“I’m not kidding. Are you kidding? Because I’ll cover half your flight, and you’ll have a place to stay and food to eat.”
“I’m not kidding if you’re not kidding.”
“Bitch, are you about to come to Lagos?”
“If you’re not kidding, I’m coming.”
“I’m not kidding.” Her tone stills to serious. “It’s been so long, and I’ve been so worried. I won’t actually believe you until I see you.”
“Well, you’re about to be a believer, chile!”
“Hallelujah! Hallelujah!”
HEAVY RAIN FALLS SIDEWAYS the day that Timi arrives in Lagos. The potholes on the road to the airport hide beneath filthy muddy puddles, and the only option is to move slowly through near-standstill traffic punctuated by drenched and exhausted hawkers, most of them with gaunt child faces, hawking their wares of roasted groundnuts, Gala sausage rolls, plantain chips. In her eagerness, Taiye left the house a solid six hours before Timi’s flight was to land, gifting herself ample time to sit in the traffic listening to the steady thrum of rain above her and smiling with gratitude because she will see her friend again.
At Murtala Muhammed airport, Taiye pushes through expectant crowds to meet Timi at the arrivals gate with a small black bag hot with beef suya, which gets squished between their bodies as they embrace. In the cluttered din of arrivals, they hug for a long time, and Taiye doesn’t realize that she’s crying until they pull away from each other and Timi wipes tears from her hot face before wiping his own tears away. He is leaner, his shoulders seeming broader now that the rest of his body is trimmer. A short thick beard covers the bottom half of his face, yet his gestures are the same, and so is the roguish light that sparkles in his black kajal-lined eyes when he smiles.
“Tell. Me. Everything,” they say simultaneously, and throw their heads back laughing.
“Okay,” Taiye says, handing him the bag of suya, “you go first.”
On the drive back to the Island, Timi tells Taiye that almost a week after he failed to end his life, he woke up in the ICU hooked to an IV, to the sound of his mother’s soft voice crying prayers at his side. Fear and grief had aged her rapidly so that her face was slack with deep laugh lines carved like brackets on either side of her mouth, and fine wrinkles creased her forehead. She praised the Lord when she saw his eyes flutter open, and then she told Timi that her kind and merciful God had given him another chance at life, and she would not stand by; in fact, it would render her an utter failure as a mother if she couldn’t guide him away from his life of homosexual sin. All this within five minutes of him waking up.
“I knew then that I’d rather stay in the psych ward than go home with her,” he says with his eyes fixed on Taiye.
“I’m sorry, love.”
“No, don’t be.” Shaking his head, he continues, “I left London after I got back on my feet.”
“She … I think she just wanted to protect you. She loves you.” Stating the obvious leaves Taiye feeling daft. She touches Timi’s arm and offers an apologetic smile.
“I know. Her love is just too heavy, that’s all.” He shrugs, looking out the window at the drenched cacophony of contradictions that is Lagos.
They move on to lighter topics, more laughter—despite the bass thrum of heartache, deep belly rumbling laughter. And then Timi sees the house and says, “Damn.”
Taiye sees her childhood home through Timi’s eyes: the three storeys, the massive windows slatted with frosted louvres, the wrought-iron balconies, the oversized mahogany front door, the magnificent trees—almond, palm nut, mango, guava, coconut, hibiscus and frangipani, plantain palms, rows of Ixora hedges.
“Welcome,” Taiye says, and brings the car to a halt under the blue-canopied garage.
IN THE LATE EVENING HUSH OF THE LIVING ROOM, Kambirinachi is sprawled on the sofa reading the day’s Punch newspaper. Kehinde is on the floor near her mother’s feet, her knees drawn up to her chest with a sketch pad resting against them. And Farouq is hunched over his laptop at the dining table, typing rapidly. A woman’s voice rises from the old radio on the floor beside Kehinde, breaking the nine o’clock news, just as Taiye leads Timi inside the house.
“Family,” she says, though the word ambles its way awkwardly out of her mouth, “this is Timi,” with an arm wound around his waist.
“A boy?” Kambirinachi raises an eyebrow, mischief all over her face.
