‘Do your parents come to your parties?’ my hawker asked at some point in the afternoon.
‘Yes. My mother usually stays to the end but my father will only drop in for a few minutes before going back to his study. Why?’
He shrugged.
‘I know it’s a bit embarrassing that my parents are coming. Maybe I should uninvite them.’
‘No,’ he said sharply.
‘OK then, they can come.’
I stood up and began to walk round the room.
‘We have a hundred confirmed guests, the DJ is hired, what else have I missed?’
‘Why is it in the afternoon?’
‘Pardon?’
‘I’m just wondering why you’re having a party in the afternoon.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘Nothing, I suppose.’
‘There’s obviously something.’ I nudged his shoulder. ‘Tell me.’
‘It’s just that . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘The last afternoon party I went to was when I was twelve.’
‘You think my party is juvenile?’
‘No,’ he said too quickly. ‘I quite like the idea of an afternoon party. It’s more,’ he stumbled, ‘relaxed.’
‘Stop lying.’
‘And anyway, it’s too late now.’
I sat down beside him.
‘So, theoretically, if the party were two months away, what else would you change?’
He shook his head.
‘Play the game,’ I said, nudging his thigh with my knee.
‘Well—’
This shyness reminded me of the early days.
‘Well, I might have it in your garden.’
That was my original idea!
‘It’s not too late. We’ll put up some fairy lights and move the food and DJ outside.’
He was shaking his head.
‘What?’
‘It wouldn’t be outside.’
‘You said—’
‘In the garden but under a canopy or something.’
‘Why?’
‘Insects.’
Of course. Everything would be the same just we’d push the party forward a few hours and get a big tent. Simple.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Calling my planner.’
‘Don’t do that,’ he said, reaching for my phone.
I swatted his hand and got up.
‘Hello, Nkem. It’s Abikẹ.’
My hawker stretched on the sofa, watching me as I spoke. ‘I’m calling about the party . . . yes, everything’s all right . . . There are some changes I want made . . . Can you rent a marquee and find some fairy lights? . . . In the garden . . . In the evening.’
She broke into a torrent of Igbo.
‘Onye ara.’
‘Nkem?’
‘Anuofia.’
For once she sounded natural.
‘Nkem? . . . No need to apologise . . . Yes, it is short notice . . . I knew I could count on you. Bye.’
We were sitting in the store and there were three bottles of Fanta in front of us.
‘So what are we going to do?’
Of the three of us, Aunty Precious was the most likely to fall by the wayside.
‘Are you thinking of backing out?’
‘I just want to know what we’re going to do now you and Mr T have planned the party.’
We had decided that Abikẹ’s party would be the cover for what I needed to do. The noise and crowd would serve as a distraction. His body might not be discovered till the next day. At which point, Seun would have his gun back and we would be going on with our lives.
‘I still think we should go after the daughter,’ Mr T said.
‘But you had a daughter.’
‘Exactly! An eye for an eye.’
‘What kind of evil man is this? To do that to an innocent girl; your friend.’
‘No one is going after Mr Johnson’s daughter. Aunty Precious, please calm down. Mr T, your loss was not the only one. We are going after Mr Johnson and that is final.’
I took a gulp of Fanta and almost spat it back. The heat had warmed it to a tepid saccharine.
‘The prophet said I would have helpers but you must not slow me down. We must finish the plan today.’
I tried to quell the now familiar wave of irritation that broke out whenever I was with these two. Aunty Precious and her indecision. Mr T with his prophecies and his hunger that sucked in anything edible. Sometimes he was lucid, spotting holes in our plan. Other times he was silent, his eyes roaming the store for food.
‘We have finished.’
I pushed the bottle towards him and left the store.
While my hawker and I were inspecting the marquee, we saw the Igbo tent men and Yoruba gardeners discussing how to string up the fairy lights without damaging any plants. None of them spoke English as a first language. It was painful to watch.
‘Do you want to go? I’m tired of listening to them argue.’
‘Abikẹ.’ It sounded like Nkem calling. Whatever it was, I was sure she could handle it.
‘Let’s go,’ I said, pulling him away.
We’ve only walked in the straight garden. I’ve never taken him through the other side, which I’ve always viewed as especially mine. There is still order – the leaves are swept up and the bushes are occasionally pruned – but there is no pattern. I made sure we stumbled on the statues my father commissioned last year. He would have been pleased to see my hawker’s reaction.
I left the fountain for last. We sat and watched the woman pour water endlessly into a pool that never rose past her ankles. At some point, my hawker took my hand and kissed it gently. We stayed there for thirty minutes, an hour, two hours, I don’t know. However long, it was not enough.
