The Girl with the Louding Voice

by Abi Daré

“So this is why Kayla hasn’t called me in two months?” Big Daddy roar the question, use it to silent Big Madam’s wailing cry. “What have you been telling my children?!”

  “I don’t need to tell them anything, Chief,” she say, more quiet now. “They are not blind. They grew up in this house, saw how you have always treated me! Why are you doing this to our home?”

  Then she begin to ask Big Daddy how low he is going in chasing a nobody entity like me until I hear a noise. Like somebody punch a pillow. A slap. Two slaps. Three slaps. I put my hand on my chest, feel my heart beating fast. Is it because I ask of a lock that Big Madam and Big Daddy are fighting like this? Am I the cause of the troubles between them? Ah! Why didn’t I keep shut my big mouth?

  Will Big Madam send me away? And if she does that, where will I go? When Big Madam starts to curse Big Daddy and his family, I take one step back, and another step, and then I am running down the stairs, through the kitchen, until I reach my room in the boys’ quarters.

  CHAPTER 37

  When I reach my room, I find Kofi standing in front of my room door, giving me a vexing look.

  “I have been killing myself, cooking since morning,” he say, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his apron cloth. “The doorbell rings, and I start shouting your name in the main house like a crazy person because the last time I checked, you were the housemaid. I didn’t realize you had retreated to the boys’ quarters.”

  “Who is treating who?” I ask. “Is Big Madam needing a doctor? Have she dead?”

  “I said ‘retreat.’ Follow me. We have guests.”

  “Who is the guest?” I ask as I pick myself and follow him. “Where is Big Madam? Everything okay with her?”

  “Big Madam is fine,” Kofi say, walking fast, making me run to catch him to hear what he is saying.

  “They had a fight. Chale, your mouth will kill you one day. Why did you ask Big Madam for a lock to your room? I told you to be careful. You didn’t have to ask for a lock. There are options. You should have consulted me. For instance, you could have dragged the cupboard in your room, pushed it behind the door. Or placed a rat trap at the entrance, watch it snap the useless man’s foot shut when he comes to your door. Now that would be a scene to watch. Imagine Big Daddy hopping around on one foot, howling in pain, but unable to tell his wife the source of the pain. Ha!”

  “I didn’t know it will cause them to be fighting,” I say, wiping new tears. “Wait, you are walking too fast.”

  “I have chicken drumsticks in the deep fryer,” he say. “I don’t have time to stroll and chat.”

  “But Ms. Tia say I should ask for lock,” I say. “I ask, and now, I am in big trouble. Will Big Madam send me away?”

  “I don’t know,” Kofi say. “Ms. Tia happens to be married to a filthy-rich doctor and has no problems in life. She should not be dishing out advice to a semi-illiterate with the IQ of a fried fish.”

  “IQ fish?” I ask. “You are frying some with the chickens?”

  Kofi stop his fast walk, give me a long, vex look, begin his walking again. “You better pray that the wedding will keep Big Madam’s mind too occupied to think about replacing you before you hear back from the scholarship people,” he say. “That is, after she recovers from this recent battering from Big Daddy.”

  “Why is Big Daddy always beating Big Madam?” I ask.

  We reach the kitchen back door, and Kofi goes to the fryer on the kitchen table, bring out the basket of frying chickens from the hot oil. The chickens are golden brown, the smell of it filling my mouth with spit, my stomach twisting with hunger. Big Madam is back home now, so no more eating of morning food.

  “The guests are in the reception area,” Kofi say, picking one chicken thigh from the basket and tearing it with his teeth. “This is spectacularly seasoned. Perfect balance of salt and spice. What are you staring at? Go and make the guests welcome, and then go upstairs to let Big Madam know that she has visitors. I pray you come back down alive.”

  * * *

  Ms. Tia and the doctor are sitting in the visitors’ parlor. When I kneel down to greet her, she gives me a smile, but not a smile like she knows me, or have talk to me before. It is a stiff smile, a drawing of her lips in a tight line, like I am one kind of stranger, a stranger she met from long ago.

