A few weeks later, Deola met up with an old friend for lunch. They had been course-mates on the Mass Communications course at university. Ben had been the sensible one. The Special Adviser on Men. Their friend Eni was the dizzy effervescent one, while Deola had been the plump one with glasses.
Ben worked in Lagos but was in London for a family event – his sister was getting married.
“What’s up with you lovebirds? Last time I met you were flying off to Jamaica for a holiday.”
“It’s over, Ben. I called it quits. By text.”
“You are not serious.”
“The fact I broke it off, or that I did it by text?” Deola picked up her glass and considered the contents.
Ben sighed. “Deola, you know what I mean. I thought you guys were like the Obamas or something.”
Deola swallowed hard. “I remember the day after I met him. I got to the office and all the girls were giving me funny looks. Kunle had bought me the biggest basket of flowers and left it at reception. I was totally bowled over. Especially when the flowers kept coming every day of the week until I said I would go out with him. Before the month was out I got to meet his family. I even ended up going to watch football with him.” She shook her head. “That was when I knew I was in love with him. Me? Football? Mba!”
“So what happened?”
“He wanted me to get pregnant before we got married. My body refused to cooperate with the memo. The baby thing created problems between us. Deep down I strongly believe that marriage shouldn’t be predicated on the ability to bear children. It should be for love. I yearn for children, but not at the expense of my own sense of identity. Also, I think his mother will always be his First Lady. I can’t compete. My self-respect kicked in and I walked.”
“I’m so sorry. But don’t worry, my sister. It’s his loss.”
She stirred her coffee and let the aroma drive away the cobwebs of pain still lurking around her brain. “There was nothing left to fight for any more.”
“Plenty fish dey for river, abeg.”
“Ben, you just don’t fall out of love with someone because things don’t work out.” She couldn’t help noticing the couples sitting around them. The way they seemed to eat up every word the other was saying, the intensity in their gazes and how they couldn’t seem to keep their hands off each other.
Ben was speaking, and she drew herself up out of the darkness that so often threatened to immobilise her, and listened.
“You need something to take your mind of all this relationship stuff. Maybe a few months out of the country?”
“I can’t afford to leave my job.”
“I thought you told me your contract was ending next month?”
“But I’ve got some alternatives lined up.”
“Look, you know I graduated in law a few years back. Tried unsuccessfully to get into contract law but the only portals here into the great and learned profession seemed to be the conveyance and immigration routes. I’m not prepared to take up an entry level junior role when if I go back to Nigeria, take some exams and give myself a few years, I could get to the top in the legal field – especially with my first degree in economics.”
Being British, Ben was an expatriate in Lagos. One of those very fortunate people who, because he had foreign qualifications, lived in the GRA, and would be paid in foreign exchange.
Ben had applied for a job with Naija-abroad.com, the transatlantic job website for those Nigerians who were considering or making the trip back to the motherland. There was a Nigerian/Anglo law firm working with some of the big banks and oil firms and it was keen to increase the pool of its lawyers to deal with their lucrative accounts. Ben was shortlisted, and the company paid for him to come for the interview. He beat the other ten candidates to get the job.
He now had a lovely apartment in Lekki, his own car and driver, and a gardener that looked after the garden full of bougainvillea and African orchids. He showed her the photos on his phone. It was true – paradise existed in some parts of Naija.
Deola listened further as he outlined the possibilities for her. “Seriously – you should think of going back home. There are jobs … ”
“That’s not what I hear.”
“Check that website I was talking about. Look, you need to be away from London. Clear your head, take some time out. Eat some Naija food and come back looking even more beautiful and fresh!”
Deola laughed it off. She couldn’t just leave like that. She had a job. She had a mortgage. She had commitments. She had lived alone in London for almost two decades – since her teens – and to go back to Nigeria, where her family would constantly be in her business? It wasn’t an encouraging thought.
Yet she kept the idea at the back of her mind as a back-up, the way you leave a pair of sensible shoes in your car in case your high-heeled pumps get ruined.
