A Small Silence

by Jumoke Verissimo

  Prof thought of going to the man to plead on the okada man’s behalf, but seeing how he did not budge when other passers-by went to him, he remained at the bus stop and watched.

  Chaplin held the okada man tighter. And before anyone could say, ‘Free traffic,’ he had landed a hard slap that left the imprint of his fingers on the okada man’s left cheek. It took about ten seconds before the okada man regained slight composure, ‘You slap me! For what? Ha! Is it because I have motorcycle and you have motorcar?’

  He wiped the side of his face like he needed to check if Chaplin’s slap had left a stain. He was five inches shorter than Chaplin, and in a fair fight, he would be the casualty, and as if in realisation of his disadvantage, he shouted, ‘I go show you today!’ He rushed to his motorcycle, opened a plastic box tied to the back, rummaged hurriedly through it, and in a flash, swung something at Chaplin. Chaplin ducked and stepped back to see what it was.

  ‘Rat?!’ Chaplin screamed in shock.

  ‘Yes. Rat,’ the okada man said, chasing after Chaplin with the poor animal squeaking and squirming in his hands, ‘I will show you that as I can conquer rat, that same way I will conquer you.’

  ‘Rat! Help-o! Rat! Help-o!’ Chaplin shouted as he struggled to climb up to the roof of his car, trembling. The idea that anyone could go travel around with rats carried the message that it was something sinister. Chaplin, evidently, didn’t want to see the outcome of this juju, or what it could do to him.

  Everything became chaotic in a matter of minutes. The road was now a flight of tightly packed cars and pedestrians moving in and out of the jam as they walked to their destinations. The other side of the road, which appeared free earlier, was now as jammed. The run became more intense, he heard a driver who was not aware of what went on earlier yell, ‘Ha! Ole ni o, ha! Awon ole. It must be armed robbers-o. They must be shooting like mad in front. That is what caused the traffic.’

  From the position in which Prof stood, he watched as the driver’s assumption passed as message by word of mouth and in very few minutes, the gridlock that had kept vehicles in a three-hour jam suddenly dissolved, leaving Chaplin on the roof of his car, in the middle of the road, screaming for help from the hysterical okada man who was swinging the rat he held by the tail at his face.

  It was a sad walk home. He unlocked the door with more anger in him than he ever thought he could still have. There was confusion as he realised he didn’t know anything about Desire, other than that she visited him at 9pm every day. He took a seat, and slowly, all the pains of the past years, which didn’t even come out in clear pictures, made his eyes damp and he began to cry.

  His anger was not a violent anger. Instead, there was a little distortion which brought on a smile. It was submissive and patient. She once told him that the most popular saying in the country was, ‘Times are hard,’ that the sentence may soon become a greeting shared on the streets. It would become the chief compliment thrown around if things went on like this. He watched out for signs of this as he walked the streets—she had prepared him ahead of time.

  She laughed whenever he said she should stand up for the rights of the people, because he was no longer relevant. He listened to the cackle of her voice breaking into a shimmer. It came with a rhythm and he watched her with the absorption of a nature lover appreciating the sunset. From her visits, Prof knew she was one of those people who couldn’t laugh in small bits. She laughed in a rush; and when she laughed, she swayed and shook the seat she sat on. He recalled how her voice rose from chuckles to giggling, to open-mouthed smothered screams of delight. He loved her naivety. There was an openness to her questions. It was that of someone who had read of practical lessons in theory textbooks. It was soaked in a native intelligence of having acquired knowledge by listening, perseverance and consistency.

  He imagined himself stroking Desire’s face, and defining the contours, one of those times she visited, just to show that he felt her anger, and telling her everything would be fine. Then it struck him that he had never seen Desire’s face, in the light, in its full form, unaided by his imagination. The darkness buried her complexion, the shape of her face, the form of her body. He opened his eyes and stared at the white ceiling cluttered with peeling plaster.

