Part IV
40
ILESA, DECEMBER 2008
I am here. My hands tremble as I adjust my wrapper and my heart thumps against my throat, but I’m here, and I’m not leaving until I see you.
The guests have turned up in their hundreds and the canopies are the very expensive types with air conditioning – your father has died well. This secondary school field has been transformed.There are banners bearing your father’s photo, policemen to send miscreants away and strung-up lights to keep the party going into the night. Any man whose children can pull off this kind of carnival to honour him when he is gone has died a successful death. But I am not here because of his death; I have come because of the child I left behind, the one whose passing I did not want to watch.
I wanted to come back many times, just to ask you about her final moments. I could no longer afford the luxury of hope, so I shut out the idea that somehow she might have made it. And any time I considered coming back to you, it was so that I could ask if she did not suffer too much pain.
More than once, I packed a weekend bag and told my driver to get ready for a trip to Ilesa. But on the days I was supposed to leave Jos, I was always frozen in place, unable to get out of bed, certain that any movement would shatter me into a million tiny pieces. I spent those days in bed, weeping without sobbing, letting tears trickle down the sides of my face until they tickled my ear, because I did not have the energy to lift my hands to catch them. After a decade, I stopped planning those trips and for five years I did not pack a weekend bag or tell my driver to prepare for a trip down south.
I am ready now, ready to hear about her last moments and to know where she was buried. There is no point denying that the worst has happened to me more than once, and not seeing their graves does not change the fact that I have outlived the ones who should have stood on freshly dug earth and thrown the first handfuls of sand on my coffin. Akin, I no longer care about honouring tradition: I must see my daughter’s grave.
Under the canopies, everything is yellow and green. Green tablecloths, yellow satin covers with green bows for the chairs. I sit down on the first seat I can find under a canopy that has your name on it; there are over a thousand guests here. You must have spent a lot of money, but it is not showing as well as it should. Everyone at this table is complaining, no one has been served anything. Not even a bottle of water.
‘But the canopy is very fine and they’ve decorated the chairs so well.’ I still jump to your defence, as though this is my family, as though I am not a prodigal here.
The man next to me scoffs. ‘We are supposed to eat the tablecloths? I have food in my house. If they knew they didn’t have the money to feed us, why invite so many people? Must they throw a big party? Is it by force?’
‘I’m sure the servers will get to us soon.’ I stand up and go to another table. After I sit, I am restless; I drum my fingers against my knee and search the crowd for a head that looks like yours. Your cap will be off by now; caps make your head sweat. I am looking out for a bare head.
‘Testing, testing, microphone. One, two, one, two. Testing, testing, one, two, one, two,’ someone says over the public address system.
I see you now; you are standing a table away. My eyes make contact with your lips; the lower one is still pink. You do not see me; your eyes scan the crowd and you greet your guests absentmindedly. You are looking for somebody. You pass by my table. I push my nails into my palms so I won’t reach out to touch you. I no longer feel as brave as I did when I decided to come, and I want to cling to the small comforts of ignorance. Maybe I am not ready to know how my daughter died after all. Maybe I do not need to know.
‘Baba Rotimi, the banker, see how he is walking, money is walking,’ a woman at my table says, slapping a palm on her thigh. Her gaze follows you.
I’m startled that they still call you by Rotimi’s name and I hope no one uses it to your face. Only the cruel would remind you of our loss this way.
‘Is his brother here? The only two sons of their mother, I hear they don’t even greet each other?’ the other woman at the table asks.
‘Of course he is here too. Is it not also his father who has died? Is it not? They will have to settle their quarrel for their dead father’s sake at least,’ the first woman says.
‘You know they say it was his wife that caused problems between the two of them? Imagine some wicked women, they don’t want their husband’s people around them at all – wicked women.’
So, this is how our story is told? I am the wicked one and you are the saint. I stand up and walk round and round the canopy until I find you standing in front of a table laden with drinks.
There’s a teenage girl next to you. She looks like me but she has your nose. I blink and she is still there, standing by your side. I move closer, and my mouth slides open. I have thought of this meeting happening in so many ways, but I never imagined that your arm would be around her shoulders, never let myself think she would be smiling up at you.
How could you not have let me know?
My eyes meet hers first; she stares at me the way people stare at intruders, as though I am someone she has never seen before. There are so many words bubbling up in my chest, they take all the space for my air and I can hardly breathe. You turn sideways and our eyes meet. I look from your face to hers and feel as though I might faint. This is a battle I thought I had lost and suddenly it appears I have won – not just the battle, but the war.
She has my mother’s eyes, her long neck and the thin slash of her lips. I want to touch her, but I am afraid she might recoil or even disappear. As I take a deep breath, she reaches up to touch the crucifix that dangles from her gold necklace.
I step closer. ‘Is this my daughter? Akinyele, is this my daughter?
41
Yejide, every day since I sent you an invitation to this funeral, I have worried about how this moment would play out. Timi has told me several times that it will all be all right. But what does she know? Only enough to think there is still a chance that the three of us will become a happy family. I should know better – do know better – but with you, I can never let go of hope.
