The Other Side of Truth

by Beverley Naidoo

  “I’m late, officer. My mother is coming to the airport now. I must be the first one she sets her eyes on. You know how it is with mothers!” Uncle Tunde laughed lightly, his tone smooth and polite.

  “Oga, open de door! Wetin you carry for back?” The policeman barked.

  “Oh, it’s only rubbish at the back, officer!” Their uncle’s voice rose on the word “rubbish,” as if enjoying a joke. “I threw the blanket on top so my mother won’t complain that her son is untidy!”

  “OK, OK. Carry on!” The policeman was impatient.

  “Thank you, officer. Very understanding.”

  The engine stormed into life again.

  As soon as they had left the roadblock behind, Uncle Tunde instructed them to throw off the blanket and to sit on the backseat.

  “Did you give him money, Uncle?” Sade asked, her heart pumping rapidly.

  “Never you mind. That could have been nasty! If he insisted on looking, we would have been in big, big trouble.”

  “He would think you were kidnapping us!” Femi muttered, sniffing. He brushed his arm across his eyes. Had he been crying? He wriggled on the seat, stretching his legs, and turned away from Sade.

  The lights of Murtala Muhammed Airport sparkled in the distance. Usually it was exciting coming out to the airport, especially in the evening. The main building glittered in layers like an enormous ocean liner out in the middle of an indigo sea. Thousands of invisible messages could be shooting at any moment between the great funnel-shaped control tower and invisible planes somewhere up there in the sky. But tonight Sade felt none of that excitement, only her stomach twisted and knotted. At this moment, someone in the control tower was preparing to direct the plane that was going to carry her and Femi far away from home.

  Even at night the car park was as busy and noisy as any street market. They joined a winding stream of cars that eased their way through the crowds, who were hustling back and forth with bags and boxes. Having found a parking space, Uncle Tunde told the children to wait. He would go first and find the agent and Mrs. Bankole.

  “I don’t want to go, Sade,” Femi blurted, as Uncle Tunde merged into the shadows of the crowd. “If we run away now, we’ll miss the plane! They can’t make us go!” The gleam from passing headlights lit up little rivers of tears trickling down his cheeks.

  “We can’t do that, Femi! Papa doesn’t want us to go—but it’s best.”

  Femi snorted and started fiddling with the handle of the door.

  “If you run away, Femi, Papa will have to go to the police and then they’ll get him!”

  Reluctantly Femi withdrew his hand. Sade’s words subdued them both, as if another blanket had been thrown over them. In silence, they watched the currents of people swirling by.

  When Uncle Tunde opened the door, a short woman with mango-shaped cheeks stood beside him. Her green headscarf and dress glinted in the beams from an overhead lamp.

  “Come out, children. This is Mrs. Bankole.”

  “So, you two will be my children!” The lady formed a little smile with lips that glistened a deep purple. Mama never wore lipstick.

  Mrs. Peacock! Sade thought. She imagined a fan of feathers swooping up behind the lady. She loved making up names for people and, normally, this would have been a joke to share with Femi. But Papa’s words rang in her ears.

  “Until you are safely there, your surname is ‘Bankole’ and you must only use the names in the passport.”

  Sade tried to force the fanciful picture from her mind as they stepped hesitantly out of the car.

  Both children held back as Mrs. Bankole stretched out her hands. Her wrists jingled with gold bangles and her chubby fingers were heavily ringed. Her nails matched her purple lips.

  “Oh but you have to look the part!” A man in a pale suit, with a pink handkerchief flowering out of the top pocket, emerged from behind the lady. His cream jacket bulged out well beyond his legs.

  “If you look out of place that will make trouble for everyone, including your father.” His eyes narrowed as if to pin them down. He spoke briskly and his words carried the jagged edges of a warning. He was clearly the man who had fixed this all. The agent.

  “It’s very true, children. I’m sure you understand!” Uncle Tunde’s voice carried a touch of the urgent pleading that Sade had heard him use earlier with Papa. It was different from his ordinary voice and not at all like his “court voice” when Papa had taken her to see his older brother at work. They had sat in the gallery and Papa had explained how Uncle Tunde was pleading for his client to the judge. His words and manner had been so confident. But now, did she detect uncertainty—even a hint of desperation—behind his words?

