Being Lara (25 page)

“Would you like to purchase the plantain?” asked the shopkeeper.

“Yes … two please…” she replied, pleased at his assumption she knew what she was doing but actually unsure of how she'd cook them. She tore off a mini brown paper bag from a hanging string and placed the fruit or vegetables, or whatever they were, inside and moved over to the display of plump, shiny red tomatoes and placed them into another bag. Over at the chicken section, she hesitated, staring at the bunch of parts tossed into a glass cabinet with no explanatory label about where or how they'd begun their life, and she sniggered at how middle class she'd become. She had long ago stopped being “the poor girl from Africa” and become the daughter of an ex–pop star living in Essex. And she was now a successful businesswoman in her own right. She chucked a few other unrecognizable foods into her bag, paid, and found herself outside again.

Armed with her purchases, she explored Brixton a bit more, slightly disappointed at the lack of Nigerianism around her as she stood outside an independent bookshop selling British classics, half expecting a Pearly King and Queen to pop out from around the corner.

“So what are you cooking?” asked Sandi, standing by the stove.

“Dinner,” replied Lara, sarcastically, inside nursing a distinct lack of confidence at how the day had panned out, yet hoping for a better evening sampling Nigerian cooking with the ingredients she'd bought.

“I thought you were bringing a date,” said Lara as she washed her hands under the tap in preparation.

“I've known you for almost twenty years and not once have you cooked for me, and we both know that's because you can't cook. So do you think I'm letting any of my men loose in your dining room before
I've
had a chance to sample the goods?”

“You exaggerate.”

“Luckily I have the pizza takeaway app on my phone,” Sandi said, actually tapping away at the keys.

Lara snatched the phone out of her hand. “It will be nice! I promise! Besides, Tyler's on his way.”

Sandi peered into the fridge. “I've never much bought into the three's a crowd theory, so I'm fine with that. And what are these?”

“Pawpaw. Which will taste great blended with a little mango and banana.” At least according to the Nigerian/English fusion website it would.

“And those?” Sandi pointed to the small round peppers in the transparent compartment.

“They're called Scotch bonnet peppers. I'll be using them for our dinner.”

“I haven't seen those before.”

“They sell them in some Tescos, as I recently found out!”

“Actually it all looks good,” Sandi said suspiciously.

Lara popped on a mix CD of Nigerian musicians featuring a group or singer named Tuface and a gentleman called 9ice, to name but a couple—a perfect cultural backdrop to tonight's special dinner, courtesy of Brixton market.

The rice cooked perfectly, all fluffy and white, with Tyler producing a bottle of cabernet sauvignon from a paper bag.

“You're doing good, baby,” said Tyler deeply as he gently grabbed her aproned waist from behind.

“Thank you,” she replied proudly, as he kissed her neck. Pots on the stove bubbled away gloriously, and the whole flat was filled with a deliciously spicy aroma.

“I could get used to seeing you in an apron, cooking over a hot stove,” said Tyler, blowing on her neck. She'd never attempted to cook for him before, and although this was more an experiment in her “Nigerianism,” she had to admit that she was actually enjoying it. Part of her was keen to prove to Tyler, more than Sandi, that she knew her stuff, so to speak.

“You haven't tasted the food yet, Tyler!”

“It will be great. Now go fetch me a beer, woman!”

“Oi, watch it!” she chastised playfully.

Half an hour later, Lara walked from the kitchen into the dining space, carrying a huge soup dish filled with bubbling stewed chicken, to an imagined fanfare.

“Let me help you with that,” offered Tyler.

“It's okay. Let me do this,” she replied confidently. She opened the lid to release a dynamic fragrance, which filled the air immediately.

Breathing in sharply to steady herself, she said, “I think this is called obe ata, loosely translated as hot peppery soup or something like that.”

“Bravo!” said Tyler, smiling her way. She smiled back, genuinely feeling happy for the first time in days—for the first time since the night of her thirtieth birthday party.

An enormous smile of expectancy showed on her face as Tyler and Sandi, as if in slow motion, brought that first precious mouthful to their lips.

It was now the moment of truth.

“What the…?” spat Sandi before the first chew had ended, followed by a deep coughing session, which at first really frightened Lara. Tyler was more gentlemanly about it, discreet coughs hidden under huge hands.

Sandi, not so gracious. “Water! Water! Water! Nowww!!” Her arms flapped about like she wanted to fly. “Now!”

Lara jumped up, fled to the sink, and splashed water from the tap into the nearest mug, gawping openmouthed as Sandi gulped at the water as if she'd spent the entire weekend in a desert.

“I'm really sorry,” said Lara.

“No worries; just try not to kill me next time, okay? Oh, and you may think about tasting as you cook—you know, like Nigella?”

Lara turned to Tyler, who said, “Don't worry about me. I suppose I'm more used to spicy stuff than most. It was a bit hot though. But don't worry, you'll master it next time.”

Lara carefully brought the sauce to her lips, the smell alone a warning of its above average pepper content. It took a while for the heat to detonate in her poor suspecting mouth, but when it did, it was brutal. The soup was utterly tasteless save for the insane mouth-burning pepper.

What a disaster.

She coughed slightly, determined not to go for any water, but reached for Sandi's glass anyway as Tyler rubbed her back in sympathy—the last thing she wanted at that precise moment.

After ordering a Hawaiian pizza and waving Sandi off, Lara could only stare at the spoiled meal.

“I'll help you clean up,” said Tyler.

“No, it's okay.”

“It won't take a minute.”

“I said leave it!” she shouted.

Tyler's eyes widened. She had never spoken to him in such a way, but she felt too immersed in her own shame to acknowledge what she'd done.

“Lara, it was just a meal. No big deal.” He sat rigidly on the sofa.

