Richard had a vision of her, willowy and rebellious, straddling the wall and lightly scraping her bare feet on its rough stonework. He wished he had been her boyfriend then, that he had known her as a young woman, that he had been able to woo her and keep her for ever.
‘I know now that my father was aware of our night escapes. Then it seemed dangerous and forbidden. But he was awake all the time, giving us enough space to learn our lessons, but watching over us in his quiet way. He never told my mother – she would have shrieked and performed. But he was wise and careful and respected our decisions.’
Richard felt a burning urge to reach across and kiss her on her full lips. It felt as if someone was prodding him from behind with a stick, jabbing him in the small of his back and edging him towards her. ‘Where is your father now?’ he asked instead.
‘He died when I was a teenager.’ The simplicity of the statement belied the complexity of the answer. Richard thought to contradict her, to remind her of the story of the executed playwright, but he saw her distress at the disclosure and pressed no further.
Sunday returned with three cold beer bottles clinking together. He put one down in front of Richard with gusto and made a great play of refusing to accept any money as Richard pulled out his wallet. Richard laughed at the man’s antics and took a slow gulp of beer, feeling the bridge of his nose pinch at the cold.
‘Better beer in Nigeria,’ Sunday said, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. ‘One day I will buy you a cold Gulder at the market in Lagos and we will sit in the stinking heat and watch the pretty Yoruba
babis
from the delta walk past with their baskets of prawns and their high dresses and smooth brown legs. Then you will tell me, Mr Richard, that you have never tasted a beer so strong or a meat so juicy.
Sebi?
’
Before Richard could respond, Sunday leant forward conspiratorially towards the middle of the table, addressing Abayomi. ‘I nearly forgot to warn you,
babi
, your friend Igbo the Magnificent is here.
Mista
big grammar, hey? Very special. But,
babi
, he is looking for you, my pretty.’
‘Igbo the Magnificent?’ Richard queried.
‘He is Abayomi’s special friend,’ Sunday answered while she raised her eyebrows dismissively. ‘He will tell you that he studied at the university in Ife.
Nko?
But this is a very important fact. He is very … full of his thoughts.
Chai, ajebota no?
Having studied at the university. In Ife. You see?’
Richard nodded sagely, not following. He was annoyed at the prospect of another addition to their small party. He’d hoped that he and Abayomi could be alone together. But before he could ask anything further, a massive shape pushed a chair between his and Abayomi’s, straddling the seat from behind. The man rested his arms on the shrunken table top like two large sacks. His skin glistened blackly and folded like a blanket at his chin and around his neck. His eyes and mouth moved independently of the rest of his face, like separated animals embedded in a sucking quagmire.
‘What soccer team do you support?’ he asked Richard, his lips making wet slurping noises as he spoke.
‘Well, I don’t really watch soccer much,’ Richard answered, taken aback. ‘But my friends support Liverpool. So I suppose, by default, I support Liverpool. My name is Richard.’ He tried to extend his hand in the cramped space.
‘A British club.’ The man glowered, ignoring the attempted introduction. ‘Have you ever been to Liverpool? Have you ever seen them play?’ He turned away from Richard without waiting for a reply. ‘Bah, the Super Eagles – African Champions in 1980 and’ 94 – and now they cannot even keep the little chicken out of their house.’ The group of men watching the television roared as the Cameroonian striker’s shot was palmed over the bar by the Nigerian goalkeeper.
‘I studied politics and history at the University of Ife,’ the man said, pausing while this information was considered by the table. Sunday sniggered behind his hand, turning away to hide his face. ‘Let me tell you, Nigeria is a metaphor for all of Africa. We are supposedly a single country, with a single political structure, a people who can feel national pride in working towards a shared goal. But we never wished to support a single government, a single country, a single soccer team.’ He gestured towards the television screen. ‘Africa must unite against those who would still see us as slaves. But we cannot accept the shackles that they have placed upon us, and that includes – most importantly of all – the shackles of fictional nationhood.’
The man extracted a packet of monkey nuts while he lectured, cracking the shells with thick fingers and plying the small red nuts into his mouth. A small piece of nut flew from his mouth and landed, obviously, on Richard’s resting hand. ‘National democracy just exacerbates ethnic strife,’ the man continued, undeterred.
