by Abi Daré
She write ten sentences in the paper, and tell me to pick which one is correct English and which one is not correct English. I am sitting up on my bed, pencil in my hand, looking the paper, when I hear a noise in the back of the cupboard. Like a rat scratching his nails on the door.
I climb down from the bed, pick up one leg of my shoe, hold it. If that rat peep his head, I will smash it. I wait, breathing fast, quiet. The noise come again, a creak. It is coming from outside, behind my door. I turn to the door, pull it open.
Big Daddy is standing there, looking shock. He is wearing trousers, white singlet on top, slippers on his feets. His body have a smell, of too much drink.
What is he doing on this side? In the boys’ quarters?
“Adunni.” He keep his eye on the chest area of my nightgown. “How are you?”
“Sah?” I say, kneel and greet him, hold my nightgown with my hand, pull it close, covering my chest. “I am fine, sah. Good evening.” I remember what Big Madam say, her warning not to answer Big Daddy, so I stand to my feets, make to enter my room.
“Come back,” Big Daddy say, licking his top lip, and something full of hope die inside of me.
“Come here,” he say. “Don’t be afraid.”
I look to my left, my right. By now Kofi is sleeping deep, snoring.
“You are a very beautiful girl,” Big Daddy say. He push his eye-glass down on his nose. “Intelligent too.”
“Thank you, sah.”
“My wife is away,” he say.
“Yes, sah.”
“She’s threatened. My wife. Threatened by every damn female around me. Frustrating, I tell you, very frustrating.”
“Yes, sah.”
“She has nothing to worry about,” he say, sway on his feets, shake his head. “I mean, my wife. She has nothing to worry about.”
I am not saying yes, sah again. I just stand there, keep my back to the wall, fold my hand in front of my chest, and lock my nightdress well.
“I want to make a proposal, Adunni,” he say. “A proposal. That is not the name of a person, you know.”
“What is it you want, sah?” I slap away a mosquito from my arm, yawn. “Sleep is catching me.”
“You don’t have to hurry away from me, Adunni. I am a gentleman, you see.”
I don’t see anything, so I didn’t give him answers.
“All I am trying to say is”—he clear his throat—“I want to help you. To give you money to spend.” He sway, jam the wall with his shoulder. “You understand?”
“No, thank you, sah.” I take one step back, open my room door. He take a step near me, put his feets in the middle of the door.
“Please, sah, go away before I shout.” I am talking with a low voice, but my heart is banging itself inside my head, bam. If this man wants to rough me now, who will I call? If I shout from here, will Kofi hear me?
He push his eye-glass up his nose, hold up his two hand. “Hey, no cause for alarm, here. No point in making—”
“Good evening, sir.” Kofi just appear from nowhere into the corridor. He is not wearing his cooking cap, and his head is a smooth, round ball with no hair on it. He is tying a white cloth around his waist, no shirt on his thick flesh of chest. I never been so happy to see a almost naked man in my whole life.
“I heard some noises,” Kofi say. “It woke me up. Sir, do you need something? A light snack perhaps?”
Big Daddy shake his head. “No, Adunni called for, for help. I think she was, I don’t know, threatened by some noise. I was just, yes, just leaving. Thank you.”
Before me and Kofi can talk, Big Daddy turn around and walk away into the night. A moment later, and a door slam.
“You are lucky I was not asleep,” Kofi say.
A shiver run up and down my body, prick my flesh. “Thank you, Kofi.”
“Big Madam will be back next week,” Kofi say. “Have you started on your essay? You and that woman, the doctor’s wife, have spent the last week working on it, right?”
“She is teaching me better English so that I can write it,” I say, and the thought of it is filling me up with light, with a warm hope that is chasing away the shiver in my body.
CHAPTER 35
Fact: Child marriage was made illegal in 2003 by the Nigerian government. Yet an estimated 17% of girls in the country, particularly in the northern region of Nigeria, are married before the age of 15.
