Three

Deola walked down the aisle looking for her seat on the plane. She was happy she’d booked a window seat and hoped she wasn’t going to be squashed, or sat next to noisy children for the next few hours. Across the aisle, she could already see two children kicking the back of the seat of a red-faced, elderly English gentleman who seemed to be in danger of losing his stiff-upper-lipped composure at any moment.

Was not wanting to sit next to boisterous children the same as saying I don’t like them? No. She loved children. Whenever her brother was over in the UK on holiday from Nigeria, she planned days out with her niece and nephew, and she babysat for her friends whenever she could.

Deola found her seat, next to a tall, dark man with glasses. He was by the aisle, and he smiled up at her as she brushed past him to take her seat near the window. She nodded her head and mumbled a greeting. She hoped he wasn’t a talker, because she wasn’t in the mood.

She tried to settle herself and fumbled around with her laptop and tablet. The man was sending a text on his phone. She couldn’t help taking a quick look.

I missed you. Hope you are OK.

Deola wondered whether he actually meant it. Whether he was sending the text to his wife, or whether it was going to his mistress or girlfriend. With Naija men you could never tell. Who cared anyway?

The job had come along just at the right time. It would be a distraction, away from her failed relationship and all the memories of London – and when she came back, she could put it all behind her. For good.

Once they were airborne, she pulled out her iPad and opened up a document she was working on – a report for her new job. Thirty minutes later, she was still working away, but she felt her neighbour’s eyes on her iPad. She glanced up and gave him a pointed look. It usually worked with people on the Underground trying to read her newspaper.

He smiled again. He had rather kind eyes behind the latest designer frames and was casually dressed in a polo shirt, jeans and well-tailored jacket. He was well built, and annoyingly she couldn’t help noticing that although he was probably middle aged, the streak of grey at his temple was curiously appealing. She knew her Nollywood, and this guy reminded her of a slightly younger version of Richard Mofe-Damijo.

The cheek of it. Smiling when he was being such a pest. She ignored him and continued working. Tried it for five minutes and then conceded defeat. She really ought to say something, but instead gave him a glare that said, “Do you mind? I’m trying to work here, mate.”

He looked guilty, as if he read her mind. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help noticing the article you were just reading and it’s something I have a lot of interest in.” His voice was deep and pleasant, the accent Nigerian, clear and well modulated.

Not in the mood.com. I’ve got work to do. I’m not here to make meaningless small talk.

The steward hovered over them, asking what refreshments they wanted. Deola asked for tea. He asked for water. She had just been getting ready to close her eyes and think about a new life, a new adventure, even if it was only for the next few months, but then the man brought out his laptop and opened a presentation:

Public Relations in Nigeria – The Current State of Play

Suddenly she was wide awake.

“You seem very interested in PR,” she said casually.

The man looked at her quizzically, and then his face relaxed into a grin. “You seem very interested in my laptop.”

Touché. It was time for her to look embarrassed.

“OK, let’s do this again,” he said. “Femi Da Silva.”

“Deola.”

“On holiday?”

“Work.” She volunteered nothing after that. Her eyes fell at the man’s intense gaze.

“I’m sorry but your face looks really familiar … ” He paused. “It’s not a chat-up line, honestly.”

Deola looked down the aisle, willing the flight attendant to come back so she could ask if it was possible to change seats. She knew was going to be impossible though, on such a packed flight. Did he think that all women went weak-kneed at the sight of the first guy who looked approachable, fairly decent and financially stable? Besides, he had to be married. He had that kind of ‘settled’ look. She couldn’t change seats. Six hours and she would be rid.

“Really?” Her voice was dry.

“It’s come back to me now. Do you have a brother called Rotimi?”

“Yeah … ”

“You still don’t remember me, do you? I used to come to your house when you were growing up.”

Deola looked at him again and had a hazy recollection of a tall, bespectacled, serious-looking guy that hung around with her elder brother quite a few years back.

“I remember you now. It was such a long time ago.”

He nodded. “Almost twenty years now.”

“Gosh. That makes me feel ancient.”

He laughed. “Great meeting you again. I heard you were living in the UK now. So what brings you to Lagos?”

