The stairs were steep and cumbersomely coiled. I reached the top to find an array of women: different heights, different widths, different stages of pregnancy, all of them huffing and puffing, most of them emptying small plastic bags of water into their mouths. They all looked like they were set to leak from every orifice and flood the faded rubber tiles.
I saw the waiting room through a wall of windows. Every space on every bench was taken. Beside a wooden counter, a door inside opened into a corridor. I looked down the passage. There were two doors on either side; three were signposted with doctors’ names, one was baldly labeled TOILET. There was a small queue at each door but no less than nine women clenched their thighs outside the lavatory.
A nurse in a gleaming white dress assessed me as I approached the counter. She was short and heavy hipped, but her ebony skin glowed. Her teeth were white with a sizable gap separating the two front incisors. I spotted the gap as soon as she spoke; my passion for blemishes had not left me. She took down my name and deftly stapled my request forms to the ultrasound center letterhead.
“You have to sit down and wait. Drink some water. It makes it easier for the doctor to see everything he needs to see. We recommend three bags.”
“How long do you think I’ll be waiting for?”
“It is impossible to say, but if you leave, you will lose your place. You are number seventy-eight; number twenty-three just stepped in now. Have a seat and wait, like everyone else.”
I scowled and walked out onto the balcony without making eye contact with anyone. Did I say I was different from everyone else? I reflected on her abruptness as I picked my way down the stairs. I snubbed the drugstore again; I wanted a bottle of water. The thought of scrunching bags of dubious water down my throat held little appeal. As I walked out of the gate, a policeman in his faded black uniform caught my eye. He stood across the road from me and was filling his tank with a small keg of gasoline. There were more policemen sitting on a bench under a trimmed almond tree. Squatted before them was a young girl measuring boiled groundnuts into old milk tins and transferring them into newspapers that had been folded into neat triangles. The policemen were in a jolly mood; they kept falling forward in fits of laughter.
I walked past a fragrant roasted-plantain stall; a woman in a lacy low-cut blouse fanned the coal with a sheet of cardboard. The smoke made my eyes water so I quickly crossed the driveway of a mechanic’s workshop and stopped in front of a pharmacy. From outside, I could see that the pharmacy was brightly lit by fluorescent bulbs. The windows were closed too, which meant it had air-conditioning.
Back at the ultrasound center, I sat on the hard wooden pew and shifted my weight from buttock to buttock. I didn’t seem to have as much cushioning as the other women. I reasoned that pregnancy must be kind to the backside. I glanced at the women’s fattened nostrils and marveled at the immodesty with which they displayed their swollen ankles. As they waddled out of the dark corridor, I tried to guess who might be carrying twins, triplets, a boy, a girl or a stillborn child. After all, some of the women left with bloodshot eyes and bits of tissue stuck to their faces. Why else would they be so bereft? It was a tedious game but it helped to pass the time. The women probably thought I was in my first trimester; the thought awakened butterflies in my belly, not the sorrow I anticipated.
My eyes caught a sign on the wall: IF YOU HAVE ANOTHER BABY GIRL, BLAME DADDY! I was just thinking of Iya Tope and her desire to give birth to a son when it registered that my number had been called.
“That’s me,” I said, standing up hurriedly. My forms fell from my lap.
“Go to room three and wait until you are invited.” The nurse frowned and eyed the forms as I retrieved them from the floor, as if to be certain that I picked up every single one.
The doctor was pleasant looking. His chin jutted out slightly, giving his face a glum appearance. The armpits of his tie-dye shirt were darkened from perspiration even though cool air was blowing from a noisy air conditioner hitched into a rectangular hole in the wall. His eyes did not leave the scan monitor.
“Your forms, please,” he said, motioning to me. I handed them over to a nurse holding out her hand.
The doctor’s fingers were long and his nails were bitten into the cuticles. He flashed me a reassuring smile as he splattered a globule of gel onto my belly. He called out figures and letters to the nurse. She repeated everything he said and filled out the blank spaces on the forms.