I went to Abby’s house. It’s Abby now, no longer Abikẹ. She insists and will not answer when I forget and call her by the ‘old name’. Abikẹ is still there but more and more, this Abby character creeps up. Now she has named her, I watch out for her and am wary of her comings and goings. Perhaps this Abby is the one destined to become her father one day. By then, Abikẹ will be long gone from my life. It makes the thought easier when I remember there are two.
Abikẹ is blameless. She wonders why men from different tribes would fight. Yet I sense Abby was pleased with the display she caused over her fairy lights. As the bickering escalated, she took my hand and whispered something about leaving.
‘Abikẹ, please can you—’
‘Let’s go,’ Abby said, pulling me away.
The party was in a few days. My new suit hung in the wardrobe. I had tested the gun once. I went into the bush on the fringes of Lagos and fired point-blank at a tree. Something living would have been better but no wild animal would have let me come as close as I will be when I shoot Olumide. The bullet dug deep into the bark and showered a few chips to the ground.
It had been more difficult to find where he would go after he left the party. Abikẹ had mentioned a study. Yet it may not be the same room I saw Olumide coming out of when Wale took me to meet Chief.
‘Make sure he is not at home,’ Mr T had said. ‘Then tell one of his staff that you have a message for him but you don’t know how to find the study.’
When I got to the gate, I greeted both gatemen. ‘Is Oga around?’
‘No.’
I was about to enter when the second gateman stopped me. ‘Mr Man why you want know? No be Abikẹ you come see?’
‘She said we would see her father today if he was around.’
I had become expert at creating quick lies.
‘You dey meet her papa already? You want marry Abikẹ? I don tell you she no good. That kind of girl will be a very difficult wife.’
Another warning to add to my list.
Next, I went to the basement.
‘Aunty Grace, it’s Abikẹ’s friend.’
She came out beaming. ‘How are you? You didn’t come with Abikẹ,’ she said, looking down the corridor hopefully.
‘No. I got lost. I’m actually looking for Mr Johnson’s study. I have a meeting with him at twelve.’
‘How come Abikẹ didn’t show you the place?’
‘She’s not around.’
‘OK. Let me show you.’
On the ground floor, instead of climbing the stairs, we went outside and walked down a gravel path. The two-storey building at the end classed as a study in this part of the world. We entered into a reception that was lined with pictures of Olumide’s offices: Lagos, London, Johannesburg, New York, Amsterdam, even Beijing. As we climbed the stairs, photographs of Olumide and powerful people stared at us. Under each was a small placard: Olumide Johnson and US Ambassador, Olumide Johnson with Lagos State Governor, Olumide Johnson with President of the Federal Republic of Nigeria. I began to hope that the gatemen had been right and Olumide was not home. When Aunty Grace knocked on a door that looked like the entrance to a safe, I stepped back, ready to run. There was no outside handle, only a lock for a giant key. This must be his actual study. She knocked again.
‘It’s like Oga is not around o.’
‘But he told me twelve,’ I said, exhaling and relaxing into my role. I knocked on the door. ‘Mr Johnson.’ I knocked harder banging my knuckles against the unyielding metal.
‘Don’t be upset,’ Aunty Grace said. ‘You know Oga is very busy. Sometimes he has many appointments on the same day.’
I would need a ruse to make Olumide open this door wide without suspicion. It certainly could not be bashed down.
‘Doesn’t he have another office in the house?’
‘Oh yes, he may be in his parlour.’
As we walked back to the house, we spoke a little. ‘Tell your friend to come and visit me. Tell Abikẹ that Aunty Grace is really missing her.’
It was cruel of Abby to neglect this woman.
‘I will tell her. Don’t worry.’
She took me to the same corridor I had met Olumide and knocked on the door he had emerged from. There was no reply. I knocked. Again, there was no outside handle and the door was too strong to be forced.
‘You can come back later,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell Oga that you came. Remind me of your name.’
‘No. Don’t disturb him. I’ll be back later.’
I went to sit in the garden for fifteen minutes then I went upstairs to see Abby. I was still wondering what I could say to make Olumide open his door when the first of his garden sculptures startled me.
A bronze lion poised to spring on an antelope, two wolves fighting and last, a big cat crouched on a branch, watching a lifelike sculpture of a small wooden child. When I saw this one, I lost my footing and fell against a tree. Behind me, I heard Abby smirk. I turned my face, not wanting her to see how shaken the joke had left me.
We continued and passed into an open space. The trees stood back and no flowers blotted the grass. Halfway through this clearing was a fountain. In its centre stood a woman, her marble arms cradling a jug from which water trickled, a diamond streak flashing into the pool around her feet. My head emptied under the sound of water hitting
water
.