“A friend,” Taiye replies, tilting her head and rolling her eyes at her mother.
“Good afternoon, ma,” Timi greets her with a hand to his chest and a slight bow.
“Welcome.” Kambirinachi smiles. She gets up to embrace him, saying, “I rarely meet my daughters’ friends.”
“That’s because we have so few of them for you to meet.” Kehinde rises and shakes Timi’s hand. “Nice to meet you,” she says. “This is my husband, Farouq.”
Farouq removes his glasses distractedly and joins them, shaking Timi’s hand as well. “Good to meet you. How was your flight?”
“It was a flight.” Timi is flirtatious, his words music. “I hear we’re planning a party?”
“Yes.” Farouq takes Kehinde’s hand. “I guess we’re renewing our vows?”
“Is that a question?” Kehinde snaps playfully. “It’s just a small wedding party because Mami and Taiye missed the last one.”
“I don’t think we had a choice in the mat—” Kambirinachi starts to say, but Taiye interrupts with a gentle, “Stop, Mami.”
“Anyway,” Kehinde continues, “it’s also a baby shower.”
“Congratulations!”
“Thank you.”
Kehinde is showing, though her bump is hidden underneath the bright flowing fabric of one of their mother’s tie-dye bubus. Her joy is undeniable now.
AS IF ON REQUEST, dazzling sunshine is coupled with a cool breeze on the day of Kehinde and Farouq’s wedding party. The guests are few: Isabella and Toki (seemingly reconciled), Star and a blindingly handsome friend he introduces as Mukhtar, Dr Savage and her nieces, and a handful of Kambirinachi’s friends from the church bookstore. The guests join the twins, their mother, Farouq, and Timi under the tree-dappled late-afternoon sunlight in the backyard to eat and shower the couple with good wishes.
Kehinde is a vision in a pale coral tiered eyelet lace dress that lifts at her belly. Her thick hair muscled into a coronet braid and adorned with tiny Ixora flowers that match her lipstick. Farouq is in a white kaftan embroidered at the edges in gold thread, he is clean-shaven, and beaming with his eyes fixed on his wife.
The smile of sheer delight on Kehinde’s face at the sight of the feast that Taiye and Timi prepared sends a thrill of satisfaction through Taiye.
“Taiye, thank you for making all this food,” Kehinde says to her sister. “For putting this whole thing together.”
Taiye waves Kehinde’s sincerity away.
“Thank you, everyone, for coming,” Kehinde continues. “I haven’t been home in a long time, I didn’t dream that we”—she gestures to Farouq—“would get to celebrate with my sister and our mother.”
No one but Taiye and Kambirinachi hears the subtle strain in “mother,” something like a sarcastic emphasis.
“We’re very grateful,” Farouq adds, resting a gentle hand on the swell of Kehinde’s belly.
“Congratulations!” Kambirinachi cheers, and the guests follow her lead and bless the couple.
“CAN WE BE FRIENDS?” Taiye asks Isabella in a quiet moment away from the celebratory din. She finds Isabella alone in the kitchen, peering into the fridge for something harder than zobo to drink.
Isabella cocks her head to the side and purses her burgundy-stained lips. “What do you mean? Aren’t we already friends?”
Shaking her head, Taiye says, “I mean … not really, we’re not.”
“Oh.”
“I mean, we were fucking not that long ago.”
“Fair.” Isabella shrugs.
“I don’t have a lot of friends,
” Taiye continues, “and I … well, I would like to be friends, for real.”
“Yes, I think we could be ‘friends for real.’”
“Yeah?”
Isabella nods. “And if that fails, I could always introduce you to other potential friends.” She giggles. “It’s funny.”
“What?”
“Just, you and your sister, you really didn’t keep in touch with anyone from home, not even each other.”
“Yeah, I guess it’s kind of fucked.”
“I wouldn’t say fucked, just a bit sad that you thought you couldn’t, maybe. I don’t know your reasons, but it must be lonely.”
“So, you and Toki sorted it out then?” Taiye changes the subject swiftly.
Unfazed, Isabella nods again. “Yes, we have.” The smile she flashes is somewhere between a smirk and a sneer. Smug and sad all at once. “Will you come to my wedding?” she asks.