“Turn onto your left side, please,” the doctor requested. He held out his arm so I could grasp it and change position; he pressed my belly with three fingers.
It was mildly uncomfortable but I did not let out a sound. When the examination was complete, he told me to change in the adjoining room, all the time sealing his findings away in an envelope. I wanted to ask questions but decided not to. Whatever the news was, it was best to hear it at once. I took the envelope and went in search of a diagnostic laboratory.
TEN YEARS AGO, I STOOD beneath that same agbalumo tree not far from here. I was alive then. I was head girl of my secondary school, head of the school literary and debating society. I knew I was the daughter every parent wanted. I could tell from the way they asked my opinion of their children’s conduct in school. Those were the days when I was Mama’s beloved child. Mama said my sister Lara was so lazy that she’d need a maid to lift food into her mouth. I was the good daughter.
That day, it rained so hard that birds’ nests fell from the trees. It was impossible to stand by the roadside without being edged downstream by the currents. There was muddy water everywhere, swishing around people’s feet and sweeping along scrunched-up newspapers and plastic water sachets. The wind had turned my umbrella inside out and my clothes were wet to my skin. As was the case when it rained hard, the taxis didn’t respond to whistling or pssts. They preferred to preserve their carburetors rather than brave waterlogged potholes. I’d never come home late from singing practice before and I knew my mother would soon start worrying. I hadn’t even done my chores. I kept looking at my watch with the hope that the second hand would tick a little slower. I reassured myself that at least Awolowo Road was safe, a place where rich, decent people lived.
I was looking at the palm trees peeping over the fences crowned with shards of broken glass, when a Mercedes screeched to a halt, reversed and parked about a yard away from me. Hoping it would be one of my school friends, I ran to the car and poked my head through the window. The face I saw was unfamiliar so I apologized and took two steps back. My mother had warned me about kidnappers.
“You are going to get swept away by the rain,” came a soft voice from the driver’s seat. “Where are you going?”
I took another step back and looked in the direction of the passing cars. Maybe he’d drive on if I looked away.
“Are you waiting for someone? Look, you are the only person standing here in the rain. If you are waiting for a taxi, I could give you a ride farther down. There are lots of taxis at Osuntokun junction.”
I moved a little closer. I glanced at the car and then at him. He looked respectable, not like the thugs my mother had described. I could smell his cologne; it was like freshly cut grass. His face was handsome and his fingernails were filed to perfection. He was wearing a polo shirt with a crocodile on the left breast. His jeans were clean.
“My mother has told me not to accept rides from people I don’t know,” I said as I reached out to the door’s handle.
“I am not a stranger anymore, am I? My name is Thomas and I’d say we’ve already been having a pleasant conversation.” He grinned.
When he got to the roundabout, he took a sharp right instead of taking the second exit.
“Sir, you said Osuntokun.”
“Are you in a hurry? I just want to make a quick phone call to my sister in the U.S. She’s in the hospital. I live just round the corner. As soon as I am done, I’ll run you down to Osuntokun. I may even be able to take you home. Where do you live?”
“I live i
n Agbowo. The problem is that my mother will be worried.”
He sniggered. “Big girl like you, mentioning your mother in every sentence. You sound like a baby. Are you a baby? How old are you?”
“I am fifteen. I am not a baby.” I held my head high.
He turned round and looked at my face, then his eyes dropped to my breasts. “You don’t look fifteen. Are you really?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of music do you like?”
“Anything.”
“Anything? Well, this will be to your taste then. It’s perfect for people who like anything.” He took out a Wasiu Ayinde CD and inserted it into the car deck, which swallowed it and belched a familiar drumbeat.
He turned up the air conditioner. I felt its coolness blow up my bare arms and through my damp blouse. It smelled like rain hitting hot pavement. It was a comforting smell. I sat back and relaxed against the velvety seat.