“To you maybe. But to me it was everything.” She knew she sounded irrational, but she needed him to know what this meant to her. Then again, how could he? Tyler knew everything about cultural stuff, was confident and clear about who he was. How could he possibly know anything about how she was feeling?

“Come over here,” he said, and she reluctantly sat beside him.

“I know what you're going through,” he said.

“You do,” she replied dryly.

“Look at me. An African American mom, a Danish dad. You think I haven't been through all of this?”

If Tyler was attempting to help her, he'd no idea that in fact he was making her feel worse. He was merely reinforcing to her how useless she was at this. How clueless she was not to know anything about her background, so much so she couldn't even cook a national dish! The more he spoke, the more inadequate she felt. It hadn't taken Tyler thirty years and a surprise visitor to learn about his background; why had
she
never followed through on her childhood curiosity?

“It will take time to get your thoughts in check. I mean, you're just coming to terms with meeting your mom; that's huge!”

“Don't call her that, Tyler.”

Lara was angry, wanting to cry, but only inside. She needed to be alone, just the way she liked it. So when he finally left, it was a relief. Now was the moment when she could fully embrace the disappointment of the night and in fact the whole day. She'd been so desperate to introduce her best friend and boyfriend to a part of her she'd yet to fully discover herself, she hadn't realized how hard it would be. And how much she still had left to learn.

Lara plonked her head on the table, the soft tablecloth smooching her forehead, and thought about how on earth she'd managed to commit a mistake worthy of a trainee chef on a reality TV show. Perhaps she should have tapped the table a bit more beforehand. Anything.

“Laughable,” she said out loud, just before a volcano of emotion erupted into tears that streamed down her cheeks, sinking deep into the fibers of the tablecloth. The tears surprised her. Why did she care so much? Lara didn't do tears unless it was for something big. Cooking a bad meal wasn't big and yet … the tears refused to go away and then, for the first time since her arrival, Lara picked up her phone and dialed Yomi's number.

The little cul-de-sac was alive with the ethos of summer. Distant music, car engines, and barking dogs a predictable backdrop. Lara pulled up outside the neat house with a flower bed of wilting flowers, and after pressing the bell, she waited until the door was opened by a disheveled gum-chewing woman, who wasn't Yomi.

In a thick Nigerian accent, she simply said; “You are welcome, Omolara.”

Inside smelled of mothballs and pepper. The gum-chewing woman pulled aside a beaded curtain from the door of the lounge and Lara followed her inside, where Yomi's mother lay on the sofa, remote control beside her, eyes closed. Lara accidentally knocked her shin on the table leg, and the older woman flickered her eyes open.

“Ouch!” said Lara as a quick shot of pain moved through her.

“You have come, Omolara. Welcome! Thank you for your call,” she said, patting the space beside her. Lara sat down, the pain subsided, and immediately, the older woman began to sob slowly, her chest heaving slightly as she nodded her head. Lara had always felt uncomfortable at the sight of tears but felt worse at seeing an old person cry. But Lara's sadness had an extra component—the fact she was connected to this old woman whose tears were clearly for
her
.

“Are you … all right?” Lara managed, unsure of what to do or say. Should she place her hand on her shoulder? Did she need a drink of water, perhaps?

“Do not worry, child. These are tears of absolute joy. I am happy. At last.” She sighed deeply.

“At last,” she reiterated with a satisfied sigh.

Yomi and her mother were staying with a friend's daughter called Stella. And as Lara sat on a tassel-rimmed armchair, surrounded by chintz and cheap china in a room with not enough light through the window, she couldn't help feeling how
right
it felt to be there, clutching the hand of her maternal grandmother.

Maternal grandmother!
With streaks of gray poking out of a head scarf, smiling with a full set of real teeth, her grandmother was amply bosomed and had a faux stern demeanor.

“I am happy you called us,” she said. Lara pushed away any thoughts of the real reason for the call—information about Nigeria, being able to immerse herself in the culture—as she gazed into the watery eyes of this woman, unable to fight the feeling of being blanketed in a warmth and acceptance. She just hadn't bargained for this, just hadn't expected it.

“Tell me, child, why do you do your lips like this?” she asked, sticking out her bottom lip like an insolent kid. “Just like Kunle!”

“I … do?” replied Lara with a smile.

“Kunle is my boy, your uncle.”

Already, Lara could feel undercurrents of excitement at the prospect of people who existed thousands of miles away and with whom she shared characteristics. People she had never met.

“Omolara,” she began, which strangely didn't offend Lara the way it did when Yomi said it. “I do not know how long I have left on this earth—”

“You mean…?” she began fearfully.
Of course she was dying,
thought Lara.
Of course she was.
That's why she'd wanted to see her granddaughter one last time. It all made sense now. And for that, Lara was glad she'd never known of her existence, because she'd have gotten to know her, maybe accepted her, only to lose her.

She shifted away from the old lady slightly.

“So, are you … you dying?” she asked fearfully, knowing the answer, of course.

“Yes.”

“Oh, right then,” she said with finality.

“Omolara, we are all dying.”

“Sorry?”

“I could live another twenty years and be over one hundred like Mrs. Apampa from my street or I could die in the next minute! Who knows? Such is life.”

“So you're not ill?”

“If I am, I do not know. Which is sometimes the best way. One day Mrs. Odunsi went to buy frying fish from the market and dropped dead outside her house. Just like that! That is a good thing.”

“Oh…”

“Do you know, her husband married within two weeks? That dirty man was always a wayward one. It did not surprise me when he took his ninth wife. Mrs. Odunsi was a hundred and ten, so it was okay that she died. If you look at the story, it is a good thing. At one hundred and ten she was still going to market and she died quickly and is in a better place. This is a good thing.”