  “It’s only for one night—until Mrs. Bankole hands you over to your Uncle Dele. Don’t forget your bags at the back.” Uncle Tunde turned away, almost brusquely, as if not to let them see the concern in his eyes.

  Slipping on her rucksack, Sade saw her uncle draw Mr. Fix-It aside and hand him a fat envelope. With his back to passersby, and partly shielded by Uncle Tunde and the car, Mr. Fix-It rapidly began counting through the wad of naira notes. In the flickering light, his stout forefinger jiggled at the speed of a fox pawing back earth around a rabbit hole.

  Once again, Mrs. Bankole held out her ringed fingers. This time, reluctantly, Sade and Femi each took a hand.

  “You are now my daughter, Yemi,” she confided to Sade. “She will be thirteen next month. The thirteenth of December. You will remember that?”

  Sade did not reply. The lady’s hand felt slightly damp and sweaty and Sade winced at the thought of touching any of her jewelery. Mama only wore one simple wedding ring.

  “And—by good fortune—my ten-year-old son is the same age as your brother! So, young man, you are Ade—and your birthday is March the first. You had better learn that.”

  Femi looked as if he wanted to worm himself away. He glared at his feet. Even when Uncle Tunde said good-bye and promised that Papa would be with them soon, Femi refused to raise his head.

  CHAPTER 5

  SPINNING INTO DARKNESS

  TWO POLICEMEN IN BLACK BERETS were chatting to each other at the entrance to Departures. One rested his hand on the gun tucked into his belt, his fingers drumming lightly on the handle. Mr. Fix-It had trundled Mrs. Bankole’s large maroon suitcase behind them. He pushed it to her now. Mrs. Bankole juggled with a matching small maroon box and a mock leopard-skin coat.

  “This is as far as I come,” he said smoothly. “Have a very pleasant journey, Mrs. Bankole.”

  Then he beamed at the children.

  “Well, Yemi and Ade!” he rolled their names loudly. “Be good now and make sure you don’t give your mother any trouble!”

  Mr. Fix-It extended his hand to pat each of them lightly on the head. Sade had to restrain herself from flinching as his fingers brushed her hair. She saw Femi jolt, gritting his teeth. But when she glanced at the policemen, they were still busy talking.

  Inside the building, people in khaki uniforms with black berets were checking cases and tickets. But before they had even reached the queue, a figure in a sunny yellow agbada staggered backward, almost stumbling over Mrs. Bankole’s suitcase. A man with a telephone held to one ear was kicking Mr. Sunny Yellow and swearing!

  “Eh, eh, eh!” Mrs. Bankole’s voice rose, but stopped swiftly. A large baton hung from the waist of the man with the telephone. Security! Mr. Sunny Yellow somehow swiveled upward in an arc, curved around and ran off. Jutting his jaw out scornfully, Mr. Security returned to his conversation.

  When it came to their turn, Mrs. Bankole heaved the maroon suitcase on to the platform. Sade thrust their small brown holdall alongside it. Not bothering to compete with the surrounding noise, Black Beret pointed to Mrs. Bankole’s case and imitated the turning of a key. He appeared bored as he observed her jeweled fingers struggle with the lock. But as soon as she pulled back the lid, he signed to her with a quick somersault of his hand. He wanted her to take everything out. Mrs.
Bankole said nothing but slipped a bangled hand into the side of her case. Sade thought she glimpsed the corner of a naira note. After withdrawing her hand, Mrs. Bankole busied herself with her handbag. Sade watched the man’s arm now slither like a snake down the same side of the suitcase. Then casually, he lifted a few clothes before indicating with a tiny jerk of his head that Mrs. Bankole could close the case. His closed palm wove its way skillfully into his trouser pocket and when his hand reappeared, it was open and signaled to the woman officer next to him. No words passed. She slapped labels on to both pieces of luggage. As if completing the silent dance, Black Beret and his companion swung the suitcase onto a conveyor belt behind them. The little brown bag followed and within seconds both had disappeared through a dark hole in the wall.

  A narrow gate led to a couple of tall desks and more khaki uniforms. Three gleaming brass buttons crested the shoulder of the man waiting for them. Again no words were exchanged as Mrs. Bankole produced her passport. Brass Buttons’s eyes rested briefly on each of them before dipping down to study the little book and his computer. Mrs. Bankole’s glittery-green buba rose and fell steadfastly until Brass Buttons finally flashed back the passport, nodding them on.