He turned into Lower Awolowo Road and sped down a close. He jumped out to open the gate, thrusting the key through a makeshift hole in the thick iron.
After he drove in, he locked the gate behind us.
“I won’t be a minute,” he said, and ran indoors, shutting the car door.
I looked around me. There’d been a power cut so it was dark. The deafening blare of generators came from the houses on either side. From the lamps in the house next door, I could make out bloodred hibiscus, rows of potted partridge pea plants lined the walls.
The man suddenly rushed out of the house with an umbrella. He was now wearing a pair of khaki shorts.
“I want to put the generator on. I can’t see a thing inside. It’s one of those cordless phones and I don’t know where it is. Why don’t you get down and help me look for it so we can be on our way?”
“No. I’d rather wait in the car. Thank you.”
“But you’ll get bitten by mosquitoes. There’s more music inside.”
I huffed and left my bag in the car to show that I had no intention of staying long. I was inquisitive. I had never been driven in a Mercedes before. My father owned an ancient Peugeot 504 and my mother had hopped on and off buses for as long as I’d been old enough to note it. Part of me wanted to see how this man lived. I wanted to see the inside of his house, see the kind of chairs he sat on. I wanted to know if he had the wall-to-wall carpeting my friends at school often described. I wanted to smell wealth and glimpse the lifestyle I aspired to, the luxury I would live in when I was older and rich.
Soon after his generator started roaring, he reappeared and I followed him into his kitchen. He held the door open for me and locked it behind us. “Security,” he reassured me.
The kitchen was covered in white tiles. A large chest freezer hummed in the corner. The spotless gas cooker had six burners; I’d never seen one like it. The work surface was tiled, all white except for a few drops of what looked like black currant juice.
His sitting room walls were light green. Cream leather armchairs were arranged around a square rug that had acacia trees around the edges. There were oxblood cushions everywhere.
“Just wait here while I search the bedroom.”
He knew I was taking everything in. It was probably obvious from my clothes that I was unfamiliar with this sort of bounty. I sat on a sofa and looked ahead at the big-screen television. I got up first to touch it and then to switch it on. I couldn’t tell what button to press so I squatted to look at the diagrams. I didn’t hear him creep up behind me.
“So, how about a little fun before you go?” He had taken his shirt off and there was a mass of curly hair petering out as it reached his boxer shorts.
I covered my eyes. I perceived something uncompromising in his tone. It unsettled me and my heart began to race.
“Come on, don’t waste time. Isn’t this what you came for? You think I don’t know your type? You just came to fuck. Didn’t you? You want to be fucked!”
“No, sir. I just want to go home. I don’t want anything else, sir,” I whimpered.
His hand shot upward and his fist connected with my cheekbone. I staggered. The wooden stool behind me stopped me from falling to the ground. I regained balance and stood up straight. I covered my face with my hands and burst into tears. “Please, sir, have mercy on me. I don’t want anything else; I just want to go home.” I cried, but I knew no one could hear me. I could barely hear myself over the din of the generators.
He moved closer to me and with great accuracy, he struck both my shoulders with his knuckles. My arms fell to my sides like logs and I fell to my knees from the pain. He grabbed a handful of my hair, dragged me into his bedroom and threw me on the bed. He climbed on top of me but I clamped my legs together and pleaded for him to stop. My resistance annoyed him and he pulled a pillow over my face. I was sure I was going to die because I couldn’t breathe. I could hear my heartbeat slowing. My arms were still limp and I couldn’t even scratch him. When he finally lifted the pillow off my face and laid it beside me on the bed, I barely had the strength to inhale; I was paralyzed.
“If you don’t want to die, lie still with your legs apart!” he barked.
I saw the glint of desperation in his eyes. Was this the man who had helped me out of the rain? Where had this monster come from? Those were my last thoughts before I blacked out.
There was a splash of icy water on my face and for a moment, I thought I was back by the roadside. Then I felt pain deep in my groin. There was wetness between my thighs. I burst into tears. What had he done to me?
