Butter Honey Pig Bread

by Francesca Ekwuyasi

  On her evening walk home, a text from Salomé: Hey hey, free for a quick tea or something?

  They met at a small café named Grind on a side street off Gottingen. Taiye found Salomé sitting at the counter in a black velvet T-shirt and slim-cut khakis, sipping from a bright yellow espresso cup.

  “Isn’t it a bit late for caffeine?” Taiye asked, pulling up a bench beside her.

  “Hey.” Salomé put her cup down and leaned in to kiss Taiye on her cold cheek.

  “I have some papers to grade,” she chuckled, “so I, um, so I need this.” She touched the copper buttons on Taiye’s shoulder straps and added, “This is nice.”

  “Thank you.” Taiye shrugged off her jacket. “I like your shirt.”

  “Hachim picked it out for me.” She chuckled nervously again. “What will you have? Let me get you something.”

  “A London fog,” Taiye told the barista. “Coconut milk and honey, please.”

  To Salomé, she said, “Thank you.”

  “Hey, so, um …” Salomé started to say, her expression sliding between apprehensive and concerned. “Last night was … excellent, but it was a bit unexpected, and I usually prefer to talk a bit about my … situation,” she curved her fingers in air quotes around “situation,” “before being intimate in that way.”

  “Spit it out, mate.” Pre-emptive hurt was bringing shame along with it, and Taiye was responding with curtness.

  “Um, well, I’m non-monogamous, which means that I do—”

  “I know what non-monogamous means.”

  “Here’s your London fog.” The barista placed a steaming mug of tea in front of Taiye.

  “Thank you,” Taiye said. “Right, well, yeah … so I’m not seeing anyone here seriously. I have a lover in Montreal that I see about three times a year, usually less actually. So other than her … um …”

  “Okay, I get it.” Taiye started to get up.

  “Hey, wait.” Salomé touched Taiye’s hand, and her voice was gentle.

  “Please, wait a sec. I don’t think you do get it.”

  Taiye relaxed into her seat, averted her gaze, and took a sip of her tea.

  “I like you, and I want to get to know you, um, properly, like go on dates or whatever you like, and keep talking, if you’re into it.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah,” Salomé continued, “I just wanted to, um, I was just really excited about what happened … and what could happen. I just wanted to be up front right away, because I’d really like to see you again. If you’d like to see me again, too …”

  “I would.”

  Salomé couldn’t hide the relief that swelled from inside her. “Cool,” she said.

  “Cool,” Taiye replied.

  Kehinde

  I DON’T NOTICE THE EXTENT OF FAROUQ’S DRUNKENNESS until we’re walking home from Isabella’s engagement party. Each step seems hilariously laborious, and he’s laughing at everything. It takes us more than twice as long to get back as it did to get to Isabella’s place.

  We walk arm in arm, and thanks to the electronic mix of Fela’s Expensive Shit album, which played in the last moments before we left the party, he’s singing, “Water water water no get enemy e ee” over and over, until we arrive at the gates of our compound.

  “Good evening,” I greet Hassan, as he pulls the gates open and nods at us. “Good evening, ma. Good evening, sah.”

  “Mr Hassan, has my sister come home?” I ask him.

  “Yes, e never too tey wey she come back, maybe one hour.”

  “Thank you, good night.”

  There is no power, and the generator is turned off, but the orange glow of candlelight illuminates the kitchen window. And half a dozen inflatable solar lanterns, brought by Taiye, light the way to the front door, the stairs, our bedrooms, and the bathrooms.

  Farouq undresses and collapses into bed. “That party took an odd turn at the end,” he says, as he pulls me onto his body. “But I had fun. You had a good time, babe?”

  “I did.” I kiss his sweaty brow. “You’re drunk, love.” “I am.” The lopsided tilt of his smile and his drunken half-moon eyes send a warm rush through my belly. “You’re drunk?”

  I shake my head. “Not even a little bit.”

  “I miss dancing with you.” He wipes the sweat off his face with the batik pillowcase.