‘Who is this?’ You keep saying, pointing to Timi but looking at me. ‘Is this Rotimi? Akin, who is this?’
She prefers to be called Timi, says she is her own person, not a monument to siblings she never knew. I agree. She plans to change her name officially, but wants to discuss it with you first. She has always believed that we would find you, yet has backed out of every plan we’ve made to get in touch since we got your address. We booked flights that we never boarded. I wrote letters that she tore up. She wrote letters and tore them up.
What if Mum doesn’t want me? she’d ask as we left the airport, as she threw shreds of carefully crafted letters in the bin. I’d tell her that you loved her, would never have left if you knew she was alive, that you would want her now. Just once, she said: Even in spite of my sickle-cell issues? See, I’ve got this friend at Uni and his father left their family because of his SCD, he couldn’t bear it. You can tell me if that’s why Mum left. I can take it. That one time, I assured her that you’d never let her out of your sight when you were with us, told her the day you left for Bauchi was the first time you’d left the house without her in your arms. It’s only fair to tell her good things about you.
She was the one who decided that we should send you an invitation after my father died. She picked the courier company; I sent the invitation. Since then we’ve waited and worried, and now here you are, just within our reach.
Now she touches my arm, leans close and whispers, ‘It’s her, isn’t it?’
You are staring at her, looking as though you are about to collapse. Some party guests are giving us sidelong glances, craning their necks in our direction.
I hold Timi’s hand. ‘Yejide, please come with us.’
I’m not sure whose hand is sweating, Timi’s or mine. You walk behind us. Timi keeps turning to look at you, brows furrow
ed as though she thinks you will not be there when she looks back. We walk until the sound of music is faint and I can hear your heels clicking against the stony ground. Before us, there is a freshly painted block of classrooms.
When we are inside one of the rooms, I clear my throat. ‘Yes, this is Rotimi,’ I say. ‘But we call her Timi now.’
‘Oh my God! Please, I need to sit down.’
Timi and I watch you sit on a wooden desk. You bend over, hold your head. Timi’s grip tightens until my hand begins to feel numb.
‘We found you last year,’ Timi says. ‘Bolu, you remember her, right? She is studying for a master’s degree at UniJos. She came to buy gold from your store – she recognised you.’
You look up at Timi with your mouth slightly open. I can hear you breathing.
‘It’s all right if you want to leave. I . . . I just wanted to . . . I just wanted to see you. That’s all.’
But that is not all she wants. That is not all I want either. She wants you to hold her, to tell her you didn’t forget about her, even when you thought you’d never see her again. She wants you to stay.
‘Rotimi,’ you say, standing up.
‘Timi,’ her voice quavers. ‘Everyone calls me Timi.’
‘My child, omo mi.’
Timi lets go of my hand as you step towards her.
You touch her face as though you expect to catch tears, but her cheeks are dry, just like yours. She lets her hands hang free by her sides, waits until you pull her into a hug. Then she places her arms around you ever so carefully, as if she thinks she could break you.
‘Please, Rotimi. Timi,’ you say. ‘Can you please wait outside? Please? I need to talk to Akin.’
‘OK,’ she says. Then after a while, she smiles and adds, ‘You’ve got to let me go before I can go.’
She pulls out of your embrace and leaves the room. Her back is straight, her chin held high, like yours. She moves away from this building, stands with her side to us, shakes wrinkles out of her yellow dress.
‘You told me she lost consciousness.’ Your back is to me but I can tell that your focus is on the place where Timi stands.
‘She did. But eventually I walked to a clinic. Had to lift her up in the air like a flag while I was on the road so that the soldiers wouldn’t shoot. They wouldn’t let me take a car, even when they saw she was unconscious.’
You turn towards me, search my face. I will not blame you if you don’t believe me, but this is the truth as it happened. You frown, lean against a wall, turn your face towards the open door. You are silent for what feels like hours. And the only sound between us is the faint music from the party. I should find words to break the silence, but all I can think of is how beautiful you are to me, after all this time, and I know that is not what you want to hear. I decide to wait for your questions before I say any of the words I have rehearsed in front of the mirror you used when we shared the same room.
‘What did you tell her about me? About why I left?’
‘I told her that I’d said she was dead when I called you. So, as far she is concerned, when you disappeared, you did so thinking you had lost another child.’
You begin to walk away, towards the door, towards Timi. Suddenly you stop and turn to me.
‘Did you tell her about us and Dotun? About –?’
‘Does she need to know?’
You purse your lips and nod. ‘How has it been – with her health?’
‘She is brave.’
You raise your voice, like you expect me to disagree. ‘I need to be with her tonight.’
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘I’ve prepared a room for you at home. We can leave right now if you want to.’
You stare at me as if I’ve just given you a knife and asked you to stab yourself. ‘No, I can’t come to your place.’
Your last two words are all it takes for me to swallow all the foolish words I’ve prepared. I want you to live with me. We can be companions. I have missed you. If you want to keep lovers, just be discreet about it. We can start again, on new terms.
‘What I mean is, if Rotimi, Timi doesn’t mind, I will take her with me back to the hotel so she can spend the night with me. We’ll come to your place tomorrow and then you and I can discuss how this will work.’