A month later, Deola had a wedding coming up. She resolved to go to the West End to get herself something to wear, hoping that maybe some shopping therapy would lift her spirits. It was a sunny day, and she felt her mood lighten as she caught sight of herself in the mirror on the way out of her flat. Her hair was in shoulder-length twists, and her yellow halter-neck top complemented her biscuit coloured slacks. She fished around for her sunglasses in her Ankara bag of many colours that she had picked up in a little shop in Brick Lane.
She was humming Will Smith’s Summertime when she got on the Central line and caught a little of the general cheery air in the carriage. Summer brightened up everybody’s mood. It was the time the British permitted themselves to smile at you on the street instead of complaining about the rain or the cold. It was a time to eat ice cream and sit in a park and let the sun’s rays fool you into thinking you were sunning yourself on a beach in Tuscany.
Deola got out of the Tube at Oxford Circus and headed for a large department store. She felt as if she had entered a fashionista’s paradise. The lighting, the soft music and even the crowds all faded into the background as she made a beeline for the evening and day gowns. Givenchy, Gautier, Beckham, Channel, Farhi … Deola ran her hands over the silky skirt of a Dior cream and gold day dress, sighing softly.
She moved away from the designers and went over to the concessions rack, rummaging for a few minutes until she saw something promising. It was a simple coral dress with a pencil skirt that ended just above the knee. She would add a cream jacket, matching shoes and throw on some costume jewellery – she had a necklace of red and gold flowers that would complete the whole look.
As she composed her outfit in her mind, she heard someone come up behind her. As she moved to let the person pass, Deola realised who it was.
She felt ready to combust. She couldn’t believe this could happen to her – that out of all the big department stores in London, he had to walk into hers.
She took a glance at Kunle, and hated the involuntary tremor that went through her heart at the sight of his serious eyes and the lips that seemed to be twisted with irony.
“How are you?” he asked, as if it was the thing to say.
She looked down at the dress she had in her hand. “Fine. Just doing a bit of shopping. A friend of mine is getting married.”
After she had sent the text breaking up with him, she had begged her friend Eni to go his flat to pick up the rest of her things. Kunle had never tried to win her back or contact her, except to leave one garbled message on her voicemail a few weeks later about how sorry he was that things hadn’t worked out.
There was a long silence, and Deola cleared her throat. “How have you been?”
“Fine, thanks,” he mumbled.
“How is work?”
He shrugged. “Hectic. You know how it is.”
“Yep.” Deola marvelled at how steady her voice sounded. Then out of the corner of her eye she saw a woman approach, and her heart dipped.
She was young – probably in her mid to late twenties. She was fair-skinned and had one of those Brazilian weaves that curled around her shoulders and fell to the tiniest waist Deola had ever seen. She wondered where the woman kept all her organs. OK, the eyelashes had to be fake, but it didn’t detract from the fact that she was undeniably beautiful.
“Babes … ” She glided towards them as fast as her long deep purple evening gown would allow. Cut low in the front, it showed off her slim figure to perfection, sliding over her hips in a cascade of purple and black lace.
Deola caught sight of Kunle’s face as the woman stood in front of him, and accepted one undeniable fact. All that stuff about brains and good behaviour being the most important qualities was absolute hogwash. She felt like slapping him as she realised that she had just been the starter while the main meal was on its way.
The woman’s eyes had narrowed as she looked at Deola. “Hi. Sorry, have we met? I know I still have to meet some of Kunle’s friends.”
He gestured to the younger lady. “Babes … Meet Deola. An old friend of mine. Deola, this is Lola. My fiancée.”
“Really?” Lola responded, giving Deola the once-over from head to toe. Her lips curled dismissively as if she had caught a bad odour, then she clicked her long, painted nails. “That name rings a bell. Aren’t you …?”
“Yes babes. We dated briefly,” Kunle interjected hastily.