  Many of our first dates ended in dancing, an honest way of touching each other, familiarizing ourselves with each other’s unique rhythm, a kind of sensual inquiry. A declaration of desire before a more complete consumption. And when we did finally sleep together, it was a thorough consumption. Yes, I only had Wale and Wolfie to compare it to, but with Farouq, there was a distinct focus on the mouth: he sucked my fingers, my nipples, licked my lips, my neck, bit delicious bruises into the soft flesh of my inner thighs, ate me out thoroughly. Before he flexes his fingers inside me, he licks them, and then puts them in my mouth. He always licks his fingers afterward as well. All that licking …

  And the snacks: small bowls of cut-up melon and frozen berries often sat on the nightstand. “In case we get hungry,” he would say, and we always did.

  Living together hasn’t dampened my desire, but his dissertation steals his time and energy, forcing me to behave the way a patient person might. I am not a patient person. Now, during this emotionally fraught excuse for a holiday, we should be taking advantage of the break in his writing, but this house haunts me with memories that do not incite sexiness.

  “Let’s dance more often,” I say into his chest.

  “Yes,” he says, closing his eyes.

  “I’ll go get some water.” I untangle myself from his arms and get up.

  “Yes, water,” he mumbles, already at the threshold of sleep.

  Downstairs, I find Coca-Cola cat trailing Taiye in the kitchen. I meow at her, but she ignores me and stays wound around Taiye’s bare feet. The old asshole cat has shown no interest in me since I got back. Our mother says it’s just because she doesn’t recognize me, but I don’t believe that; I think she’s punishing me for being away so long. She used to belong to me. I felt jealous about our father and Taiye’s honeybee excursion, so he got me Coca-Cola cat to cheer me up.

  Taiye meows at me, and it’s so believable that the cat looks up at her as if she’s just been insulted.

  Taiye is holding a large pawpaw in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

  “You disappeared,” I say, and it comes out far more accusatory than I intended.

  “Sorry, I got a bit too high and couldn’t be around … all that.”

  “Oh, who had weed?”

  “That queer bloke, Star.” She takes a large gulp of water before handing me the glass. “You all right?”

  I nod and drink. “How do you know he’s queer?”

  “We talked a bit before.” She rolls her head from to side to side, stretches her neck.

  “Isa is …” I start to say but trail off because I really don’t know.

  “Aggressively depressed?” Taiye offers with a smirk.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s what I look for in a lover,” she jokes, placing the pawpaw on the counter.

  “She said to apologize to you.”

  Taiye only shrugs and pulls her kaftan over her head so that she is wearing just a bra and jeans. She has the body I’ve always wanted, even though she eats like a pig. Well, I don’t know what she’s like now, but growing up, she had a huge appetite. The front clasp of her black bra dissects a detailed botanical illustration of an onion rendered in fine lines of black ink on her sternum. The roots of the onion creep down the centre of her ribcage, the leaves like gnarled fingers climbing up between her small breasts. I’m surprised by the tattoo, surprised by how little I know of my sister, despite all those letters.

  “This is interesting.” I point at her chest.

  “Oh yeah.” She looks down at it. “It’s my most recent one.”

  “Why an onion?”

  “You might think it�
�s dumb.” She laughs. “I read an essay about an onion.”

  “An essay about an onion?” I’m not sure I heard her correctly.

  “Yeah, it’s more about faith, the reflection on the onion is just the vehicle … I think, anyway.”

  “What’s it called?”

  “‘The Heavenly Onion,’” she says, “by a priest chef dude named Robert Farrar Capon.”

  “So, you read it and decided to get an onion tattoo?”

  “Yes,” she says, deadpan, “that’s the kind of life I’m living.” She bursts into laughter at the look on my face, and I laugh with her.

  “Do you have any tattoos?” she asks.

  “No. Not yet anyway. I don’t know if it’s my thing.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Which other ones do you have?”

  “Mmm.” She purses her lips, then says, “I’ll show you later.”

  We look at each other for some time. Taiye has a faint smile on her face, and I feel my face mirror hers. She still seems stoned, lighter, and her words are flowing easy.