“If I’m invited, sure.”
“Don’t be daft. Of course you’re invited.”
“And are you happy?”
At this, Isabella roars in laughter, “Oh, girl, you don live abroad too long, abi person fit chop happiness?” Soberly, she sings a different tune than at her engagement party.
“I guess not.” Taiye shrugs. “I still think it’s important.”
“Are you happy?”
“I’m tryi—”
Just then, Timi rushes into the kitchen, exclaiming, “Someone please explain to me how that Mukhtar bloke is so damn fine!”
Isabella laughs. “Star only fucks fine boys with money.” “Star needs to teach me something,” Timi jokes.
LATE IN THE EVENING, all the guests save Isabella, Star, and Mukhtar have left. They are all happily overfed, lounging in the living room. Of the music streaming from Isabella’s phone Timi asks, “Who’s this?”
“It’s Ikon.”
“I love it,” Kehinde says from where she is resting her head on Farouq’s lap.
“What’s that line?” Timi asks.
“‘Some of us have angels, the rest of us have Yoruba,’” Mukhtar replies. At this, all but Farouq burst into laughter. Kehinde explains to him, “Young Yoruba men are … fondly, referred to as Yoruba Demons when they’re seductive fuckboys.”
“Fondly?!” Isabella shrieks.
Star matches her tone. “Seductive fuckboy, I like am!”
“So,” laughing, Kehinde continues, “basically, some of us have angels, the rest of us have demons.”
“I like it.”
Timi turns to Taiye and says, “So, what are you doing here?”
“What you mean?”
“For work?”
“I’m trying to figure that out.”
“Why don’t you start something?”
“Like my own business?”
“Yeah, like catering, or a food truck, or something.” Timi yawns. “You’re really good at it.”
Kehinde
I AM FIFTEEN WEEKS AND FOUR DAYS PREGNANT. My belly is swelling with purpose.
I’ve been accepted to an upcoming residency at a gallery in Newfoundland for next summer. I’ve waited almost two years for this opportunity, but I don’t know if it will happen. My baby will likely be too young for that kind of separation, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to bring her along. I’ll have to call and find out, but I’ve been sketching out some ideas to explore during the residency. I’ve also been trying to settle in and feel out how to be with Taiye and our mother, but God almighty, it’s just all sorts of somehow!
For starters, Taiye just won’t talk to me about her letters. Her friend Timi is in town. He flew in a few weeks ago, just before the wedding party, and he and Taiye cooked all the food. It was with a surprise twinge of jealousy that I watched them work together tirelessly in the kitchen, slicing, chopping, frying, steaming. They whipped up a feast of small chops—delicious finger foods like akara, puff-puff, mosa, asun, chin chin, peppered gizzards, and peppered snails—ofada rice and ayamase, fried plantains, and coleslaw. All laid out buffet-style on a plastic table draped in old white lace, dug up from the depths of our mother’s closet. Alongside the hot food were large platters of sliced pineapples, mangoes, pawpaws, avocados, and sectioned tangerines. And as a centrepiece, a three-tiered honey vanilla cake, frosted in fluffy ivory buttercream and decorated with fondant, which Taiye painstakingly shaped into frangipani and hibiscus flowers.
It all tasted like old memories and good nostalgia. My nausea seemed to have taken a week-long break, because I devoured my way through the party and spent the following days picking away at the leftovers. I’m still feeling pretty ravenous.
Farouq’s presence has been an antidote to some of the tension I feel with my mother, but he is leaving now. We are at the airport at three a.m. because the flight to Casablanca departs at 4:45, and it’s best to allow sufficient time for any potential fuckery, which is highly likely in Lagos. Taiye drove us with Timi in the passenger seat (again with that twinge of jealousy). They are lingering at a crafts kiosk many feet behind us, fallen back after having said their farewells to Farouq. Taiye hugged him tight, and then, with a similar intensity to their first meeting, she said, “It’s been so good to get to know you, Farouq.” Looking at me, she added, “I’m thrilled that you get to be parents. Congratulations.”
Farouq thanked her many times and planted a kiss on her cheek. Now he’s telling me he’s worried about leaving me pregnant while he goes to Tangier.