After that night, I am not sleeping very well.
Sometimes, I will sit on the bed, holding Rebecca’s waist beads, as I am reading Mama’s Bible, or learning English with the book Ms. Tia give me. Other times, I will keep my eyes on the ceiling lightbulb, trying to be listening over the generator humming outside, checking it sure that Big Daddy is staying in his house. But it seem like Big Daddy is behaving hisself. He didn’t come back to find me yesternight, or the one before that, but I know he is thinking of how he will come back when Kofi is not there. Before then, I must think of what I can be doing to be keep him afar from me. After much thinking with no solutions, I make the decisions to tell Ms. Tia about it.
This evening, as we are sitting behind the kitchen, me on the short wooden chair and she standing in front of blackboard (Ms. Tia buyed a blackboard and bring it home yesterday. It is square, the size of the tee-vee in our parlor in Ikati), she set it on top the tall kitchen stool and is writing on it with pink color chalk.
“Big Daddy come to me three nights back,” I say as she is wiping the blackboard with a cloth. “He enter into my room.”
She turn around, wipe her hand on a tissue in her back pocket. “What happened? Why did he come to your room?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “But I know it was not to greet me good night. He was finding something, and I am fearing it is a bad something.”
“Did he say anything to you?” she ask, look over her shoulder. “Is he home?”
“He have go out,” I say. “He is not coming back till very late.”
“He has gone out,” she say. “What did he say to you?”
“He was talking nonsense,” I say. “But I was fearing that he wants to rough me.”
She look up, like the words I am speaking is appearing in the air, shake her head. “‘Rough’? Like you mean, touch you inappropriately? In a wrong way?”
“Yes,” I say, make my voice whisper. “Kofi come in and stop the man.” I feel a quick colding as I am thinking it. “I am afraid, Ms. Tia, and that is why I want to leave this place. To enter the school.”
“Listen, Adunni,” she say, take two steps close, bend herself so that she is sitting on her feets and looking me eyeball to eyeball. “You must be very careful. Does your room have a lock?”
I shake my head no. “It don’t have a lock.”
“It doesn’t have a lock,” she say, smiling because of how I twist my eye. “It is confusing, I know. We’ll get there. Your madam is back in two days, right?”
“On Saturday,” I say. “Tomorrow after tomorrow.”
“The day after tomorrow,” she say.
“We won’t be able to see each other that often anymore,” she say, with a voice that seem full with sadness. “Florence won’t approve.”
“No,” I say, feeling sad too.
“Unless we can think of something that’d get her to let us hang out together.”
“Like what?”
“If I can find a way to maybe . . . I don’t know . . . tell her something, a reason why we need to see each other? I could maybe get Ken to speak to her. She respects Ken, and he can tell her that we need you to come with me to the market a few times, or something? We definitely need more time to work on your essay.”
“You think she will agree?”
“We can only ask,” Ms. Tia say, “but do you want me to speak to her about what happened with her husband?”
I wide my eyes, shake
my head no. “Tell her, ke? She will beat me stupid, and she may send me away. I don’t want her to send me away, not yet.”
“Fine. I won’t say anything just yet, but you must ask her for a lock. Tell her you want her to fix a lock in your room. Can you do that, Adunni? She won’t beat you if you ask her to do that, will she?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I can try it.”
“You have to,” she say. She stand up, shake her leg like it have dead and she want to give it life. “Be very careful around your madam’s husband. You must tell me if he ever comes back to your room, okay?”
I feel all sorts of feelings that she is keeping her eyes on me, watching for me. “What are you teaching me today?” I ask.
“The present continuous tense,” she say. Her voice is strange. Tight in her mouth. She walk to the blackboard, write, VERB: BE (ING form). She face me. “I know that makes no sense at first glance, but I will explain it.”
I bite on the buttocks of my pencil, keep my eyes on the blackboard.