  “Adunni, right? How are you? Nice to see you again,” she say, putting her hand on the lap of the doctor. “This is my husband, Dr. Ken. We are here to congratulate Madam Florence and Chief on their daughter’s engagement. Kofi says they are upstairs. Can you let them know we are here?”

  She face the doctor. “I told you I met Adunni at the WRWA meeting. She’s the one I said might be best placed to come with me to the market, to teach me how to improve my haggling skills and all that. That is, of course, if her madam does not object.”

  The doctor is a tall man with eyes that make me think of stale brown water. He has bushy eyebrows, mustaches that start a journey from under his nostrils and end it in the middle of his jaw. He is wearing a white shirt, button up to his chest to show gold chain with gold cross hanging on his long, smooth neck. He has on a short, brown knicker that stop at his knees, showing legs with plenty curling hair. There are slippers in his feet, brown, smelling of rich rubber.

  He nod his head, look me up, down, down to up. “I have heard a few interesting things about you,” he say. His voice is polish, smooth, words flowing from his mouth like he is using oil to wrap his word before talking. He and Ms. Tia, they fit theirselfs. Honey voice and oil voice. Pity they have small troubles because of childrens.

  “Yes, sah,” I say. “Good evening, sah. I will call Big Madam and Big Daddy to come downstairs. You want ice-cold drink? We are having cold Fanta and fresh juice and wine drink in the fridge. Which one do you want?”

  He wave a hand. “Water for me, thank you.”

  As I stand, the doctor is whispering to his wife: “You do know that there are other women, posh, well-spoken, on Wellington Road, that would gladly go to the market with you, right?”

  And Ms. Tia, she laugh her bell-ringing laugh and say, “Babe, trust me, I know what I want. She’s perfect for the job.”

  CHAPTER 38

  Fact: Many Nigerians have superstitious beliefs about pregnancy. One such is the belief that attaching a safety pin to a pregnant woman’s clothing will ward off evil spirits.

  Tia’s weekly column is coming along nicely,” the doctor is saying as I bring a tray of tumblers into the dining room. “The blog recently hit five thousand subscribers. Have you had a chance to read it?”

  “Who has time to be reading about the environment when there is money to be made?” Big Madam say with a laugh.

  She is sitting on the dining chair, beside Big Daddy, Ms. Tia, and the doctor. Big Madam’s face is full of all sorts of makeups, be like she melt a rainbow, wipe it on her face. Her teeth are bright white under the red and gold lipstick, her lips swollen by the corner of it. She and Big Daddy are smiling, looking like they didn’t just nearly kill theirselfs with beating.

  “Put the glass cups there,” Big Madam say to me. “Right in the center of the dining table. Yes, right there.”

  “But she still complains that she is bored,” the doctor say as I am bringing the cup from the tray and putting it on the table. “I have told her to mix with the likes of yourself, Madam Florence. With the other classy women on our street. But she’d rather stay home and complain.”

  “What she needs is children.” Big Madam pick the cup, look it well, wipe it with her hand, set it down. “Mrs. Dada, when you are chasing children up and down in your house, you will not even think of complaining. Where will boredom sit in a house full of children? It cannot happen. Adunni, put one glass cup in front of Chief. What is delaying you people from having children? You have been married for over one year. I was pregnant the first time Chief touched me on the night of our wedding.” Bi
g Madam laugh a shy laugh. “I hope you are not exploring life and traveling the world before you start birthing children-o? If you are not careful, your womb will just expire.” She laugh again, but nobody is joining her to laugh. “And when it eventually happens, you must hide yourself. When you start to show, remember to put a safety pin on your dress so that no one will uproot your baby from the womb with evil eyes.”

  Ms. Tia sit stiff, like something starch up her whole body.

  “When shall we expect to hear good news?” Big Madam keep talking like something curse her mouth. “When shall we come and eat rice and chicken?”

  “We only just started—” Ms. Tia begin to say, but the doctor press a hand to cover his wife’s hand, say, “We will keep trying. It will happen in God’s time. I just want Tia to be happy. The last thing I want is for anyone to pressure her.” The doctor look at his wife with love eyes, then nod his head yes, as if in a question.