“It’s too late now, baby,” I joke. But when he frowns, I add, “The plan is the same. I’ll meet you in two weeks.”
“Yeah, okay,” he says with hesitation. “Okay …”
He is much browner than when he arrived, the freckles across his cheeks and nose have darkened and multiplied, and he is a bit fatter on account of Taiye’s cooking.
“So, thoughts on Lagos?” I ask. He should be going through customs now; boarding is in a little over an hour.
“It’s incredible.” He relaxes into a smile. “I didn’t get to see too much of it, though.”
“Next time.”
“I hope so.” He nods. “Your sister is pretty cool.”
“Yeah.”
“And your mum.”
I wave away the words I’m expecting him to say, but he says them anyway. “I really wish you would work through your issues with her.”
I’ve told him about the sense of urgency fluctuating between my chest and my gut that seems to be growing as my baby does.
“Okay, baby boy,” I say to him. “I’ll miss you.”
“I already miss you.”
We kiss the way we do when we know we’ll be apart for some time, a deep and desperate compensation for all the kisses that will be missed until we see each other again. I’m not concerned about the looks of discomfort we get from the sleepy travellers, but I am moved by the little girl in line ahead of Farouq. She looks to be about eight or nine years old, her eyes still crusty from sleep. She is crying loudly, looking at an old woman standing near the line but not in it. The woman is also crying, but silently. And she is trying to smile at the little girl despite the tears glistening on her face. The little girl is saying, “I don’t want to go, I don’t want to go” and shaking her head so that the pink plastic beads in her braids clack and clatter. I feel their sadness slide over my skin and envelop me as I embrace Farouq.
I HAVEN’T BEEN ABLE TO GO BACK TO SLEEP since we drove back from the airport. In Farouq’s absence, my room is too big, and it makes me angry. Too many feelings in one body. I can’t believe I’m only nearly four months pregnant—I feel close to bursting.
It’s almost nine a.m., and the house is silent. Coca-Cola cat is curled up at the foot of my bed, asleep. Everyone in the world is asleep except me. Restlessly, I pull out Taiye’s box of letters, finger through the many leaves of folded paper and envelopes and pull one out at random. It’s a torn-out page with a ragged edge, and it’s not dated.
Letter no. 127
Africville Museum
>
5795 Africville Rd., Halifax
Kehinde,
The Africville Museum is a museum in the shape of a church. It’s a replica of a church that the city of Halifax destroyed in the ’60s. The whole town of Africville was destroyed because white people love destroying things, it’s their favourite thing. I’m kidding! Not really. Maybe. Yes, I’m stoned. I’m sitting in the grass outside the museum looking at the water, the Bedford Basin. The breeze is frigid, but I’m made of stone, so it’s all good.
Let me tell you about Africville: In the 1800s, hundreds of Black folk settled here, and a majority of them owned their land (significant to note). Despite racist fuckery, the community was self-sustaining and thriving. It was poor, and the city refused to offer basic services like clean water and sewage removal. Instead, the city built a dump, a prison, and an infectious disease hospital right by the community. Lovely abi? The city eventually decided to relocate the residents without properly consulting them! Basically, the residents were moved, some forcefully, and their homes destroyed.
The church was the heart of the town; this replica stands to commemorate what happened. This is my second time here. I think it was built in 2012. I came here with Salomé around the time we first started seeing each other. She makes it a point to bring her first-year students, especially Black international students. She brought me here with her kid, Hachim.
Kehinde, I miss her desperately.
I am desperate.
That’s the most accurate word I can think of to convey whatever is chewing me from the inside.
My apparition buddy tells me I’m not as worthless as I think I am. I don’t even know why I fucked Salomé’s TA. I know why I keep doing it, though, and it’s pretty perverse. I’m pretty perverse.
There’s this poem by Nayyirah Waheed that I keep thinking about. It’s something about being in love looking like all the things you’ve lost finding you once more.
I want to be in love again. I want you to forgive me and come back to me and let us speak the same language again. I want Mami to be well and come back to us. I want Timi to remember me and come back to me. I want Salomé to forgive me and come back to me, to hold me again.
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