Why waste your life?
The thought came unbidden. The fountain had released a longing to see more places like it.
I saw Abikẹ from the corner of my eye. Her head was tilted upwards catching the last rays of the sun, her hands massaged her scalp and there was an assurance to her that I once had. I studied one of those hands under the fading light, tracing the veins that ran under her skin, my face so close that by accident, my lips touched her flesh.
If not for Olumide, I would have a chequebook to shield me from life in this city. I never knew the man who signed those cheques. I dropped her hand and waited for the sun to finish setting.
There was a knock on my door.
‘Yes, come in.’
‘Abikẹ, long time.’
It was Aunty Grace, standing in my doorway like a stranger.
‘Please come in.’
She had not been to my quarters since I was a child.
‘Please sit down.’
She sat on the edge of the sofa.
‘I wanted to tell you that I am going to my village tomorrow.’
‘When are you coming back?’
‘I am not coming back, Abikẹ.’
‘Why not?’
‘I am ready to retire.’
She had been downstairs for as long as I could remember. It had been comforting to know she was there.
‘Please get my bag. It’s on that table.’
She struggled to stand. On her first attempt she fell back on the sofa. ‘Look at me. I’m an old woman.’
As she tried again, I reached for her arm. ‘I’ll get it. Don’t worry.’
There was only twenty thousand in my purse.
‘I’m sorry it’s so small.’
‘No, Abikẹ, I can’t collect that from you. It’s too much.’
‘Please take it.’
I pushed the notes into her tough palms. It was such details that mattered when I turned thirteen. I no longer cared that she had once slept in my room so she would be there when I woke from the recurring nightmare of watching a dog run over by a black car.
‘Why are you crying?’
I’m going to be alone in this house.
‘Don’t worry. You won’t be alone.’
She had always known what I was thinking. That was why I hadn’t wanted to visit her.
She would instantly sense my contempt for her small life and she would be upset.
‘You have your friend that you came with that day. You must be close for you to bake cake for him. You’ve never liked entering kitchen.’
I’m sorry I didn’t come.
‘I know you wanted to come. So don’t cry. See I brought boiled groundnut for us.’
When I was younger, my diet, with a few exceptions, was strictly European. My mother did not want to raise a bush child so I ate potatoes and gravy and roast lamb. Aunty Grace used to say it was wrong for me not to eat Nigerian food. She would sneak me
eba
and pepper soup and
puff–puff,
but my favourite was always the groundnuts boiled in salt water until they were soft.
‘Thank you.’
She stayed in my room for another hour. We cracked the shells and ate the purple nuts inside.
I went to Ogun State today to finalise the rent agreement with our new landlord. We cannot come back to Mile 12 after the party. Abikẹ knows where I live and even if she didn’t, it would be too dangerous to be around in the aftermath. I wonder if she will miss me. My vanity wants her to. I will certainly think of her in Abẹokuta but it would be better if she forgot me. She has the resources to find us, should she wish.
When I got to my apartment block, Ade and his friends were standing by the stairs instead of sitting on their usual bench.
‘Flat levy,’ he said, blowing smoke into my face.
‘Ade, good evening. I have already paid my rent.’
‘Bros, you know we are the ones protecting this whole building. If not for us, armed robbers go already steal everything from this place.’
He seemed convinced that it was his drugged presence that kept our block safe.
‘Ade, please let me pass. I don’t have any money to give you.’
‘You must give us,’ one of his subordinates said. ‘No matter how little, you must give us something before you pass.’
‘Or you can bring your sister as payment.’
I don’t know which one said it. Ade was their leader. I grabbed his collar.
‘You want wound me?’
He hung limp in my grip. For all his bravado, I could feel how weak he was. The three sidekicks stood silent, shocked by this turn of events. Finally one crept backwards and picked a bottle from the ground, clutching it by its neck.
‘Drop our leader.’
I checked there was no one close enough to see us properly. I brought the gun out.
‘Bros no vex,’ the youngest said, dropping to his knees. The other two did the same, raising their hands in supplication. Ade remained standing, refusing to kneel in front of his followers. I pointed the gun at his head.
‘Join your friends.’
When he knelt down, I put the gun back in my pocket and picked up their bench. The wood was flimsy. I slammed it against the ground. It broke easily in two.
‘Don’t let me see any of you in front of this building again.’
Three fled. Ade remained kneeling.
‘Why are you still here?’
‘I live here.’
Of course.
‘Get up,’ I said, slapping him gently on the side of his head. ‘If you know what’s good for you, leave those boys and go back to school. Or else, one day, somebody will shoot you.’
I patted my pocket and went upstairs.