“A job”.

“Oh.”

“I’m in PR.”

“Which firm is the job with?” He saw a shadow pass over her face and seemed to stop himself. “Sorry, don‘t mind me. It’s none of my business.”

“Abstract Consulting.” It was silly, but there was something about this guy that made her feel she could trust him.

“Wow. The big boys – the veterans of Nigerian public relations.”

“Yes, I’ve heard they are very well known.”

“Well known? They were established just after the civil war, and then they struck it big by acquiring the large accounts after the British had left. Now they have a sizeable chunk of the market, and they’ve diversified into the lucrative property development arena, too.”

Deola narrowed her eyes. He seemed to know a lot about it. “What about you? What do you do?”

“I run a small public relations outfit in Lagos called Target PR. So we are both public relations practitioners. Interesting … ”

Despite herself, Deola was keen to know more about his practice. “Tell me about Target PR.”

“It’s a total brand and marketing communications consultancy. Our services include advertising, PR, media planning and buying, promotions and digital/online stuff.”

“I’ve done a bit of research about good practice in Nigeria.”

Femi shook his head. “I think when you get over to Lagos, you’ll get more of a feel for things on the ground. Nigeria has a massive consumer base, and good PR is something that is needed but it seems to have taken a backseat to advertising. The credit freeze affected marketing budgets of the biggest spenders. Now even those that should know better seem to feel that PR isn’t something that they need.”

“Some companies ignore the public relations function entirely – to their peril.”

He nodded. “What I’ve discovered is that when you do get a client, they think you’ve got this kind of magic wand you can wave over the PR disaster they have created and it will magically just disappear. I mean, the stuff some managing directors come out with you think where was his PR person? Public perception is everything.”

“You’ve given me a really good picture of things. It will help me when I put my first proposal together to my firm.” She yawned.

He seemed to realise that Deola was tired. “Sorry … I had better let you sleep.”

She muttered an apology as she settled back into the seat and squeezed her eyes shut. Nice guy… really pleasant. Just before she dropped off to sleep, she couldn’t help thinking about what a nice smile he had. He has grey in his moustache.

Surely he wasn’t that old, though. She had noticed his muscles and broad chest defined under his polo shirt. Looked like a guy that worked out. She liked that. At least he wasn’t letting himself go like so many of his contemporaries. Some of them could give an eight months pregnant woman a run for her money with the size of their bellies. That was one of her pet peeves – middle-aged men with big bellies. Or to put it bluntly, middle-aged men with big bellies and roving eyeballs, like the one in Cost Savers not too far from where she lived. She hated the way the man’s rheumy eyes followed her backside every time she popped into the shop

And to think she was leaving London to go to Naija, where she was going to see more of this sexist behaviour. Was she some kind of a masochist or what? Ben’s matter-of-fact voice echoed through her head. It will do you good. This is a fantastic chance. It’s just what you need.

 

Femi glanced at the face of the sleeping woman next to him for a couple of seconds, and then focused on his laptop and searched for some documents he needed to prepare for a client presentation the following day. As his eyes skimmed the screen all he could think about was her smooth skin, the colour of warm chocolate, her large appealing eyes and her curvy figure nicely accentuated by her red and yellow patterned Ankara top, which she wore with a pair of cut-off jeans. Her hair was in some kind of curly weave that looked like an Afro – whether it was hers or not he didn’t know – but the Afrocentric look was attractive. Although, the fact that he had actually noticed all that was sobering. What was he doing?

He hadn’t looked at a woman – any woman – since Sola. He didn’t have the interest and none held any appeal, whether they were dressed up to the nines, shoving their derrière and other assets at him, or flashing their fake eyelashes in his direction. He had never been interested. Any attempts at flirtation bored him. Talk of forgetting the past and moving on infuriated him. Yet, to his shame and pain, he had got talking to this uptight Britico and suddenly, after ten long years of self-exile away from the delights of the love and company of a beautiful woman, he had noticed that she was pretty, well-shaped and had lovely eyes.

In fact he had noticed a lot about her.

