, the way her eyes had met mine when I walked in on them. But I’d been hoping that Dotun had kept his big mouth shut. I reasoned that all we’d been through was enough to make Yejide angry, told myself it explained her silence, the contempt that remained in her eyes.
I’d managed to convince myself before Dotun’s letter came that she would have confronted me if she’d known, given me a chance to explain myself. Not that I had anything to say – I would probably have told more lies. But only because I still had hope; I always had hope that everything would change and the lies would not matter any more. I was still seeing a specialist in Lagos University Teaching Hospital, and he had expressed some optimism. I’d taken his cautious comments and run with them, told myself it would be any day now, convinced myself the specialist in LUTH could work miracles. We’d find the right cocktail of medication and all would be well. Hope has always been my opium, the thing I couldn’t wean myself off. No matter how bad things got, I found a way to believe that even defeat was a sign that I was bound to win.
In the weeks that followed the arrival of Dotun’s letter, I felt as though our house had shrunk. It felt tiny, too small to keep me from running into Yejide. For the first time since she moved into another room, I was happy that I was alone in my bed. I stopped eating the food she left out for me, wondering for a few days if she planned to poison me, to punish me without ever confronting me.
I was too ashamed to force the confrontation I’d dreaded, had wished away since the first time I saw her and decided nothing could keep me from spending the rest of my life with her. I slunk around the house, left for work early, arrived home late. I spent my weekends alone in my room, rethinking every choice, retracing my steps backwards, asking if I really had a choice, if there were things I could have done differently. Before I had fully recovered from Dotun’s first letter, the next one arrived.
Brother mi,
How are you? And how is Moomi? Are you hearing from Arinola and her husband?
I have a job here now. I am making money. Small small money, but I survive.
I know you got my last letter. Why won’t you write? How can I get you to write?
Brother mi, let me try and explain things from my side of the story. The first time I had sex with your wife, it was to save your marriage. I still haven’t got a thank you for that, you self-righteous man. I even closed my eyes when she undressed that day. You know that first time, I tried to kiss her, not because I particularly wanted to but because it seemed the thing to do to make it less like rape. We had chaste sex like they do on home videos, with the sheets firmly covering our bodies as though someone was watching. I honestly thought you had told her everything like you promised. And when I discussed it with her the first time, it was only because you were away, and she’d just got the news that Sesan had sickle-cell disease. I felt she needed someone to talk to, that was all. Did I want her? To be honest before you and your Creator, yes. But, I didn’t tell her all that to betray you. I thought she already knew. Brother mi, that is all I can say.
Ajoke is remarrying. She is marrying a major-general. His name is Garuba and he has three wives already. Isn’t she stupid, this my ex-wife, marrying a military man just when they are going out of power? She says the children will be coming over here for the holidays. I believe the general will be footing their bills.
WRITE ME. I will be expecting your letter.
With all due respect,
Dotun
P.S. When you write, tell me about the presidential elections. There is no way for me to know what is really going on in Nigeria. I want to know what is going on.
I felt no anger as I fed the second letter to the shredder. The shame I felt left no room for any other thing, not even hope. I was not angry with my brother any more; already I was realising that all the rage had been an affectation. Something I’d reached for to use as a defence against shame. Anger is easier than shame.
Rotimi saved me from my despair, helped me find my way back to hope. I returned from work one night, in the early hours of the next day actually – it was almost 2 a.m. when I walked into my room and found Rotimi asleep in her cot. At first I thought Yejide had moved back into our room, so I knocked on the bathroom door, opening it slowly when there was no answer, but she was not in there.
I went into the corridor, opened the door to Yejide’s new room about halfway, felt some relief when I saw she was there, asleep in bed. I returned to my room, wondering what message Yejide was trying to pass by pushing Rotimi’s cot back into what had once been our room. I didn’t have enough energy left to think about it all. I stripped down to my boxers, climbed into bed and fell asleep.
Rotimi woke me up at 5 a.m. I stayed in bed, not surprised by the wailing, expecting it to stop without my intervention, as it always had before then. The cries continued, though sounding angrier and lou
der until I could hardly believe the sounds were coming from someone so small. I got up, wondering what I would do with her after I picked her up. My first instinct was to take her to Yejide, but I didn’t need to do that. Rotimi stopped crying once she was in my arms.
She was quiet but tense, breathing through her mouth, punching the air, blinking rapidly. After she calmed down, shut her mouth and laid her head against my chest, I decided to set her back in the cot. But she started yelling as soon as she left my arms. I picked her up again and she fell silent. She screamed when I tried to lay her on the bed, when I sat down, when I lay on my back with her on my chest. Took me a while to figure out what she wanted: to be in my arms while I was on my feet. She didn’t go back to sleep for another hour. Nestling against me, she didn’t do much, just yawned and watched my face. I didn’t let her go after she fell asleep – there was something comforting about her weight and the warmth of her breath against my chest. It had been a while since I had been that close to another human being. I leaned against a wall, just holding her until Yejide came in around 7, took her from me without a word and left the room.
That day, I got home around 9 p.m. It was the first time I had arrived home before midnight since I’d received Dotun’s letter. Yejide was in my room with Rotimi. She stood up when I walked in and handed Rotimi over to me.
‘If she cries before eleven, give her some water.’ She pointed to a bedside table where she’d placed two vacuum flasks and several feeding bottles. ‘Or some pap, she likes that with milk. There are nappies in the bag on the floor.’
I dropped my briefcase so I could hold Rotimi with both hands, surprised that her mother was speaking to me.
‘Don’t come and disturb me. I want to sleep. I’ll come for her in the morning,’ Yejide said as she left the room.
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