  “What’s that?” Femi broke his silence. His eyebrows and forehead puckered with suspicion.

  Ahead of them, a woman in a blue uniform was sweeping a thick black rod up and down people who had stepped through a metal door frame. It looked like some magic ritual.

  “It’s to stop people smuggling,” Sade said.

  “But we’re being smuggled,” Femi whispered fiercely in her ear.

  Mrs. Bankole swung around, her face issuing a stern warning.

  “Ade, my boy,” she said. “Take off your rucksack. Put it there. For X-ray.”

  Femi folded his arms as if he hadn’t heard.

  “Please, F—!” Sade stopped herself. Right behind them stood a man in dark glasses. He was wearing a flowing white agbada with a pattern of staring jet-black eyes. Sade slipped off her own rucksack.

  “Shall I help you, Ade?” she offered softly.

  Femi swung the bag roughly off his back, just missing Sade before he slung it onto the conveyor belt. He was behaving like he did when he was overtired and no one could reason with him.

  “Doesn’t he want to go on a plane?” drawled Mr. Agbada Eyes. His accent was American and the question was addressed to Sade, but Mrs. Bankole quickly intervened.

  “Children of nowadays! They take everything for granted!” she exclaimed. “Airplanes are like fast cars to them.”

  “Well, air power has sure helped make the world a smaller place. Just one big global village, ma’am!”

  He swept a circle in the air with one arm, making the eyes on his agbada jiggle.

  Once past the rod and the X-ray, Mrs. Bankole steered the children to a row of seats. Mr. Agbada Eyes followed them, keen to relate to Mrs. Bankole how this trip to Nigeria had been his lifetime ambition.

  “Tracing my roots, ma’am! Finding out where we black folk in America come from, you might say!”

  Mr. Agbada Eyes began to talk about stories of Africa that had been passed down through his granddaddy. Femi nudged Sade, pointing to the shops. Next to a window of cameras was an open kiosk with crocodile skins hanging down the side.

  “Can…can we…look over there? We won’t go far.” Sade couldn’t bring herself to say a word like “mother.”

  Mrs. Bankole hesitated, but Mr. Agbada Eyes laughed.

  “Guess this old history is boring them!”

  Mrs. Bankole’s purple lips wavered before reminding them to stay in sight.

  Femi wrinkled his nose in front of the baby crocodile handbag. Its flattened head with crazy-paving patterns and sad empty eyeholes formed the front flap.

  “It’s brutal! Killing a baby crocodile!” he announced, loudly enough for the kiosk lady to hear although she pretended not to. The lady smiled at Femi. Why did so many grown-ups pretend and lie? But not Papa. And that’s why Mama was…Sade slammed down the shutter in her brain.

  “I think it’s horrible too,” she replied clearly. Next to the crocodile bag were carvings of animals and a cluster of wooden heads. Many of the heads looked quite similar until she noticed the pair in the far corner. She studied the faces. The carved pattern of the woman’s hair was so familiar. How like an older version of her own pair they were! Her own Oko and Iyawo…stranded…deserted…on her desk at home. Impulsive hot tears pricked and burned.

  “I-I need the toilet,” she managed to whisper.

  Behind the closed door, Sade crouched on the seat trying to contain the waves of sobs. Her hands over her mouth did their best to stifle them. But she was trembling as badly as one of those lemons that hung on so desperately when Mama shook the branch. Pulling the chain, she tried to drown her strangled cries.

  “Yemi! Hurry up now! They have announced our flight!”

  It was Mrs. Bankole, sharp as any peacock.

  “I’m coming.” Sade’s lips mouthed the words.

  “Yemi! Do you hear me? Yemi?”

  Forcing her legs into action, Sade undid the lock.

  “I felt sick,” she mumbled feebly.

  For Sade, much of the journey was a blur. It was unreal. Yesterday evening she had been at her desk doing her homework. Like any other school night. Mama bringing her a chocolate drink before she went to bed, telling her that she shouldn’t stay up too late. Don’t worry, Mama, she had replied, Iyawo is watching. It was a joke between them. That Oko and Iyawo kept an eye on her for Papa and Mama.