“Basically, we use the present continuous tense to talk about the present. For something that is happening now. So, for instance: I am standing in front of you. ‘Standing’ is present continuous tense. These words are usually identified by adding ‘-ing’ to the verb. You know what a verb is?”
“Action word. Doing word,” I say. Teacher was teaching me that one in Ikati. I didn’t ever forget it.
“Good. Can you think of an example of the present continuous tense?”
“I am sitting on top the chair,” I say.
“Brilliant!” she say, clapping her hand. “‘I am sitting on the chair’ is correct. You don’t need to add ‘top’ to the sentence.” She face the blackboard, start to write: SITTIN . . . and stop before she can write the letter G.
Her hand is shaking. She turn around, say, “I think I need to sit.” She stagger herself, sit on the floor near me, pull her knees up, and rest her head between the two of them.
“You feeling fine?” I ask, looking the twists of her hair resting on the top of her knees. “Want to drink ice-cold water?”
She raise her head, give me weak smile. “I am tired. I am hoping that, you know, I might be pregnant . . .”
“You think?” I wide my eyes, cover my mouth. “How you know?”
She laugh, pick a twist away from her nose. “I am just kidding. It’s a bit too soon.”
“When last you see your monthly visitor?” I ask.
“It’s due in a few days,” she say.
“It won’t come,” I say, nod. “It won’t ever come.”
“You are too sweet,” she say. “It’s just, Ken’s mother, she’s on my case.”
“The doctor’s mama? Why?”
She blow out a breeze inside my face, her breath smelling like toothspaste. “She was at our house this morning,” she say. “She comes once or so a month.”
“Why?” I ask. “Is that why you were looking sad just now? What is she finding?”
“She comes to ask if I am pregnant,” she say. “Can you imagine that? She has come every month in the last six months to say: ‘Where are my grandchildren? When will I carry my grandchildren and dance with them?’ Like I’ve hidden them in an attic somewhere. If she wants to dance, she should go to a bloody nightclub.” She keep talking before I can ask her who is bleeding blood. “It’s been a bit stressful dealing with his family, especially because we kept our decision not to have kids away from them for so long.”
I talk slow, thinking on my words, my English. “So she don’t . . . doesn’t know that the doctor didn’t want childrens until now?”
Ms. Tia shake her head no.
I slap a fly away from my nose. “Then tell her that you need time, that you and the doctor have just start to be trying. And if she cannot wait, then she can be facing her son and fighting him.”
Ms. Tia shrug. “Oh, she won’t believe me. She says it’s been too long. She’s tired of waiting.”
“Very soon,” I say, “the baby will come and then she will stop looking for your trouble.”
Ms. Tia give me a look, sigh, then push herself back up to her feet and pick up the chalk. “Let’s finish this off,” she say. “I’ll talk to Ken tonight about us going to the market together.”
CHAPTER 36
Fact: Nigerian senators are some of the highest-paid lawmakers in the world. A senator earns around 240 million naira ($1.7 million) in salary and allowances per annum.
Big Madam come back all happy and smelling like brand-new cloth.
She climb out of her car, go straight inside the house, and starts to open all the doors, to check which place is dirty and which is clean. She seem happy with it all, even pat my head two times when she see how the toilet tap is clean, bright. I make myself try and talk to her, ask her how her childrens are behaving theirselfs, if the cold in the London is not too much. She tell me the boy “is working in IT,” and the girl, Kayla, is having engagement with a man.
“A banker,” she say, laughing as she open the second door and peep inside the toilet. “They are getting married next year. He is the son of Senator Kuti. His name is Kunle. Very handsome boy. First-class graduate of the London School of Economics. I raised my daughter well. She took her eyes to the market and brought back a diamond. A rich, handsome boy.” She laugh again. “This bathroom is very clean,” she say. “Adunni, you kept my house well. Very good. Very good of you.”
I thank her and follow her behind, dragging her load of Abroad shopping.