He felt a bitter taste building up in his throat. He had never been unfaithful to his late wife. He had sworn on her grave, in the presence of the only person left in his life that made worth living – his eight-year-old daughter, Morenike – that he would always carry her memory in his heart. That he would never remarry because he didn’t want his daughter to suffer at the hands of another woman – there could never be another woman that could come close to the wonderful gift with whom he had shared his life for those few precious years.

The stewardess came over and smiled at him politely.

“Can I get you anything, sir?”

My wife. Alive and well. Waiting for me when I get back.

Now sometimes he struggled to remember what it had been like to make love to her, what perfume she liked to wear, what her favourite film was – and it filled him with more guilt. He felt choked, and shook his head wordlessly. The stewardess moved on and repeated the same question to the people on the next aisle.

Femi seldom slept. He lived to work, so he wouldn’t remember. And yet, God knew, his memories were the only things he had left – and even they were like quicksand, evading his grasp, intent on leaving his heart open and sore.

His mind went back to the first day at University of Lagos …

 

“Maan, there is this jambite in Moremi … ”

His friend Rotimi was always talking about women. Their shape, their size, how they spoke, how many he could toast in a night, how many he could sleep with in a week and then tally up the totals of conquests with other Don Juans. It was amazing the guy had the energy to roll out of bed in the morning.

“Rotimi, this woman thing go kill you one day o.”

“You need to see this girl, man. She isn’t like the usual bush chicks that we get every year. This one is special. She is the queen of them all. She is butter personified.”

“Butter personified?”

“For real.”

“Rotimi, I’m worried about you. Abeg make I face library. I get test tomorrow and I no wan fail.”

“You don’t believe me eh ? OK, one day you will see her and remember what I said. Beautiful. She is tall, too. Like a model.”

Femi wasn’t interested. He had a test. He was tall – six foot – lanky and played for the university basketball team. He knew that Rotimi couldn’t understand why he didn’t capitalise on all this to get more dates, but then he wasn’t an only child whose responsibilities had been well drilled into him by his parents. You are not going to university for parties and women. We are relying on you to make us proud. He honoured and respected his parents and his motivation in life was to do just that.

Femi had made his way over to the library and begun waiting in the never-ending queue when this creature walked in and stood ahead of him. His throat went as dry as sand in the sub-Saharan afternoon sun. Of mixed parentage, her skin was milky pale – a shade of smooth tea with a drop of warm milk, her hair so long and straight that it framed her face and fell over her shoulders in waves. Her dark eyes were fringed by long eyelashes and a full, generous mouth.

This must surely be The One.

Her plain pink T-shirt worn with jeans made an arresting sight. She was a little taller than the average girl on campus, probably about five foot seven or eight. Then he realised that this must be the girl that had captivated his roommate. As a young man with desires firing up his brain – something that had led him into a few near misses with the opposite sex in the past – Femi felt an attraction grip him that was almost spiritual. Maybe he might talk to her someday. He scoured around to see if any competitors lurked nearby, and just then, she turned round and looked him full in the face.

He picked his mouth up off the floor and averted his eyes from her long legs calling out to him in those slim, figure-hugging jeans.

“Hi.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

She smiled as if she knew exactly what was going on in that hormone-saturated head of his. “Hi.”

He would never forget the first time she smiled at him. That was when he knew that she had him – his intellect, dreams, motivation and destiny, all in her hands. Forever.

“My name is Femi Da Silva. I’m in year two, Mass Communications.”

She grinned at him and he offered to get her a Fanta, and they struck up a friendship that had endured four long years of university, a miscarriage in their first year of marriage, him losing his job a couple of times, and finally, the illness that claimed her life. Sometimes when it got hard he would let himself remember how he used to rush home every evening just to spend time with her, share her day and talk about their future.

Now it took all his energy to be enthused about anything – which was why realising how the smile of the woman sitting next to him had affected him threatened to throw him into sober reflection for the rest of the journey. The kind of introspection that several cups of neat coffee wouldn’t shift.

