The Girl with the Louding Voice

by Abi Daré

  “Mr. Kola? Who is that? The agent?” Big Daddy sniff a laugh. “Why would I waste my time and resources to find Mr. Kola? For peanuts? How much is your salary? I will pay you double, triple. Listen. If you allow me to help you, you will have more than enough to spend.”

  “I want the money I have worked for, sah,” I say as I begin to walk away from him. “Good night.”

  “Adunni,” he call out, but his voice is not loud, I know it is because he is afraid of Big Madam hearing him.

  “Adunni, come back here,” he say, whispering. “Come back here.”

  I reach the clothing line—a thin wire tied between two trees behind the boys’ quarters—snatch my dress from it and throw it over my shoulder.

  How is Morufu and Big Daddy different from each other? One can speak good English, and the other doesn’t speak good English, but both of them have the same terrible sickness of the mind.

  A sickness with no cure.

  CHAPTER 40

  Fact: As of 2012, Nigeria was estimated to have lost over $400 billion of oil revenue to corruption since independence.

  The man in the tee-vee has been talking elections for one hour now.

  I am sitting on the floor, massaging Big Madam’s feet and keeping one eye to the tee-vee. He is holding a microphone, his neck long in the gray English jacket he is wearing as he is speaking. “The question in everyone’s mind as 2014 draws to a close is this: Will the giant of Africa continue to be propelled into further instability, bloodshed, and economic woes under the fedora-hat-wearing man who never had shoes as a child, or will Nigerians arise and vote for change under Muhammadu Buhari, the retired major general who was once the nation’s head of state? We have four months until the nation decides. Until then, keep your eyes glued to your favorite channel.”

  “Buhari can never rule us again,” Big Madam say, twisting her feet in my hand. “Scratch that place for me, Adunni, yes, that place by my heel. That’s it. Perfect. God forbid that Buhari should become president.”

  She is not talking to me, but she is looking me, looking my hand as it is going up and down on her feet. “Buhari is going to deal with all those who benefited under Jonathan. Ah, my God will not let him win. Buhari is an enemy of progress. What corruption is he promising to fight? All lies! Nigerians have been blindfolded by this promise-of-change nonsense. They think the man is the next Obama. I pity them. That man has no heart. He will finish the country with his military-man ruling style.”

  There is a knock on the door, and Ms. Tia comes in. She is wearing her same style of t-shirt and jeans-trouser. This time, they write NAIJA GIRL on the t-shirt with shining alphabet. She give me a smile and a wink, nod her head at Big Madam.

  “Good morning, Madam Florence,” she say. “Hope you are enjoying your Saturday.”

  Big Madam put up her nose in the air, as if about to sniff a smell. “Mrs. Dada.”

  Ms. Tia keep her smile. “So, I figured that since it’s a Saturday morning, and we, uh, agreed last week that Adunni could come with me to the market . . . I just thought to check if, you know, today might be a good time, say around two?”

  “Adunni is busy,” Big Madam say. “Keep massaging, rub my big toe well,” she say to me.

  Ms. Tia give a laugh that sound like it pain her. “Right. I thought we agreed—”

  “We did not agree anything,” Big Madam say. She collect her feet, push herself up on the sofa. “I offered you my house help as a favor. I don’t owe you anything. Today, she is busy. Come back on Monday when I am at the shop.”

  Ms. Tia sigh. “I’ll check back in next week.”

  My heart is heavy as Ms. Tia make to be going. Big Madam hold up her hand. “Wait, Mrs. Dada. As I mentioned to you last week, my agent is called Mr. Kola. He is a very reliable agent. Reasonably priced too. I can give you his number, and if you don’t want Mr. Kola, because I know people like you can like to feel posh, you can try the agency Kiki talked about at the WRWA meeting. What did she call it? Konsult-A-something?”

  “Konsult-A-Maid,” Ms. Tia say. “I will come back on Monday.” She reach the door, put one hand on the handle. “What time on Monday?”