  32

  Desire rolled over as she lay on the sofa, dreaming of lights flushing her face. She blinked several times. It took several minutes to fully awaken. Her eyelids were weighed down and her head groggy. She had been in a room that was not his or hers. She sat on a chair looking around. The room was lit with a fluorescent lamp which flickered frequently. It was lightning after the thunder. Prof walked in from somewhere, Ireti was with him. Prof sat on a chair beside her, while Ireti, looking quiet, stood behind him. The lights went out. The armchairs they sat on became as cold as ice. She fumbled between her reality and her imagination, as the abnormal temperature of the chair increased by the second. She moved to the edge of the seat in fear and nearly fell off, because the chair rose slowly into the air. She jumped down from the floating chair and bumped into him. He remained silent; a smirk on his face. She wanted to know what was amiss.

  ‘What’s happening? Prof?’

  He said nothing to her, only stroking her left cheek with deep breaths escaping his lips at intervals. There was a feeling like nothing she had ever felt.

  Desire hurried towards the switch only to find Ireti’s hands on it. He blocked her from flipping the knob and stared at her with such cold eyes she shuddered. She was shocked that he got there before she did and then…

  ***

  Remilekun lay on the bed with her left hand supporting her head as a pillow. Desire watched her as she stirred, only to search drowsily for her pillow which had fallen from the bed. When she did not find it, she placed both her hands under her head and carried on sleeping. After staring at her friend for as long as her attention could hold, Desire turned her own pillow from the side dribble had spewed on and changed her position until she lay on her side facing her friend’s bed. She removed the pillow from under her head and placed it on her chest, and then tightened her arm around it. She observed how sunlight trooped into the room through the window and again she let herself be distracted with the way it swallowed the light of the electric bulb. She wondered why she had never visited Prof in the daytime and tried to fold up the curtains at those times he went to the toilet.

  She wanted so much to forget him; the way a young tree forgets a leaf when it falls, but the leaf never forgets the tree, it rots so that it can become nutrient—and strengthens the tree. There really is no forgetting.

  She remained on her bed for a while, struggling to silence the thoughts of Prof. The sun rolled down towards their window and shone into the room. She sat up on the bed, folded her legs into a triangle, feet on her thighs, and picked at her toes. The heaviness of her fears made her restless, so she stood up and picked up a broom from under the bed. She began dusting, sweeping and cleaning, recalling as many of the things she wanted to do but could not. Remilekun woke and turned towards her, mouthing, ‘Haan ha! Pull down the curtains, the light is blinding!’

  Desire rested her back against the wall, but sat up on the bed, glad that she had pushed off the temptation to go and see Prof. She could not tell how the day passed as thoughts of him taunted her along with the burden of carrying Ireti’s fears. She got up again and found herself drifting through the housework and then leaning against the window, watching the streets. She assumed she was doing the same thing he was doing; each watching for the other’s visit.

  Remilekun stood up from the bed and tied the curtain into a bunch, and in the process she bumped a book off the window sill. She flipped through it and laughed, ‘So you have started writing poetry?’

  ‘Just some thoughts. Nothing serious,’ Desire replied, stretching her hand so Remilekun could give her the book. She flipped the pages as she tried to follow the trail of Remilekun’s talks of cars, bag and shoe labels, best travel places.

  ‘I also wrote poetr
y when my guy almost left me. Poetry like: “If you leave me, I will die,” and “Your pupils are my sunrise.”’

  Desire shook her head and eyed Remilekun, who soon changed the conversation to how she wanted to get some money from her mother and her boyfriend for a bag that she saw in a boutique.

  ‘Isn’t it too early for fashion gist? You know I don’t give a damn?’

  ‘You know I give a damn. Not having an opinion to give does not mean not getting an opinion from someone. My friend, bring your body down, joor!’

  At that point, Remilekun’s talk was like a cloud that wouldn’t arrange into neat layers in her head. And though she was not really thinking of anything else, she discovered she had stopped listening.

  ‘Desire!’ She heard the shout and came to consciousness. ‘Haba! What are you thinking? I called you, like, three times.’

  ‘I was deep in thought…’

  ‘Thinking of that crazy Prof, abi? After all I am doing to take your mind away from it.’

  Desire spent a moment before she said, ‘Yes,’ although she was not in that moment.