  But, tonight…What was she doing looking at those rows of wooden heads in an airport kiosk instead of at her own Oko and Iyawo? Who was this stranger, calling her Yemi, pretending to be their mother? Was this just a nightmare? Perhaps she would wake up in her own bed with Mama shaking her gently. “What’s wrong, my child?” she would ask. “A bad dream?”

  Sade was vaguely aware of the flight attendant giving instructions about lifebelts and oxygen masks, of Femi fiddling with earphones and buttons, of roaring in her ears while she peered out into the night where shadowy shapes fell away beneath them. Somewhere, already far below, giant-leafed plantains were whispering under the lamplight at the corner and Mr. Abiona’s old wooden table was tucked away for the night underneath the almond tree. Somewhere, casuarina pines were spreading their needle-fine fingers against the sky and sending their scent into an empty room where a wooden girl with patterned hair watched over a vacant desk. But below them, all that could now be seen through the plane window was a scattering of pinprick lights surrounded by darkness. Soon those too had become fainter until there was nothing.

  It had been one of Sade’s dreams to travel on an airplane. Papa and Mama had promised they would take them one day. But it was not meant to be like this. Tonight she was spinning into the darkness of space, let loose from almost everything and everyone she knew, except Femi. And he too was slipping from her fingers.

  CHAPTER 6

  FLIGHT

  “ARE YOUR CHILDREN ALL RIGHT?”

  The blue-button eyes of the flight attendant startled Sade. They darted between the children and Mrs. Bankole. Neither Sade nor Femi had touched anything on the plastic trays of food.

  “Thank you. They’re just tired!”

  Mrs. Bankole and the flight attendant smiled at each other. Sade and Femi remained silent. On a screen above them, a tiny stick-insect plane perched over a map of Africa, pointing northwards over the Sahara. A loudspeaker voice gave details of how high…far…fast they were traveling. Every hour that little black fly-thing would show them being carried more and more hundreds of miles away from home.

  Sade pulled down the window shutter, then closed her eyes, trying to shut everything out. But there was no escape from the steady booming of the engines as she fell in and out of fitful bouts of sleep. At one point, Mama was squeezing the children’s hands as she led them along a deep forest path. Slits of light filtered through the spiked leaves of giant palms
. But when they came to a clearing and Sade looked up at Mama, she found herself looking at an unknown woman’s face. Another time, Sade was struggling to stay close to Mama among the crowd streaming through the narrow alleys of Alade Market. Mama had picked up a small saucer of buttons and was holding up a dazzling blue button to the light, asking “Will this color do?” Sade stretched out her hand to take the button but the whole saucer was sent flying as some men in white robes suddenly pushed past them. Sade woke up clutching her fists, straining against the seatbelt. The cold air had crept under her blanket, through her thin sweater and jeans. Apart from the deep droning of the engines there were no other sounds. All the cabin lights were dimmed. Femi was curled up like a bundle underneath his blanket. Sade couldn’t tell if he was actually asleep, but Mrs. Bankole certainly was, judging from her snores.

  Sade shut her eyes again, trying to doze. But the whale-like monster that had swallowed them continued to roar as it winged its way over the earth. There was nothing they could do. Mama couldn’t do anything, lying on the ground covered in a white sheet stained with crimson. And Papa couldn’t do anything, kneeling next to her, crying.

  In the morning when they opened the window shutter, the sky outside was streaked with colors of the rainbow. One minute it was shaded dark indigo blue to creamy white. The next minute, milky blue stretched toward a horizon of oranges and reds. Seconds later all they could see were mountains and valleys of fluffy white clouds.

  “Maybe it’s like snow,” Femi whispered.

  “Cotton wool!” Sade murmured.

  For a short while they were absorbed in the strange sky outside until the flight attendant arrived with more trays of food. Sade felt little cramps in her stomach, but this time both she and Femi opened and sampled the parcels of food. Their last proper meal was one Mama had made for them.

  The plane began to descend through clouds, revealing patchworks of fields from lime greens to chocolate browns. But the colors seemed drained of brightness and soon even those were lost in a hazy mist. When it lifted it was as if a wizard had changed the fields into thousands upon thousands of buildings as far as the eye could see. Everything seemed tinged with gray ash. So this was London and Uncle Dele must be down there, waiting for them. Far below them a river curled through the city like a giant brown python, swollen from overeating.