  “Before midday,” Big Madam say.

  “That’s fine,” Ms. Tia say.

  “Find yourself your own maid,” Big Madam say as Ms. Tia is leaving the parlor. “I am not a housemaid charity. Enjoy your afternoon, Mrs. Dada.”

  Ms. Tia nod her head, keep her mouth in straight line. “Have a lovely weekend.”

  * * *

  Before Monday, I am using all my brain to be learning English.

  I am reading the Collins, doing my best to be learning more hard words.

  I turn the pages of the Collins and pick any three hard words I can find and I cannot wait to use the words for Ms. Tia. I learn:

  Assimilate

  Communicate

  Extermination

  I am also doing my best to learn my present tense with all she has been teaching me. When she comes on Monday morning, the sun is big in the sky, the heat biting inside of my armpits as if I put one hundred pins under my arm as I am waiting for her by the gate. When I see her running down the road, I raise up my hand and give her a wide smile. She didn’t bring any motorcar, she say her house is just in the afar corner, and that we can be jogging there because car smoke is always causing problems for something in the ozone.

  “How was your weekend?” she ask as we are walking down Wellington Road. It is a quiet road, no cars passing, red and green and brown roofs of big houses peeping over curved, high fences.

  “I assimilate all my work,” I tell her, and she stop, give me one look like I am saying something so foolish.

  “You’ve been reading the dictionary?”

  “I am communicating the Collins,” I say, and she throw her head back, laugh a loud laugh that is echoing around us and causing one bird in the palm tree in our front to fly away. She laugh so hard, she stop to put hand on her knees to keep herself from falling.

  “Adunni, you are something else. Listen, a dictionary alone would not help you to speak or write better,” she say, wiping the tears under her eyes with her finger. “Work with me at my pace and you will get there. You still have two weeks before the deadline, so take things a little bit easy on yourself, okay?”

  I want to answer her with, But I want to extermination my bad English, but I change my mind because I didn’t sure the word is fitting the sentence. So I say, “Okay.”

  “Your madam was so not impressed by my visit on Saturday,” she say as we reach the end of Wellington Road. “I thought it’d be great if we could maybe, actually, go to the market together today. I sense she won’t let us continue to hang out, unless of course her husband can convince her to.

  “Such a shame really,” she say. “We’ll have to make do with whatever time we have. Right.” She stop walking as we pass one light pole in front of a gray gate with grass in front of it. “That’s my house. It’s the first house when you come in from Milverton Road. Ready to come in?”

  I nod my head yes, feeling something tremble inside of me.

  Ms. Tia doesn’t have a gate man like Big Madam. She open the gate herself and we enter inside her compound. The house is sitting like one fine queen behind a field of grass. The green on the grass is not dull like the one in Big Madam’s compound, this one is a green color that seem like it is breathing and alive. The house is white, with blue windows and a red roof. There are squares of blue glass on the roof, about thirty of them, all joining each other with white lines and dots, blinking under the early-morning sun. Flowerpots sitting in gray stones line up the floor all the way to the front door of the house, where a round grass decoration of red bows and gold bells is hanging on the front of it.

  “It’s not as big as your madam’s,” Ms. Tia say. “Ken wanted us to live in a very big house—think fiv
e bed, five bath, swimming pool, the works. I couldn’t imagine it. And the cost of keeping a house of that size in good shape and energy sustainable? Unthinkable.”

  “What is that glass in the roof?” I ask.

  “Solar panels,” she say. “It gives us electricity from the sun. I cannot stand generator noise or the thought of damaging the environment with the fumes.”

  “One day, I will find a way to put the solar something in the houses in Ikati,” I say, look up the roof. “Many of the village houses don’t have light, but Ms. Tia, if we can do this solar thing, if we can collect the light from the sun and put it in all the houses, then the village will be better for it. We will not be needing anybody to give us light or be finding money for costly generator. We just take our light from inside the sun.”