 

Deola was arguing with a man who was sitting with a supercilious expression on his face. She lost it, and picked up one of his precious law books, throwing it at his head as he ducked. So she told him exactly what she felt about him and the words kept flowing one after the other in an endless river of pent-up frustration as she picked another book and aimed it at his big head. She kept throwing one tome after the other, and had a great sense of satisfaction as he yelled with pain …

Deola’s eyes flew open. A man was leaning over her. He looked concerned. “Are you OK? Er, you kind of shouted out in your sleep just then.”

She sat up and gasped. “I’m so sorry. I don’t usually do that.” Deola closed her eyes again for a moment in mortification.

“It was nothing. Just an overactive brain playing games.”

Or dealing with unfinished business.

She caught the depth of understanding in Femi’s eyes. He seemed to know that nothing needed to be said. He shifted back into his seat.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve never been able to sleep soundly on planes. My wife used to kid me about that.”

Oh. So he was married. The best ones usually were. Then she recalled what he had said; used to kid me about that. Divorced maybe?

To her surprise, he signalled to the steward and asked him to bring her a glass of water. “Or, what about tea or coffee?”

“Thanks. Just water would be fine.” She stared at him from under her eyelashes. Eh heh? So what does this one want now?

The water arrived and she took a long sip.

“It gets better.”

She turned to him. “What?”

“Maybe I’m wrong, and I should probably mind my own business, but whatever it is, God is in control. Things will turn out for good in the end. For you and er … Kunle?”

Help! She must have shouted his name when she was dreaming. This had gone far enough now. She squeezed her eyes shut again and pretended to doze off.

Five more hours of flying.

Five more hours of trying to pretend to sleep next to a guy who was probably just a friendly soul, and had been kind, but was coming uncomfortably close to breaking through the impenetrable barrier she had constructed around herself over the past few months.

 

Deola found the flight as choppy as her emotions, and she had hardly touched her meal. She wasn’t in the mood to talk any more, and stared out of the window for the last part of the flight, lost in her own thoughts. The man next to her seemed to understand that she wanted her own space and engrossed himself in a film.

It was the captain’s voice announcing that they would be landing in Lagos in about thirty minutes that had made her open her eyes. She’d been pretending to sleep after that embarrassing incident, waking up from the dream where she was having an argument with Kunle, and spent the rest of the journey wondering whether her decision to come to Nigeria was what she needed to put the past behind her or the worst mistake she had ever made in her life.

She hadn’t worked in Nigeria since she was 17 – a holiday job in her father’s office stacking files and running errands. Being Oga’s daughter she had managed to fend off the aging Romeos. They might have dreamed of trying it on with her but they didn’t dare say anything as they valued their jobs. Back then she usually got a ride home with her father. Now, she would hire or buy a small car and learn to navigate her way through Lagos on her own.

Even though the landing was smooth, after touch-down the sense of gratitude and relief on some people’s faces was palpable. Deola got up and was about to stretch to pick up her stuff from the overhead locker, but Femi was too fast for her.

“Thanks.” Kunle had never bothered with things like that when they went on holidays.

“Well, it was nice meeting you and I hope things work out for you in your new job.” Femi picked up his bags and looked down at her.

“I’m so excited about this opportunity. Abstract Consulting is such a big strategic company and it’s just what I need. It should be a real break for me at this point in my career.” She glanced down, bashful at saying so much now. “Well. Goodbye.” She offered a hand, which he took. He shook it briefly.

“I’m sure we will bump into each other soon.”

She nodded.

He probably thinks, ‘You fool. You will be running back to London with your tail behind you in a few weeks. You have no idea of what you are letting yourself in for … ’

 

Deola found herself breathing heavily as she took her first few steps off the plane and back into the world she had left behind, the words she had left unsaid and the family schisms she had escaped. She manoeuvred her way past the other passengers and followed the directions to Arrivals. While waiting for her luggage, she found herself standing next to the man with whom she had shared her trip and her future job situation.

Another person she had hoped she wouldn’t have to face again. He had this disconcerting way of making her open up to him.

“We meet again.”

She nodded, keeping an eagle eye out for her two large suitcases, moving forward when she spotted the first one with her bright red and blue Ankara travel tags, her hand tightening around the handle.