  ‘I think I need to find one fine boy to handle you properly. See, when sex only happens in your imagination, most of the time, you can only misbehave. You want to serve that Prof. I can feel it. What happened to your Ireti boy?’

  ‘Nothing. We just minding our own corners of the world now.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Yes! Just like that.’

  ‘You and that boy had potentials to take things far-o, at least that is my thought.’

  ‘Friendships evolve. Friendships dissolve.’

  ‘Into what? Madam philosopher—how does someone just disappear from your life. I don’t understand.’

  ‘Remilekun, please. I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Okay. No vex. At least you can answer this one: who is yanshing you now?’

  ‘Re-mi. Pleaseee!’

  ‘Why don’t you ever want to talk about sex?’ The room was silent again, the only sound was that of their laboured breathing against the stifling heat. They were there for some minutes and Desire even dozed off, until she heard Remilekun’s voice sounding through as if it was from the end of a tunnel.

  ‘You’re sweating like a goat about to be slaughtered. Come and lie with me on the ground. I will fan you.’

  Desire climbed down from her bed sleepily and pulled the T-shirt she was wearing over her buttocks. She lay with Remilekun on the mattress spread on the ground. She remained quiet. They were opening the curtains a few minutes ago, she’d been listening to the crescendo of daytime and Pastor hold his services in the middle of the night. Every noise that was made was made outside their room.

  It was Remilekun springing to her feet from the mattress, while also marching around the room with her feet thudding against the ground that made her stir.

  ‘Is that mosquito?’ her voice sounded like someone else’s.

  ‘No,’ Desire shook her head and jeered, ‘That is a crab. A crab that gives malaria. Buzzzzz.’

  ‘Is that meant to amuse me? Not funny! Are you okay?’

  ‘I should be the one asking you that question. You have been behaving like… what I don’t even know.’

  ‘Babe, what is wrong with you? Has that Prof transferred his mental illness to you?’

  ‘Daytime feels like night,’ Desire turned onto her side and placed her hand under her head.

  ‘Night-not! Turn here and look at me. See, I can’t live in the same room with a mad woman-o. What is wrong with you? I have a feeling you will wake up one day and bite my ears off.’ Desire laughed, then became quiet, again. Remilekun stopped talking. She looked at Desire for a long time before folding her arms over her chest. In that moment, it was as if something unsaid wished to crack the state of intimacy and mutual respect that always existed between them.

  ‘Sincerely, what did he do to you?’ Remilekun spoke as if she feared someone else was listening. She placed her hand on Desire’s arm and when she felt no response she lay down by her and patted her head gently.

  ‘Sometimes, I feel I should open you up and throw out the dirt in your life.’ The few times that Remilekun offered serious advice or a listening ear, it was usually steeped in a philosophy she learnt from a teacher back in secondary school. She always said life should be lived like a detergent—‘Pour in. Wash. Pour out. Laundering is a reminder that we can always come out clean.’

  Desire’s unease rose slowly as Remilekun’s hand soothed her. A small cry was stuck in her throat and her head wished to say so many things, but she knew there was nothing to say. She cried softly, thinking to herself, She wouldn’t understand the lights.

  ‘Is it Prof?’

  ‘I don’t know what it is. I feel empty. I loved going there and then I just don’t know what happened. I feel very empty.’

  ‘Pele. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.’

  ‘I am just crying.’

  ‘For nothing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Desire let Remilekun’s hand circle a pattern against her neck and the sensation made her ease a little. She was not ready to be left alone.

  ‘Have you ever tried to call your father “Daddy”?’

  Remilekun’s fingers were no longer forming a pattern on her skin, she simply stroked up and down, like she was giving her words direction.

  ‘He was never really a father,’ Remilekun said, sucking in her breath. Desire moved forward on the mattress like she needed to put some space between them. Her heartbeat increased as a story came to the tip of her tongue and she wondered if what she was about to reveal would make Remilekun behave differently towards her. Her lips were weighty. She was rethinking her actions and thinking of saying something about how much she wanted to go to see Prof when Remilekun said, ‘Lean on me.’ She chuckled, ‘My dad used to say that a lot, now that he’s got a second wife, who is doing well leaning on his arse, can you imagine she—’

  Remilekun stopped talking when she realised that it was Desire who needed to talk, ‘Sorry. I am listening.’