  “What a brilliant idea, Adunni,” Ms. Tia say, looking me with wonder. “I must raise this at our next meeting at work. There must be another agency we can partner with, to find a low-cost way of installing the panels in some villages. Maybe Ikati can be one of our first. Come on this way, Adunni. Careful of that pot of geraniums. Please take your shoes off right there.”

  I pull off my shoe, feeling my heart warm and swell up with something proud as Ms. Tia talk of putting the solar in Ikati. I cannot even think of how beautiful Ikati will look, if all the houses and streets and shops are having light.

  She kick off her own shoes too, keep them on one short wooden table outside the kitchen door. We enter her kitchen. I don’t think any human being has ever eat or even enter the kitchen before.

  “You cook inside here?” I ask, looking the machines on the kitchen table, a coffee-making machine and a kettle, shining and new like somebody just off-load it from the package. Everything is white, too white, too clean, smelling of bleach. I am thinking that Ms. Tia have real fear of dirty, and a fear to be owning plenty things. The tiles on the floor, kitchen cupboards up on the walls, the toaster in the corner beside the cooker, and the water filter machine near it is all a sharp white.

  “What?” she say. “Why are you giving me that look? Ken does most of the cooking, and I just make sure I clear up nicely when he’s done. Want something to eat?”

  I shake my head no, even though I am hungry. Where will she find food for me in this empty kitchen?

  She pick a towel, white, from one of the drawers, shake it, and wipe the table that is clean. “I am really looking forward to going out today. It will help take my mind off things.”

  “What things?” I ask.

  “I got my period again,” she say, shrug. “Not sure why I was so hopeful this time around. It messed up my whole week. And to make things even more crazy, my mother-in-law is now asking me to go with her to some prophet. She wants me to take a bloody bath.”

  “Blood baff? For why?”

  “Sorry, no. Not blood bath. She wants me to take a bath, at some stream. She says she knows a prophet that would wash away my childlessness. She’d mentioned it a few times in the past, but I kept thinking I would get pregnant and wouldn’t have to. But now she’s insisting.”

  “We do it all time in Ikati,” I say. My mind cut to when Khadija died because she didn’t baff. “Maybe this it will help, make things very quick and speed up for you, so that in one year time, you born a baby. Just one.”

  Ms. Tia push up her eyebrows. “That crap doesn’t work, Adunni. Does it?”

  I shrug my shoulder. “The crap is working sometimes in Ikati. It may help you, make the baby come quick.”

  “It’s just . . .” She grip the towel tight, make it a ball. “The thought of some nasty old man running his hands through my body in the name of giving me a bath. It’s . . . ugh. Repulsive.”

  “Try it,” I say. “It will make the doctor’s mama happy too, keep your whole marriage free of her troubles. And when the baff begin to happen, close your eye tight like this, block away all the ugh.” I close my eye, squeeze it tight. “Think of good, good things when they are baffing you. Things like the baby name or baby clothes. Or your friend Cat-tee.”

  “It’s Katie.” Ms. Tia laugh, and I open my eyes. “I would love to name my baby Adunni,” she say. “If it’s a girl. ‘Adunni’ means ‘sweetness,’ right?”

  “Yes,” I say, feeling my heart swell. “I can be helping you take care of the baby too.”

  “Like a little aunty,” she say. “I’ll think about the bath.”

  I look at her sad face. “Maybe I can follow you?” The words fly out from my mouth before I remember what happened to Khadija at the river.

  “Actually,” she say, before I can change my mind, “that would make a world of a difference, if you can come. We can ask your madam for one more day for us to go out, and we’ll use it for the bath?”

  “You think?” I ask.

  “I think,” she say with a wink. “The bath probably won’t happen until next year, but we can tell Florence that it will be our final outing together. Hopefully, the scholarship results will be out by then. I’ll agree a date with my mother-in-law and get you to come with me.”

  “And the doctor?” I ask. “He knows about this baff?”