  “That’s right,” Ms. Tia say, sounding like her voice is a sharp pin in her mouth. “Keep trying. No pressure.”

  I cough, put the tumbler in front of Big Daddy, feel the heat from his look on my hand.

  “I should tell Kofi to serve the food now?” I ask. “And the orange juice?”

  “God’s time is the best for these things,” Big Daddy say. “Babies are a gift. A miracle.”

  “Indeed,” the doctor say.

  “Orange juice?” I ask again, but nobody is giving me answer so I stand back, press the tray to my chest. Ms. Tia’s head is down, like she can see her sad face on the glass table and is feeling sorry for herself. The doctor take her hand under the table and hold it.

  “One thing that might help take her mind off the pressures of trying for a baby,” the doctor say, “is to go out more often. Tia loves to explore cultural stuff. She’s thinking of redecorating the house, and she’s asked if maybe your house help”—the doctor nod at me with a soft smile—“can go with her to the market one of these days. To help teach her to, uh, to haggle.”

  “Which house girl?” Big Madam say. “Adunni? What does that one know? She is a stranger in Lagos-o. An illiterate thing, completely useless. She cannot follow anybody to any market. And why can’t Mrs. Dada haggle by herself? Is she not a Nigerian? What does she need Adunni for?”

  “I can haggle.” Ms. Tia lift her head. “Or at least I try. But it’d be nice to have some help in the market. Adunni speaks Yoruba fluently. She is intelligent, and I am comfortable with her—more than I am with most people. I think we can discover things together.”

  “‘Discover things together,’ ke?” Big Madam laugh, shake her head. “Is my house girl a search engine? No, no. Please. I don’t want Adunni to—”

  Big Daddy hold his hand up. “Actually, Florence. It is a good idea,” he say. “In fact, you can have Adunni help you out one evening in the week.”

  Big Madam look like she want to use her eyesballs to bullet Big Daddy, kill him dead for that stupid talk.

  “Are you sure?” Ms. Tia say. “I mean, if it won’t be a problem, that’d be amazing.”

  “Not a problem,” Big Daddy say. “I insist. Dr. Ken is a dear, dear friend of ours, and if his wonderful wife asks us a small favor, who are we to refuse?”

  Ms. Tia smile to the doctor. “Babe, did you hear that?”

  The doctor look like he confuse. “I don’t think Madam Florence thinks it is a good idea to—”

  “It is okay,” Big Madam say, shocking everybody. “She can come and help you go to the market one day a week for a short time only. A very, very short time. I need her here for the housework, so please, if you think you need her for longer, I can recommend Mr. Kola, my agent. He can get you a good house help for a reasonable price.”

  “That is so kind of you,” Ms. Tia say. “I am ever so grateful. Thank you.”

  Big Madam grunt, say something nobody hear.

  My heart start a skipping beat. Does that mean that me and Ms. Tia will be seeing ourselfs once in the week? And we can be learning more things before I write my essay? That is the best good news I ever hear since I reach Lagos.

  Big Madam turn her head to look me. “What are you still doing there? Get inside and bring our juice before I wipe the smile off your face with a slap.”

  CHAPTER 39

  At night, I say my evening prayer to be thanking God for entering Big Madam’s mind for letting me go out with Ms. Tia one day in the week.

  I am also thanking Him that, even though Mr. Kola didn’t come back with my money, I am not in a coffin in the ground, using the soil inside the earth as a wrapper and as a pillow. I say prayers for the new year 2015 coming, that it will be good and a happy year for me, the year I will enter school. I remember Khadija, tell God to make her feel good in heaven, give her big bed and plenty food. I tell God to take care of my mama too.

  I remember Ms. Tia too, that she will get pregnant and have one child in the next year, because she only want one, not two or three childrens, and that it will not cause troubles with the doctor mama. And Papa, that God will give him a kind heart and make his mind at peace.

  I don’t pray for Kayus. Thinking or praying for Kayus will make my heart full of sadness. Today is a good day, no sadness for me. When I finish my prayer, I feel a free that I didn’t feel in long time, and when I smile, it climb from inside my stomach and spread itself on my teeth.

