Being Lara (12 page)

“Mama, can I please speak with you?”

“What is it, child?”

Yomi sat beside her mother. “Oh, Mama, I wanted to speak with you about Henry!”

“Okay…”

“I am so happy, Mama, so very happy—” Yomi bounced up and down on the chair as her mother remained still, the flickering of her eyelids the only sign of life.

“I am so very happy. I love hi—”

“Do not say anything else. Not until you have heard me,” said Mama quietly.

“Mama, what is it?”

“What I am saying is this: you cannot marry Henry.”

The words were like poisoned bullets, expertly aimed at her chest. Yomi could hardly breathe, let alone respond. Instead, she choked back a mouthful of tears as her words managed to tumble out in quick succession. “Mama, I don't understand why, why is this so? What has he done … please, Mama?”

When Mama took her hand, Yomi began to sense the seriousness of the moment.

“Your father will never allow it.”

The tears welled up in Yomi's eyes, and she wanted to scream loud enough for everyone to hear. Loud enough to frighten the bats from their sleep. Loud enough to shake the leaves of the banana tree in the yard.

“Why? Mama? I do not understand this.” She tried not to raise her voice to her mother but it was hard, so very difficult as her heart shattered bit by bit into tiny pieces. This could not be happening to her, she thought. Please, no.

“Listen to me, child. This boy has no prospects. What can he provide for you?”

“Love, Mama, love.”

She almost raised her voice, but a look from Mama put a stop to that.

“Mama, please…” she pleaded quietly.

“Love, ke? What is love? Listen, when I was introduced to your father to marry, I did not know him, but I soon loved him. Do you think if I did not marry him I would be living in a house with iron gates? No. I would be selling pepe on the road like a bush woman and not drinking from cups with Queen Elizabeth's face on the front!”

“Mama, please,” was all Yomi could manage.

“Listen,” she held on to Yomi's shoulders. “You must marry someone who will elevate you to higher than you are now, okay?” She placed her finger under Yomi's chin and slowly pulled it upward. “Are you listening?”

“Y … yes Mama…” Yomi's tear plopped onto Mama's painted red nail, making it shine.

“Will you do as I ask?”

Yomi had never disobeyed her mother in all her life.

“Yes, Mama.”

“Good girl. Now go and clean yourself up and we will hear no more of this Henry Bibimsola.”

“I am loath to deceive your parents like this,” said Henry as he pulled Yomi in closer to him. She'd really no idea what
loath
meant but would look it up in the dictionary later. All she did know was that curled up together on an old mattress in his room, with the dull glow flowing out of the kerosene lamp in the corner, thanks to another power cut in the area, she felt nothing but complete, loved, and protected. And regardless of what her mama or daddy said, she'd never let Henry go, ever.

“But what else can we do? I cannot lose you! I would rather die!” she said.

“Yomi, do not speak like this. We are not part of that wonderful novel
Romeo and Juliet.
This is our life, and we must live it in a way that will not disgrace our families.”

She looked up at his handsome face. There was absolutely nothing they couldn't face together, and as long as she had Henry, they could conquer absolutely anything.

So they continued to meet in secret. Each time Mama sent her and Ola to market, Ola would sometimes go off alone so that Yomi could spend hours with Henry, then the two girls would meet at the corner of Ogunlade Street for the rest of the journey back home later. The deception made her feel guilty, but she could not possibly live without him. Sometimes Henry would wait outside the gate after dark, when everyone was asleep and they'd spend time sitting at the top of the steep hill behind Ogunlade Street, just talking and at times holding on to each other like it was the last time. Every minute spent with Henry felt precious and exciting, especially when they just lay entangled on a mattress with only the sound of a barking dog piercing the comfortable stillness around them. She loved to stroke the tiny tufts of hair that poked out of his chin, his eyes closed in a total state of relaxation, or to trace her tongue over the tiny hole at the top of his ear.

One day, and as usual, Yomi pulled open the aluminum makeshift door that led to Henry's room. Strangely, though, all that welcomed her was the old mattress and piece of paper held down by the old kerosene lamp that had been their eyes on so many occasions.

My Dearest Most Wonderful Yomi,

I have received a good offer to work and study in another town. I will not tell you the name, as I know you will try and find me. Please forgive me, but I have to do this.

For you.

As I write this, I am shattered, I am weary, I am broken.

But I know I will heal one day as will you.

Please know that wherever I am, whatever I am doing, my love for you will never wane.

I will always love you.

Good-bye my Yomi,

Henry.

A wounded yell rose inside her, but not a sound would come out of her mouth. Yomi could only crumple the paper in her hands, her body sliding to the floor like a liquid.

And then finally, a sound. “No,” she said quietly and then with each repetition, a little louder. “No.”

Her chest heaved with sobs, her words full of so much pain.

“No,” she kept on.

“No. No. No. No. No. No. No.”

Until there was absolutely no strength left in her body.

Yomi

1977

T
he steel-gated bungalow on Ogunlade Street had descended into organized chaos.

Seamstresses, distant family members, and neighbors Yomi had once greeted on the way to market were now exercising authority with shouts and orders to “move this” and “move that.” Most were dressed in the allotted green, gold, and purple aso-ebi uniform that united the Ogunlade family and close friends for this special event, while others used the occasion to dress as flamboyantly as possible. The union of two people was something to be joyful about, after all—an event that belonged to the entire street and not just two families.

Mama's newly sewn buba and iro complemented her fresh makeup and the sparkling stiff gele that Ola had tied around her beautifully arranged hair, but it was Yomi who sparkled and radiated the most, at this, finally, her engagement party.