“Allow me,” Femi interjected, effortlessly picking it up and placing it next to her. She nodded her thanks, but when she saw the second suitcase coming, she lurched forward and picked it up herself, almost giving herself a hernia in the process. He smiled, helping to put her cases onto a trolley, and they both walked on with their luggage, making small talk.

As they trudged into the Arrivals area, Deola felt the heat brand itself into her skin as she ran a dry tongue over her lips. Someone called out to her – she hadn’t heard anyone call her by all her names since she was in Secondary school when they called the register.

“Adeola Akanke! Hey!” a voice bellowed. Her lips relaxed into a grin as she saw her parents waiting for her.

“Dad!” she exclaimed as she dipped her knees in a curtsey, still clutching her hand luggage close.

“Deola!” Her mother enveloped her in a hug and gave her a quick look. “What has happened to your hair?”

Deola marvelled. All it took was a few minutes on Nigerian soil and she was back into the mould she had wrenched herself out of years ago. She could still hear her mother chiding, never let your face be on the same level as that of your elders. You dip the knee in respect. Don’t let anyone say I didn’t train you well. These things matter to in-laws you know. Deola must have been ten at the time – fresh from London.

Her father smiled as he took her suitcase. “I can see you are struggling with the heat. People forget how hot this place is when they have been away for so long.”

Deola heard a cough next to her and realised that Femi was behind her. He had a slightly distracted air, and seemed to be scouring the crowds for somebody. Probably looking out for his wife or something.

She realised that her mother suddenly seemed more animated than before, looking at Femi and smiling. “Femi! How are you? I didn’t know you had travelled.”

Femi dipped his head in response. “Good afternoon, ma. I went for a seminar and had some business over in England.” He stepped forward and shook the older man’s hand, bowing his head in respect as he did so. “Good morning, sir. I met Deola on the flight over to Lagos. Haven’t seen her for years!”

Her father smiled politely, but Deola felt like cringing as the smile on her mother’s face broadened.

“Yes, we are so proud of her and all she has achieved, and we are so glad that she is bringing all that experience and expertise back to the motherland. I always knew that she would make us proud from the time she was a little girl. She was—”

“Mum, we can’t keep Femi waiting. I’m sure his family is waiting for him.” Deola knew she had to jump in before her mother said something silly. She saw a shadow pass across her mother’s face but it soon disappeared.

Femi nodded. “I must excuse myself. My daughter is waiting for me at home.”

Your daughter. Deola was surprised to find herself feeling a bit relieved but wondered - what about his wife?

Her mother’s smile was still in place. “Of course. Don’t be a stranger. You must come for dinner some time. You and Rotimi are so busy nowadays.”

I don’t believe it! Deola was gritting her teeth. He was just being friendly. Why is it that every Nigerian mother is a matchmaker? Oh ground, swallow me up now.

Femi turned to shake her hand. “Goodbye Deola. Take care.”

“Goodbye.” Her smile was polite.

“Goodbye o. Femi my son,” her mother chimed. Deola was infuriated that her mother still had a speculative smile on her face as he left.

As they made their way through the crowd, Deola could feel her mother’s eyes on the back of her head and imagined the ideas bubbling in her head.

“This world is such a small space. Imagine you meeting Rotimi’s best friend on your flight back.”

One, two, three … Five. Wow. Five minutes.

“Did you know that your cousin Bisola had another baby earlier this year? A little girl. I have gone to so many weddings this year, and each time people keep asking me about you … ”

“Well, I’m fine.”

“They are asking about your marital status.”

“I thought you said they were asking about me? I am more than my marital status.”

“Deola, you just don’t understand.” Mrs Banjoko looked at her husband for backup but he was walking briskly ahead.

Deola wasn’t having it. “Oh, I understand. I understand perfectly. Well they can mind their own business.”

“What do you want them to say? Everyone is concerned. We thought this lawyer was the one for you and five years later you tell us you have broken up.”

Deola was silent as they made their way to the car. She was now back on Nigerian soil, where in the eyes of your parents and older relatives you would remain the eternal child, needing constant monitoring, guidance and unwarranted advice well into your adult life – so she might as well start to practise tuning out when they started.