  “Do you think Isabella suffers because she’s closeted?” I ask.

  “Maybe.” With a broad, red-handled knife, Taiye cuts into the soft yellow-green skin of the pawpaw. A firm push down and the fruit falls open in two even halves, tiny juicy black seeds glistening in the candlelight.

  “Maybe her brain just doesn’t make enough serotonin, and she needs help,” Taiye continues. “But you know our people. Nigerians don’t get depressed. She really should just pray it away.” She chuckles as she guts the fruit.

  “How about you?” I ask her.

  “What about me?”

  “Are you okay? Was it okay to see her?”

  A shadow crosses her face and takes the shape of a joyless smile, a sneer. She doesn’t say it, but I hear the faint words, Now you’re concerned?

  “I’m okay,” she says, and hands me one half of the fruit with a spoon. “Eat up, you have to stay healthy for this one.” She gestures to my belly.

  “For which one?” I take the pawpaw, an inexplicable wave of annoyance climbing up from my stomach to my throat.

  Eyebrows raised, Taiye asks, “Or am I wrong?”

  “Wrong about what?” My tone is biting.

  “Maybe I’m wrong.” She shrugs again. “I just thought you were pregnant.”

  My feet are stuck to the kitchen floor, and my voice is stuck in my throat. But Taiye doesn’t notice. She plants a soft kiss on my cheek and leaves the kitchen, Coca-Cola cat close behind her.

  “Don’t forget to blow out the candles before you leave,” she calls from the stairs.

  I CANNOT SAY PRECISELY HOW LONG I’VE STOOD, alone, in the kitchen, running through the last few times that Farouq and I had sex.

  How would Taiye even know? What is she even talking about? Just a stoned woman’s ramblings. Or, I’m pregnant. My last period was … my last period was last month? I remember I had it when we bought our flights to Lagos, and that was, maybe seven weeks ago, maybe eight. Then I got it again, I think, I can’t remember, I don’t keep track. No, Taiye is fucking with me.

  I run out of the kitchen and up the stairs to her door. I push it open without knocking. “Why would you say that?” I demand.

  “Huh?” She sits up in bed, a dazed look on her face, a chunk of pawpaw paused midway to her mouth. “What? Say what?”

  “You said I was pregnant,” I say in a forceful whisper. “Why?”

  “Oh.” She relaxes back against her pillow. “Kehinde, I don’t know, I just … are you pregnant?” She takes a bite of the fruit.

  “I don’t know!” I throw my hands up.

  “Well, maybe you should take a test, then.” She puts the hollow shell of pawpaw skin down on the nightstand. “You just had the same … like, vibe as Sade when she was pregnant.”

  I am very truly at a loss for words.

  IT APPEARS THAT I AM, INDEED, PREGNANT. I don’t understand how Taiye knew, but she fucking did, like the unwittingly witchy weirdo that she is. And now I must tell Farouq. I think he will be happy. I think.

  I’m annoyed that Farouq is still snoring in bed with the covers pulled up over his head. The loud hum of the A/C doesn’t seem to disturb him at all, so I slam the door shut when I leave the bedroom. Walking past our mother’s room returns me to years before, when our father was gone, and I was small, and her door was perpetually shut.

  Downstairs, Taiye is puttering about in the kitchen—she’s always in the kitchen.

  I wonder what it’s like to exist in her skin. I’m the nearest to that, the closest to understanding the particular contours of her psyche, perhaps, yet still, I wonder.

  “Look!” I say to her in a low voice, clumsily spreading a rag over the counter and laying seven positive pregnancy tests down vertically, side by side.

  “Morning, love, how did you sleep?” she asks from across the kitchen where she is stirring something aromatic on the stove.

  “Come look!” I say, louder this time. “Please.” She’s not moving quickly enough.

  “Oh,” she says, when she finally walks the four steps from the stove to the counter and sees the tests. Her eyes grow wide, and her expression is only moments away from breaking open into a smile. I can see her stop herself instead and ask, “How are you feeling? What are you thinking?”

  “I think,” I take a deep breath to clear my mind, willing something true to float to the surface, “I think that this is good … right?”