Ola picked up the gold-and-green damask gele and began wrapping it around Yomi's head as she sat rigidly upright on the stool, hoping her true thoughts did not seep through to the surface.

“Why is your face like that of a goat at market?” asked Mama. “This is your engagement,” she continued as the stiff head scarf began to take shape. “Your mouth should be stretched from your left ear to your right.”

“I apologize, Mama. I am well.”

In truth, Yomi did feel like a goat awaiting slaughter as Ola rolled both ends of the gele, gently securing each side of the scarf as it began to take shape on her head. It stood proudly on top as Yomi slipped into a pair of sparkling yellow sandals to finish the colorful ensemble.

“Do I look okay?” she said to no one in particular, distracted. In her mind, there was a glimmer of hope that Henry would return and claim her as his bride, apologize for the note that now lay flat within the pages of the dictionary he'd so lovingly given to her. She imagined him just appearing, whisking her away to anywhere. Perhaps they'd travel to Ibadan where she knew he had family. But the reality was, she'd heard nothing of him in almost two years. The friends he'd shared a home with had long dismissed her as the woman who'd driven him away and refused to tell her where he was; she'd no one to turn to and no place to seek refuge, if only from the hard reality that Henry was gone.

And now the day of her engagement.

Daddy appeared, looking impressive in his freshly sewn outfit of agbada and matching trousers. His fila, a round glittery cap, slid to the side. He was saying something to her, but she wasn't listening. She felt useless, ugly, even though everyone around her kept saying how beautiful she looked and what a good wife she would make.

The rest of the day went by in a hurried blur for Yomi.

The family resembled a multicolored kaleidoscope within the large marquee standing under a soaring sun, showing the world that a happy event was about to occur; yet in the space where Yomi's heart once rested, nothing. Yomi quickly gave in to the out-of-body experience, watching the proceedings of the day as if they were happening to somebody else.

From a small holding room, Yomi could hear the excitement building from the marquee. An aisle in the middle separated the bride's and groom's parties. A large stage faced an assortment of geles competing for space in the air, cascades of jewelry shining above the banter of Yoruba and broken and Queen's English. A live Nigerian Fuji band played in the background. Rented plastic chairs and tables were covered in white cotton damask, and two padded thrones were placed proudly on the stage.

All for her.

The music changed, and this was her cue. Yomi and two other impeccably dressed ladies glided into the marquee, faces covered in veils. The groom-to-be, dressed in material identical to Yomi's, complete with dark sunglasses, approached them carefully before peeling off the veil of the first woman and then the second. When he reached Yomi, he carefully opened her veil as he smiled wildly.

She couldn't help noticing that even dressed in his sparkling attire, he hadn't suddenly changed. Unfortunately, to Yomi, the forehead of her fiancé still resembled a large, yet particularly tasteless, loaf of bread, and his teeth were as yellow as day-old corn.

Yomi took a deep breath and thought that perhaps if she didn't exhale, she could actually and mercifully die on that very spot.

She remembered Daddy removing his glasses, looking more vulnerable than Yomi had ever seen him, and she knew instantly the situation had become desperate. They owed rent on the land owned by Chief Ogunlade. Not enough money was coming in. Her whole family would be homeless, not to mention Ola and various other staff members. What about their families, too? The shame.

What would become of the Komolafes?

Yomi knew what had to be done. And with Henry gone, it would be easy. She'd grown up enough during her time with Henry to know that once again, she was an object of want and desire. It was obvious from the way Chief looked at her and brushed up against her a little longer than was decently necessary. Yomi realized the power was hers. She was the only one who could save her family.

The wedding was held a few hours after the engagement party, where once again, Yomi was referred to as “radiant,” “beautiful,” and “a good wife.” Pictures were taken of her smile, mouth curved in gratitude that someone as rich as Chief would even have considered her to be his fourth wife. Mama and Daddy smiled constantly—perhaps with relief that their spinster daughter had finally been chosen—their happy faces turned toward the flashing light of the camera.

“You will be happy with Chief,” reassured Mama as the guests danced away at the chief's expense. The food was plentiful, the drinks endless, and the take-home gifts for the guests very expensive. As Ola changed Yomi into her third outfit of the night, a checkered caramel-and-black gown finished with a silk frilled hem and diamond sequins, she silently contemplated her wedding night and the rest of her life. She was about to move into a home that wasn't where she'd grown into a girl, read books from England, and fantasized about marrying a man named Henry. She had new responsibilities now. Womanly, adult ones. But yet, at almost twenty-four, Yomi felt a mixture of emotions: the helplessness of a child as well as the bitter hopelessness of an adult.

A
ll the chief's wives lived within a single large compound, with three of them each occupying one of his modest flats while Yomi stayed in the grandest house, which boasted four bedrooms and a private backyard the other wives did not have access to. The chief had sired nine children among his other wives, whom he would often visit at night when, it was obvious to Yomi, the children had to be asleep. Iyabo, his third wife, was a clear favorite of Chief's, with visits often extending until sunrise. Yomi had seen in other polygamous households such an arrangement being a problem, breeding jealousy and resentment. But Chief had her silent blessing, because being at Iyabo's meant Yomi was free to indulge in a classic novel or learn new English words from her dictionary, rather than lying back against her firm pillow as Chief made what he considered “love” to her uninterested, unresponsive body. This was a good arrangement.

“Good evening, Chief,” she said as his large frame sat on the edge of the bed, the smell of Iyabo's strong perfume clinging to his agbada.