Deola’s lips tightened. “I would hardly call five years brief.”
Lola flashed a look at her fiancé. “I wouldn’t either. I had no idea you guys had been together that long.”
Deola caught the look they exchanged. She knew that Lola was cute and would probably meow when stroked, but cross her and you would see her claws. She didn’t want to steal her man. She just wanted to get on with her life.
“We are getting married in a couple of weeks,” Lola said excitedly, lowering her voice as if she was sharing a secret, “so I can still fit into my dress before I swell up like a balloon. There is a Kunle Junior on the way.”
Deola didn’t blink. “Congratulations. That is great news.”
So Mama had got her wish. The heir was sitting comfortably in Lola’s tummy and no doubt the marriage had got the Royal Mum’s seal of approval.
Deola even managed to maintain a bright smile as Lola went into a detailed itinerary of the wedding plans, her dress, and where they were going for a honeymoon – and yes, how the gown she had on was for the evening reception that would be taking place at the Hilton. Kunle had looked at his watch, which she knew he did when he was anxious or wanted to wrap up an uncomfortable discussion. “Come, babes. We don’t want to bore Deola with our wedding plans.”
Lola smiled at her. “Of course. It’s been so nice talking to you. If I was in your shoes, I just wouldn’t know what to do with myself.”
Deola’s lips tightened once more. “Sorry?”
“I mean … your fiancé leaving you for a younger woman. We have been dating since May this year. He was just sorry for you and didn’t know how to tell you that he wanted to break it off.”
Deola stared at Kunle, waiting to hear whether it was true.
May? They were still together in May.
Every word was a further twist to the knife, deepening the wound. The silence deepened as she watched Kunle stare at the floor, rubbing his chin as if he was expecting a genie to appear and deliver him from the scene.
Wordlessly, she put the dress back on its hanger, clattering it loudly against the rail. Having lost the mood for shopping, all she wanted was to get away.
“Deola—” Kunle began feebly.
The younger woman wasn’t budging. “Abi na lie? Is that not what you told me?” Lola said, turning to him. “That she was too old to have children and it was time to move on?”
Deola just turned and walked briskly away before they could see the tears welling up in her eyes.
Heathrow Airport was busy as usual.
“It’s fine. Honestly,” Deola said to her friend.
“I’m really going to miss you.”
She did not want to look at Eni’s face because doing so would betray all the emotions she had buried way below her composed exterior. All that stuff she had stored up was threatening to burst out in a shower of soggy tears – she would end up looking an absolute sight. Apart from some light make-up; her face was relatively bare, but she didn’t want to have to go to the ladies’ to freshen up again before her impending flight.
“Take care of yourself in Naija,” Eni told her.
Deola nodded, shutting out all the bustling activity going on around her. The queues at the check-in desks, the families waiting at arrivals, the departures being announced, people boarding and alighting. There were a couple of energetic children tearing around, and an elderly woman deep in conversation with middle-aged man. She vaguely remembered seeing them when they came in, and now the woman was dabbing at her eyes and shaking her head.
Goodbyes were never easy.
There was a widescreen TV that kept flickering between pieces of bad news – stocks down in Japan, fighting in Palestine, a murder somewhere in Vienna – but all Deola could see was Kunle’s face and words … children, pregnancy, his mother, marriage, shame, all going round and round in her head.
I love you, he had said. I’m crazy about you. I’ve never felt this way about anyone else before.
Her jaw tightened. Yeah, yeah. That was before she had started behaving like a wife – before he had put a ring on it. Before having a child became the carrot dangling on the string. When all she needed was to hear him tell her that he loved her. Unconditionally. Whether she could have children or not. That he loved her first thing in the morning with all her hair standing on end. That he loved her hair natural even with the bits of grey in it. That whether she was a size 8 or 18, whether or not she could cook jollof rice like his mother, he was totally, irretrievably in love with her.
She had obviously been asking for too much. Did such a man exist anywhere but her fantasies?