“Put my suitcase here,” she say when we reach upstairs hallway, in front of her room. She put herself inside the sofa in the hallway, fan herself. “I forget how hot this country is when I travel out. What kind of cursed heat is this one? Adunni, put on that AC and fan for me. Put it on full blast.”
I put on the AC switch on the wall, and the fan on the floor. Cold air blow inside the room as I kneel down in her front and wait for her to be commanding me on what else she wants me to be doing.
Her mobile phone ring, she pick it: “Yes, I just came in from the airport. You heard? Good news travels fast. Thank you. Thank God. He is Senator Kuti’s son.” She throw her head back, laugh. “It is God-o. He is the divine connector. He connected my Kayla with the Kunle boy. The wedding? Next December. Yes, we have just over a year to plan. But there will be an engagement ceremony next summer, a big one. Of course, I will supply the fabric. Come and see me in my shop tomorrow and I will share more details with you. Let me rest my body. I will call you later.”
She end the call. “My phone has not stopped ringing since I got off the plane. Where is Chief?”
“He has gone out,” I say.
She hiss. “As usual. Useless man. I hope he didn’t disturb you when I was abroad?”
I think of what Ms. Tia say, about having a lock in my room. “No, ma,” I say.
“You can go,” she say. “Come back later to scratch my head. My feet have missed your massages.”
“Yes, ma.” I stand, kneel again. “I have something to ask of you, ma.”
She pull her box, zip the zip. “What is it?”
“I want a . . .” I scratch my head, trying to arrange my words well. “A lock to put into the door of my room.”
She turn her head, look me, eyes sharp. “Why?”
“Nothing, ma. It is just, sometimes. Because I am a growing woman, I want . . .” I bite my lip, confuse. Everything Ms. Tia tell me to say have become birds with wings and fly away from my mind.
“Did Chief come to the boys’ quarters?” She lean close, look inside my eyes. “Adunni, tell me the truth. Did my husband come to your room?”
I shake my head no, nod it yes. “No, ma. I mean, not him. It is the rat. The rat was making noise, so I want to lock the door. From the rat.”
“From the rat, abi?” She thin her eyes. “I understand. Get up
and go, I will get the carpenter to fix a lock for you.”
“Thank you, ma,” I say, and stand. “I will come back around evening time, for hair scratching.”
There is no answer as I walk away from her front.
* * *
I return upstairs in the evening for the hair scratching.
As I fold my fingers to knock on Big Madam’s door, I hear plenty noises behind the door. I stop my hand, wait, and listen, even though I know it is bad to be doing so. It is sounding as if two people are in a big argument. I bend my head, listen well.
Somebody slap something, then Big Madam is shouting: “Chief, when will you stop disgracing yourself? Haba. Adunni is not yet fifteen, Chief. What were you looking for in her room?”
When Big Daddy answer, his voice is dragging, heavy with drinking. “Did Adunni tell you that I came to her room?”
“The girl asked me for a lock, Chief. Why will she ask me for a lock if not because you have carried your useless self to her? You have no answers, do you? Useless man.”
“Watch your mouth, this woman,” Big Daddy say. “Before I deal with you.”
“You can’t do anything,” Big Madam shout back. “I put my money in your pocket so you can hold your head up. So that you can be a man. Do you think I don’t know about Amaka in University of Lagos? You put two hundred thousand naira of my money into her account just last week, didn’t you? Or about Tayo? That thing with skinny legs in University of Ife, did you not send that one to Zanzibar, just last month? I know them all. But to bring it to my house again? Under my roof? Ah, God will deal with you. How can you keep chasing our common house girl for cheap sex? A nonentity? How low can you stoop, Chief?” Big Madam starts to cry loud, wailing, saying, “Why won’t you love me? What more can I do to make you see me as I am, as a woman worth loving? A woman who has sacrificed so much for you? Your children have refused to come home for Christmas because they don’t like how you treat me, and yet I remain in this marriage because I love you!”