Richard brushed the top of his hand clean with a few delicate wipes of a damp serviette. Perturbed by the man’s presence, he looked at Abayomi. She smiled back and nodded her head slightly, as if to say: indulge him.
But the man did not wait for Richard’s approval. ‘If I am the chief in my area,’ he went on, ‘and I control my small patch of land together with those who respect me and are loyal to me, then there is no problem. But now, powers greater than I give to my people, and all the other people, the power to choose someone to be in control of the whole, wide land. You are inviting me to take control of far more than I ever had before. You are asking me to compete. And ethnic competition may take many forms. Look at the violence that has ravaged my so-called country for decades. And why should I compete if I do not desire to win? And if I desire to win why should I only try to win by your foolish, limiting rules? National democracy in a region such as Nigeria is a recipe for disaster. Nationalism is an enigma. Loyalty to a government that isn’t representative of my ethnic group cannot be fostered. How could it be?’
‘But are you then suggesting totalitarian rule?’ Richard asked.
The man leant forward, encouragingly for the first time. ‘No, on the contrary, military rule has displayed no vision whatsoever. It is even more self-fulfilling and ruthless in its maintenance of power. Force does not make the nation coalesce. We want a federal state. But not a federal state of Nigeria – a federal state of Africa.’
While Igbo had been talking, to Richard’s surprise another man had placed a chair next to Abayomi, pushing in between her and Sunday. He had a hard face with yellow-white pustules blistered across the side of his veined neck. He did not say anything, but Richard could not help notice that both Abayomi and Sunday had tensed, pushing their bottles of beer towards the middle of the table.
‘
Arrange yua sef
,’ Richard heard Sunday mutter to himself.
Only Igbo seemed unaware of, or uninterested in, the new arrival, still taken up by his speech. ‘It is only Africa that can pursue our interests, the interests of all who inhabit it. Nation states are a colonial fiction and the sooner we get rid of them the happier all our peoples will be.’
‘The African Nation …’ Abayomi said lightly – slightly mock-ingly, Richard thought. There was a nervousness in her voice as she proceeded: ‘I am Mother Africa. I am what holds you foolish men together. See how you sit before me at this table.’ She took a long drink while Sunday giggled at her side.
The back of the new arrival’s hand connected with the side of Sunday’s mouth, following through in a sweep that sent him sprawling to the floor and his chair clattering upside down. Some of the other patrons glanced across at the scene, then looked away. Richard had instinctively risen, muscles taut for flight. But the new arrival was not interested in him at all, or in Sunday for that matter: he was staring at Abayomi, holding her in a long, cold gaze.
Igbo stopped talking and looked at Sunday’s attacker for a moment. ‘In Nigerian folk culture we tell the story of Moremi of Ile-Ife,’ he continued, speaking evenly as he addressed Richard, as if nothing had happened. ‘The story is that the beautiful Moremi would seduce those men who were threatening her people, using her irresistible womanly charms. In their beds she learnt their plans and secrets. She slipped from their sheets and disclosed their secrets to her people, allowing them to defeat their enemies. As you see, our different cultures inform the manner in which we do our business. Mandla here’ – he gestured towards the man across the table who was still hunched towards Abayomi – ‘comes from your own excuse for a nation. Mandla is tediously non-intellectual. I doubt he went to school at all. Hey, Mandla? But he’s effective in his way, as you see.’
Richard expected Mandla to retaliate physically, but his eyes did not move from Abayomi. Was this a jealous boyfriend, he wondered anxiously. God forbid, a client? The reality of Abayomi’s position started to dawn on him.
Abayomi stared back at Mandla for a short while, before relenting and looking down at the table. Richard could not think of anything to say to break the silence. Sunday clambered back up, kicking the upturned chair away from him. He did not turn back to the table but limped through the cheering crowd watching the soccer, holding his mouth. After a long while, Abayomi looked back up at Mandla’s darkened face. Her eyes were wide and Richard thought he saw a tear gathering.
‘I am sorry,’ she said to Mandla. ‘I am not Mother Africa. I am nothing but a slave. You must forgive my silly ways.’ She paused, before continuing, still looking at him. ‘I will come and see you tomorrow.’