  Desire placed the pillow under her head and moved back to her former position. She cleared her throat, closed her eyes and imagined she was in the room with Prof. She recalled the ambience: a sigh, a long-drawn breath, and then silence. She started her story.

  ‘My mother killed my father,’ she began and it sounded true to her ears. Desire felt Remilekun’s body hardening. Her hand lay immobile against her neck. Desire didn’t say another word for a few seconds. She wanted the import of what she revealed to fill the room—and it did. She said nothing more until Remilekun, sounding like a child who was being teased for her fear, spoke.

  ‘How? How did it happen?’ But Desire didn’t say anything. She paused to indicate that she wished to explain further but needed a moment. The silence lengthened as they lay side by side on the mattress. Remilekun drew closer to her and then cuddled up to her and held her tightly around her waist. ‘I want to release you,’ she cried softly and began again to pat Desire on the head like a baby.

  Desire stopped for a while. She played with the story in her head before she started it.

  ‘You see, it is kind of complicated. I didn’t see it happen. You know, I wasn’t there, how can I explain this? I was there. I just knew. It was as if I made it happen,’ Desire sighed.

  Remilekun said, ‘You scare me.’

  Tension entered the room. Desire waited, unsure of what her roommate was up to. She feared disgust and anxiety, and as if Remilekun realised that she may have made herself an inappropriate listening ear, she tickled Desire on the waist and said, ‘What’s with the suspense now? Is this a gen-gen film?’

  ‘What’s a gen-gen film again?’

  ‘Don’t you know those old Chinese action movies, when they are changing scenes, you just hear the sound before the action—“gen gen…”’

  Desire shook her head and said, ‘You’ll never change.’ She turned and adjusted the pillow under her head.

  ‘Ok
ay. I’m listening. Tell me the story.’

  Desire noticed a little hesitation in Remilekun’s voice but started her story anyway. She couldn’t help but wonder, as she spoke, if her memory had in any way reinvented the things that had really happened to her father.

  She began by telling Remilekun how it all started one night. She was alone in a room with her mother, who fanned herself with a cardboard in silence to keep the heat away. Sometimes, her mother blew the fan towards Desire. The flapping of the paper against her mother’s hand and the distant hum of generators from the other room provided foreboding of what was to happen. She and her mother both lay on a single mattress, ignorant of how the night would unfold. She placed her head on her mother’s lap, enjoying the way she pulled her hair playfully, leaving her to waddle between sleep and wake.

  It was one of those nights when Babangida came home late; she and her mother had spent the night waiting for him. Several times, she dozed off, only to be finally roused by a kick, which was her father trying to find a place for his feet as he staggered into the room. At first, the scene went according to script; her mother stayed a few metres from him, as he threw curses at her and he stumbled towards her to swing a punch or slap anywhere his hands landed. Then, there would be the stifled sobs, a sudden scream that faded into repressed cries, that would follow Desire into sleep. Desire’s mother would express, years after, that Babangida’s problem was a “soft brain” that could not deal with alcohol.

  ‘He drinks just one bottle. His problem is his wild temper.’ Yet, alcohol oozed even from the pores on his skin.

  That night, electricity came on just as her mother complained about the little kerosene left in the hurricane lamp. The usual scream of ‘Up NEPA!’ in the neighbourhood, which followed electricity being restored came, as did the squeal of their fan as it laboured to start. The room was not lit. The bulb in the sitting room had burnt out the previous night and her mother hadn’t replaced it, so the room relied on the light coming from the bedroom. The room-and-parlour flat had two entrances; a burglar-proof iron door that led into their flat and a flush door that remained permanently open, because it could be brought to the ground with one breath. A blue curtain with paisley patterns of pointed arches hung down from it and divided the sitting room from her parents’ bedroom. A number of times, funny noises from the room reached her ears, without her trying hard to listen.