“Don’t exaggerate. It’s not that bad. Go to the bathroom and clean yourself up. It’s getting late and you should be home.” His voice was soft again.
I summoned all my strength and stumbled through the open door. The first thing I saw was my reflection in the mirror above the sink. I touched my face, thankful that the swelling was hardly noticeable. What I had hoped to save for my husband had been wrenched from me and all I had to show for it was an excruciating ache and dishevelled hair. When I rested my arms on my breasts to button up my blouse, I felt how tender they were. I took a peek and found fading teeth marks all over them.
The toilet roll sat on top of a pile of magazines. The cardboard sphere revealed a naked woman’s open legs. I wet the tissue and wiped off the streaks of blood on my thighs. I noticed that my skirt was still bunched together at my waist so I freed the hem and ironed it down with wet palms.
The man was dancing in his seat and singing along to the music in between cigarette puffs. It had stopped raining. He raced down the Oyo Road toward Agbowo. Throughout the journey, I stared out of my window, trying to reconcile the person I was now with the girl who stood, cold and wet, beneath the agbalumo tree. I caught my face in the side-view mirror. Who are you? I asked myself.
“You should be smiling,” he said, tapping his fingertips on the steering wheel.
“You can drop me off right here. I will walk home.” We were in front of the university gates, three streets from our flat. Before facing my family, I wanted a little time to compose myself.
“I mean it. You should be happy. You are a woman now. You should be thanking me.” He parked very close to the curb.
“Thank you,” I spluttered as I climbed out of the front seat. I didn’t know what else to say. I didn’t look back at him; I did not want to remember his face, his eyes, his jaw. I wanted to forget him. I walked as briskly as I could and disappeared into the throng of plantain sellers.
AT THE LAB, THE SIGHT of my blood coloring the syringe brought back memories of the operating room. It had been more of a hut really—planks knocked together, covered with corrugated iron sheets. There was no ceiling so the sun had an unfair advantage. Segun was bent over me, clutching my hand. He was nervous; his hand kept reaching inside his breast pocket for a handkerchief that wasn’t there.
“You know it’s best to do it here, don’t you?” Segun tried to bolster me, praying he was answering the questions my eyes were asking. “The risk of being seen is too high anywhere else. God
forbid that one of my father’s friends should recognize me. What would I say I was doing in a hospital? With a woman!”
“This place is fine,” I said. I didn’t want him to think that I wasn’t grateful. I don’t know what I would have done if he hadn’t had the good sense to bring me here. It didn’t matter that he was sleeping with me and therefore horrified by the thought that the child might be his. Things had happened quickly between us. He said he wanted me and I gave myself to him. The affection he showed me was everything.
“Of course, this place is fine. I have been doing this for twenty-five years. If all the women of Ayikara are satisfied with my services, you should also set your mind at rest.” The midwife had traipsed in wearing an oversized lab coat. She had a metal pan in one hand and a stainless steel instrument in the other. Her gloves had droplets of blood on them and her pinkie peeped through the rubber.
“Mister, you will have to leave now. Wait outside, please.”
Segun brushed my arm as he walked away until our fingertips were the only parts of our bodies touching. The anesthetic was swift. I slept with Segun’s face before my eyes.
I dreamed that I was on a roller coaster, which was strange because I had never even seen one before, except on TV. A stranger sat to my right with a noose around his neck. To my left, a man sat with a pillowcase over his head. It was as if we were bound together by fate because as our carriage soared, sank, dipped and climbed, we were gripped by the same fear and all of us pleaded to be let off. The man on my right suddenly began to bang his head against the metal guard that held us in place while the one to my left ground his teeth relentlessly. I made to slap sense into both of them but iron bars appeared from nowhere and pinned my arms to my sides. I couldn’t move any of my limbs. “Please, let me off! I promise to be strong!” I screamed. I didn’t know why I was uttering those words. They were meaningless to me.
The Secret Lives of Baba Segi's Wives Page 10