  I set to removing the plaiting on my hair. My hair was a rich black color, thick as a sponge, use to break all my mama’s wooden comb when I was growing. It has a smell now, of bleach and dusty oil, and it take me a whole one hour to remove all the plaiting, and when I finish, I look my hair inside the looking-glass, sitting like a cloud around my neck, warm and full of grease. I shake my head, watching as the hair bounce itself on my shoulders, and I laugh as I remove all my cloth, take a cloth, wrap it around my body, and leave the room.

  It is dark outside now, the moon look like God plant a glowing egg into a flat black slate with stars scattering theirselfs around it, some fading and blinking, others staying still, forming one kind of strange shape in the sky. I walk quick, cutting the grass, laughing as some cricket jump out from it and make a kre-kre noise. As I cut to the part of the house where we spread clothes on the line, I see the shape of a man coming in the dark, walking like he has one half of a leg: Big Daddy. I stop, press my hand to my chest, and keep looking him. He is on the phone, talking to somebody, voice low but loud enough for me to hear him:

  “Baby love, I said I was sorry,” he say. “I will make it up to you, I promise. Why don’t we meet tomorrow night at the Federal Palace Hotel? Or at a special— Adunni!”

  He sort of freeze like a statue when he see me. He press the phone to his ear and wide his eyes until it be as if his forehead is one big eyeball. The woman inside the phone is still talking, sounding like she swallow a bee, speaking bzz-bzz, but my ears can pick the low “Baby love, are you there?” of her words.

  “Good evening, sah,” I say as Big Daddy shake out of his freeze and slide the phone from his ear. It is a phone I have never see him use before, a black, slim, costly-looking thing, the size of a matchbox. He press the phone, and the numbers on the face of it glow, coloring his face a strange green too, before he put the phone into the pocket of his ankara trouser—same one he was wearing in the morning.

  “What are you doing here?” he ask. “Wait. Were you listening to my conversation?”

  “I am going to the washing line,” I say. I am not caring if Big Daddy is talking to another woman outside when his wife is sleeping in the house. “I didn’t hear anything, sah.”

  Big Daddy nod his head. “Good. Because I was speaking to my pastor, my pastor’s wife, I mean. We are, er, planning a special service tomorrow at a hotel. Isn’t it a beautiful evening?”

  “Good night, sah,” I say.

  “Come back here a minute. Don’t you think I deserve a dash of g
ratitude after what happened today?”

  “Dash of grati-what?” I ask, pulling my cloth tighter on my chest.

  “If you don’t know what it means—”

  “I know what it means,” I say. “What am I thanking you for?”

  “For how I intervened at dinner this evening,” he say, voice low. “With the Dadas. Come on, stop playing stupid,” he say, throwing a look behind his shoulder, where the light in one of the top windows in the house off itself, and someone draw a curtain. “I know you and Tia Dada have been meeting for tutorials of some sort. I saw her once or twice while Florence was away. She was sitting with you back there, behind the kitchen. I like that she is trying to educate you.” He lick his lip. “I support it. A hundred percent. And that is why I made that suggestion in the dining room. My wife would never allow you, by the way. She is not as generous as I am.”

  “Thank you, sah,” I say.

  “Your madam is this close to kicking you to the streets.” He hold up two fingers, bring it up to his eye level. “This close. But for my intervention. I can let you continue to meet Tia Dada one day a week for as long as you want, but on one condition.”

  “What is the one condition?” I slap a mosquito from my shoulder, peep my hand. It has become a spot of blood. “Be quick, sah, I want to go, mosquito is biting me here.”

  “Did mosquitoes not wine and dine with you in the village you came from? Look at her, complaining about mosquitoes. These useless housemaids. They have a taste of luxury and start to feel entitled. Listen. All I want is for you to allow me to help you. To be kind to you. You understand?”

  I look at the man, at the sack of him, his gray beard like beads of silver cotton wool around his chin, and hiss a silent hiss. “If you want to help me,” I say just as the idea is coming to my mind, “find Mr. Kola, sah. Tell him to bring all my money for working here since August. We are now in the first week of December, sah, it has been five months of working with no salary.”