  “He does,” she say, folding the towel. She open the machine-washer and throw it in. “He says it is harmless, and that if it makes his mother happy, I should consider it for my sanity. He sent me a bunch of roses at work, as if to say sorry for the stress she’s putting me through. Anyway, come with me,” she say, “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

  CHAPTER 41

  Fact: Some of the earliest art sculptures in the world originated in Nigeria. The Bronze Head from Ife, which is one of the most renowned, was taken to the British Museum a year after it was discovered in 1938.

  We enter a corridor with pictures of Ms. Tia and the doctor on the white wall.

  It show them laughing, kissing theirselfs, doing real love, real marriage. I feel kind of sad, thinking about Morufu and the marriage he was having with me, Khadija, and Labake, the cold and bitter and pain of it. Can I ever find real love one day? And with a fine and kind man, just like the doctor?

  “Come on this way,” Ms. Tia say, opening one door at the end of the corridor. “Here’s the living room.”

  Ms. Tia has no tee-vee. Nothing with electrics in the parlor. The whole air is smelling of something like washing soap and lemongrass. There is a white, round sofa—never seen anything like it—with many cushions, all white and round shape. A tree with plenty silver brushes on the branches, as tall as a small child, is standing by the wall in the corner, decorations of stars and glass angels and gold bulbs on it. Christmas tree, I think, remembering that Big Madam ask Abu to buy one just last week from the market, only Ms. Tia’s own is white, not green. There are flowers inside clear glass vases too, four of them, with little cards inside, and when I peep one, I see it is from the doctor to Ms. Tia. Seem like he like to give her love-flowers every week.

  There are two drawings on the wall. One of a woman wearing an ankara dress, and one of a clay head. It doesn’t have eyes, this clay head. Just holes inside the head for eyes and nose and mouth. And it has marks on its face; thin, long lines drawed from the forehead to under the eyes to the jaw. As if somebody vex and use long nails to be scratching the face everywhere.

  “Got those paintings from the Nikè Art Gallery. It’s an amazing place in Lekki,” she say, pointing to the one of clay head. “That scarred one is my favorite. It is a painting of the Bronze Head from Ife. A masterpiece. Do you like art?”

  “I read of it in The Book of Nigeria Fact, about how we were letting the British to steal our art,” I say. “Where is this surprise?”

  “Take a seat. Get comfortable, I’ll be back.”

  I sit down inside the sofa. She come back holding a blue jeans bag.

  “Here,” she say, eyes wide and bright as she bring out three books from the bag. “I got you an early Christmas present, some of the best
books on grammar,” she say. “This here is called Better English. I had a quick read through and it’s amazing. Perfect for you. The remaining two are equally good, but get through Better English first.”

  I collect the books, feel water pinch my eyes. “Thank you,” I say. “You are too kind, too much.”

  “That’s not all.” She put her hand in her pocket, bring out a phone. It is slim, black, the size of a small child’s hand. “This is as simple as it gets. Perfect to hide away from your madam too. I have loaded it with some credit—”

  I don’t let her finish, I jump on my feet and the three books fall from my laps and slap the floor as I am giving her embrace.

  “Thank you, Ms. Tia!” I say, holding her tight as she is laughing. “Thank you!”

  “It’s not a big deal, Adunni,” she say when I leave her be. “I am really concerned about what you said happened with your boss’s husband. When you said, he . . . you know, came into your room. Did you eventually get the lock sorted?”

  I nod my head yes. “Big Madam send a carpenter and put a lock there.”

  “And now, you also have a phone.” She press the phone, and it make a njing-njing noise, give me a tickle. I laugh and she laugh too. “I will teach you how to send a text message. I have stored my number on here as Tia. It is the only number saved on your phone. If you are ever in trouble, send me a text. Just type one simple word: ‘HELP.’ And I will try to be at your house as soon as I can. I have also stored several recordings of myself pronouncing certain words. Have a listen.”

  I collect the phone, turn it around in my hand, my eyes are not believing that me, Adunni, a small girl from Ikati village, is owning a mobile phone. Even before my papa is owning one. My heart is swelling with thank you for it.