‘Of course,’ I say.
‘All right then.’ You turn round, loosen and retie your wrapper as you walk through the door. You go to Timi, hold her hand; put your forehead against hers. She nods as you speak to her. You put an arm around her shoulders and lead her out of my sight.
42
I hold my daughter’s hands, slide my thumbs over her palms, touch the insides of her wrists and feel her pulse. This is not a dream. My daughter is here, standing before me with her back to the classroom. Her feet are clad in gold sandals, her toenails painted green. The scalloped hem of her yellow dress brushes against her knees, a crucifix hangs from her gold necklace, her lips are coated in pink gloss and her eyes are lined with kohl. She is here. I step forward, put my forehead against hers and feel her breath on my face. Her head-tie crackles against my scarf.
‘Rotimi . . . Timi, Timi.’ This is all I can say.
I count her fingers, running my right thumb and forefinger along their lengths and stifling the urge to go on my knees and count her toes. I am Thomas, seeking tactile proof of what my eyes have seen before giving in to joy. My daughter blinks back tears and smiles.
I touch the crucifix, ‘Is this the –?’
‘Dad said you gave it to me.’ She clears her throat. ‘I wear it a lot.’
I do not hold back my own tears as I think of all the years my daughter has spent as a motherless child. I want to hold her face in my hands until she lets the tears flow. I want to hug her tight and tell her she will feel better if she cries, but I realise that I don’t know if she will. I don’t even know if she tied this beautiful gele all by herself or needed someone else to help her spread out the edges. The child I left behind is now a young woman I recognise but do not know. A fresh stream of tears wells up in my eyes, this time for me and all the years I lived as a childless mother while someone else held my daughter’s hand on her first day of school, while someone else showed her how to line her eyes perfectly with kohl.
‘I am so sorry. If I had known you were alive . . . if I had known, I swear I would have come back. I would have come. I would have come for you.’
‘You’re here.’ She wipes away my tears with her hands. ‘You’re here now.’
Her words wash over me, an absolution for the lost years.
‘Moomi,’ she whispers.
I glance behind me, expecting to see my mother-in-law. ‘Your grandmother? Where is she?’
My daughter laughs – and the wonderful sound brings a smile to my face. I want her laughter to ring on until the end of time.
‘Mum, I’ve been waiting to say that for like forever. You’re my own Moomi. I don’t call Grandma that.’ She touches the crucifix and shrugs. ‘Nobody understands, it’s just my weird thing.’
‘I understand.’ I understand how a word others use every day can become something whispered in the dark to soothe a wound that just won’t heal. I remember thinking I would never hear it spoken without unravelling a little, wondering if I would ever get to say it in the light. So I recognise the gift in this simple pronouncement, the promise of a beginning in this one word.
‘Will you please say it again, call me that again?’ I ask, grateful that my child will not have to settle for a substitute.
My daughter draws me into her arms. ‘Moomi.’ Her voice is soft and tremulous.
I shut my eyes as one receiving a benediction. Inside me something unfurls, joy spreads through my being, unfamiliar yet unquestioned, and I know that this too is a beginning, a promise of wonders to come.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To my amazing sister, JolaaJesu, who somehow finds the time to read everything I write, thank you for standing with me. O ra nukan ro.
I am grateful to my
extraordinary agent, Clare Alexander, who along with all the wonderful things she has done has steadfastly supported my vision for this book.
Ellah Allfrey, Louisa Joyner, Jennifer Jackson and Joanna Dingley, thank you so much for making this a better novel.
Thank you, Jamie Byng, for believing in this book. To the Canongate team – Jenny Fry, Jaz Lacey-Campbell, Vicki Rutherford, Rafi Romaya and everyone one else – thank you for your commitment to this novel.
Paula Cocozza, Rory Gleeson, Jacqueline Landey and Suzanne Ushie, thanks for invaluable feedback, kind words and insightful criticism.
Dami Ajayi, jolly papa, thank you for always believing I could do this.
Emmanuel Iduma, brother-man, I am grateful for your faith in this novel.
I am especially grateful to you Dr Chima Anyadike. Thank you for granting me access to your impressive library, being a splendid teacher and believing in my writing. Aunty Bisi Anyadike, thank you for celebrating with me every time I succeed.
I remain indebted to the staff of Ledig House, Hedgebrook and Threads for the time and space the residencies there provided.
At different times, the kindness of Prof Ebun Adejuyigbe and Dr A.R. Adetunji made it possible for me to keep writing, I am grateful.
Arhtur Anyaduba, Abubakar Adam Ibrahim, Laniyi Fayemi and Funto Amire, thank you for reading bits and pieces of this book.
And of course, thank you to Yejide and Akin Ajayi, who chose to stay with me for as long as I needed them.
‘A beautifully interwoven novel about magic and loss and the incomprehensible threads that connect our lives’ Elizabeth Gilbert
‘A novel of heart, brain, and muscle – the competing pulls of history and love are evoked here with a rare honesty and great skill’ Kamila Shamsie
Stay With Me Page 22