‘Yes, I think so,’ Mandla replied, drawling his words as if drunk. ‘I’ll be waiting for you. Be there at eleven.’ He took Sunday’s beer and tipped the bottle upside down into his opened mouth. The liquid spilt across his cheeks and ran down his neck, wetting the lapels of his shirt.
‘Your new toy does not please me,’ he said, eyes flicking towards Richard like the tongue of a snake.
A
BAYOMI KNELT DOWN
on the wooden floor, close to the wall in the corner of the living room. Her knees hurt as she worked, pushing the edge of the knife into the join between the two strips of skirting board. The wood was soft and rotten. With a twist of the blade, the skirting board loosened, prying away. She turned the knife further and the board dropped onto the floor in front of her. She could see where the rough masonry and plaster ended, leaving a strip of blackness between the floor and the wall. Outside, the early-morning traffic hooted its way along Sea Point Main Road. She pushed her fingers into the crevice, gritting her teeth as a cockroach scampered past her hand. She felt for the bank envelope and pulled out a rolled wad of notes, wrapped in plastic and held in place with a dirty rubber band. Sunday moved from one leg to the other behind her, making the floorboards rise and fall. She carefully repositioned the skirting board, knocking it back into place with firm taps from the back of the knife. Satisfied, she stood up, her knees stiff.
‘Come, let’s go. It is time,’ she said to Sunday. He nodded enthusiastically as she stuffed the envelope into her pocket.
They caught a taxi from Sea Point to the central rank above the station. From there they walked, pushing against the strong southeaster that rolled down the mountain slopes towards them. Sunday kept close to her, like an overprotective bodyguard.
The welcome at court was not a friendly one. Seconds after Abayomi stepped into the courtroom, the prosecutor exploded into shrill protestations. ‘No, no, lady, you can’t come in here!’
The court orderly looked up in alarm. He had been sifting through his plastic lunch box and closed the lid with a tight snap before getting to his feet.
The prosecutor’s voice kept climbing in pitch. ‘No, lady, the magistrate told you: you can’t come back in here. Not after the way you behaved last time! Didn’t you hear him?’ she screeched uncontrollably, as the orderly made his way around the table towards Abayomi.
He confronted her in the aisle between the benches, squaring his shoulders. ‘You must wait outside,’ he said gruffly. Sunday tugged at her dress. She stood firm for a moment, her chest heaving. Then, saying nothing, she turned and stepped out of the room.
She and Sunday sat outside on the bench, watching the procession of dejected-looking women enter and exit the adjacent family court. Abayomi rubbed her fingers over her temples. After a while, the orderly appeared and started barking out names from a list. Abayomi did not know whether to expect her name to be called or not. The names slurred on the man’s lips and she could not make out whether her name had been included in the list. When he had finished he stuck the sheet of paper on the small board outside the door. Abayomi scanned the list: Ifasen’s name was there, but hers was not.
Once the court proceedings had started, she dispatched Sunday every few minutes to find out what was happening inside. Each time he returned with a shake of his head.
Just before ten, he slunk into the courtroom again. He was gone for only a minute before the bench creaked beside her. ‘The screamy lady be saying he will only be called later,’ Sunday said. ‘Maybe at twelve or after.’
‘Oh no, Sunday. Why so late?’ she pleaded. ‘Oh, why so late? I can’t stay, Sunday. I can’t be here.’
‘But she says the bail will be given,’ Sunday added to reassure her. ‘She thinks so, she says. But she be really scaring me so I didn’t ask no more.’ Sunday looked grim.
Abayomi gripped the tops of her knees and rocked backwards and forwards. She stamped her heels on the ground like a child. ‘Go again. Tell them … oh, just go again.’ Now her tears started to well up.
Sunday left her again, this time for over ten minutes. When he returned, he shook his head, prompting a free flow of tears.
‘I will stay,’ Sunday said. ‘I will stay here and I will be here. Give me the money.’
Abayomi looked around the corridor in desperation, but there was nothing to help her. She stood up and walked to the courtroom doors, as if considering entering. Instead she said: ‘I have to go. Oh, my Ifasen, I have to leave you.’ She put her hand out and placed her flat palm against the wood of the door.