  “And how do you feel?” she presses.

  “I feel a bit shocked.” As I say it, I understand that it’s true. And something else, something I want to grasp on to, but not too tightly, just in case.

  “I’m afraid,” I tell Taiye.

  She nods, eyes squinted with such raw empathy I feel a ball of heat unfurling in my chest, the preamble before tears. She takes my hands in her own damp ones and asks, “Have you told Farouq?”

  I shake my head. A familiar scent overwhelms my senses, and Wolfie’s face bobs across the surface of my mind. Last time, I was with Wolfie, and I wasn’t ready. Things are very different now … I must remember that things are different now.

  “What are you afraid of, Kehinde?”

  “I was pregnant once before.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Miscarriage.”

  “I’m sorry.” Taiye chews her bottom lip, her expression dancing from sadness to hope and back again, and back again. The mid-morning sun streams through the slatted louvres of the kitchen window, and a faint but steady hum pours in with it.

  “What are you cooking?”

  “Catfish vindaloo. How far along do you think you are?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you want a baby?”

  “I think so …” I think that I have to be a lot more certain than that or I might lose it again.

  “Yes,” I say. “I want this baby.”

  She nods again, and then gestures toward the stove. “Help me with the rice.”

  I follow Taiye to the wide pan where halved cinnamon sticks, cloves, cardamom, and small black specks of mustard seeds are sizzling in shallow oil. She adds a generous handful of chopped onion and asks me to set a kettle of water to boil. I obey and lean against the counter by the oven.

  “What’s this?” I ask, lifting the lid off a bowl with fleshy chunks covered in a fragrant red paste.

  “Catfish.” Taiye pours a cupful of brown liquid through a small sieve over a red mug. “Marinating in turmeric, ginger, garlic, and stuff …”

  “And that?”

  “Tamarind juice.” She puts the juice aside and adds the catfish to the simmering pan. “What will you name her?”

  “What?”

  “What will you name her?”

  “Her?”

  “Your baby?” She hands me a tiny jar filled with a cloud of red threads. “Put two pinches of that in a quarter cup of boiling water to steep for a bit.”

  “I haven’t thought of names,” I li
e, and add the saffron to a mug, still waiting for the kettle to boil.

  I have thought of many names. I have wondered about the ingredients that make a family—a good family. I have desired so deeply to create a good family, with Farouq. I have thought of names for girls: Habiba, Ayomide, Azuka.

  “Will you please put a pot on with some oil?”

  “A big one?”

  “Yeah. It’s for the rice, so big enough for about five or six servings.”

  “Why so many?” I ask. “You always make so much food.”

  Taiye just shrugs and smiles.

  “So,” I say after some silence, “will you go to the wedding?”

  “Isa’s wedding?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe. If I’m invited.”

  “Do you still have feelings for her?”

  “Really, really not.” Taiye laughs. “Not in that way.” She pours the tamarind juice in with the simmering catfish, lowers the heat, and covers the pan. “Tell me about your wedding?” she asks, and hands me a large onion, adding, “please mince.”

  When the fumes sting my eyes, I let the tears run down my face and drip from my chin onto the wooden cutting board.

  “It wasn’t much of a wedding,” I tell her. “Some friends joined us at city hall, and a court clerk officiated.”

  “No dancing?”

  “There was some dancing later that evening.”

  I want to tell Taiye that I saw her dancing the same day she saw me, tell her how impossible and frightening it is. But I don’t.

  I want to tell her the truth about my miscarriage as well. The truth is that, almost exactly a week before my pregnancy failed, I named it. I will not say the name. The truth is that, after I named it, I wanted it more than I remember wanting anything before. The truth is that, as much as I loved Wolfie, I already loved the possibility of that pregnancy more, and I felt committed to making a go at a family, with whoever that baby would be. I can’t bear to recall the pain of that time, but I must remember that the flip side of that pain was a gift. Through that grief, I birthed a version of myself who creates. I hesitate to name myself as an artist, but yes, I birthed a version of myself who makes art. It was a coping mechanism that has become my livelihood.