As soon as Deola stepped into the foyer of Target PR, she liked the vibe and atmosphere. The walls were painted white, grey slate and crimson. There were several pictures by famous contemporary artists on the walls. She was ushered into the smart reception space, where a receptionist in an Ankara dress and a funky up-do in twists smiled at her and asked her if she wanted a cup of tea or a glass of water. Music, a fusion of different African beats, played quietly in the background.
“Water would be great, thanks.” She nodded as the receptionist went off to get a glass of water, and took a seat on one of the oblong sofas in the reception, looking at the artwork and collections showcasing the different work they had done with clients. From where she sat she could see the glass-portioned offices and some of the workers.
When Rotimi had first suggested that she come for a meeting with his friend Femi she hadn’t been too sure, but with some persuasion she realised that it could be a great opportunity. Besides, she wasn’t quite ready to go back to London.
The receptionist returned with the water and Deola was grateful as she let it refresh her. She liked the informal feel of the place – it had a modern beat to it.
The door opened, and a young man came into the reception area. He was casually dressed in a shirt and tan slacks and introduced himself as Tuyi, the art director.
“Hello, Miss Banjoko. The managing director will see you now.”
“Thanks.” She got up and smoothed down her simple black dress. It had a plain white collar and a red belt, and she felt it was formal enough for first impressions and business-like enough for work. She followed Tuyi down the corridor of busy offices until they reached a larger office. He knocked on the door and showed her in.
The room was large and its décor was minimalist. Deola’s first impression was of cream walls, grey sofas in the background, a large black and white mural, and plaques of awards hanging on the wall. A large table and a tall man, who stood up when he saw her with warm smile on his face and offered his hand. “Good morning, Deola.”
She returned his firm handshake. “Hello, Femi.”
The young man hovered around the door uncertainly.
Femi nodded at him and he left, closing the door behind him quietly.
“Please, have a seat.” He gestured to the seat in front of him.
She sat down heavily. “It’s a nice place you’ve got here.”
“Thank you. We built it up from scratch.”
Deola smiled. She liked the fact that he had used the word ‘we’. It showed her he wasn’t going to be one of those autocratic types that claimed all the credit when things went right and absolved himself of blame when things went wrong.
“You know, it’s funny – before the plane, the last time I saw you, you must have been about 15 or something. Rotimi’s 21st birthday.”
Deola shrugged. Back then she had lots of puppy fat, wore the thickest spectacles known to man and had the self-confidence of an ant.
He smiled. “Well, now we have renewed our acquaintance again, tell me – what you think you can contribute to Target PR?”
She took a breath. “Having me on board means I bring my experience with me. I also bring a list of contacts and press hits that highlight my track record in ensuring that my clients get the best service.”
“I need contacts here in Nigeria, though. If you don’t have that, it means you will have to do a lot of work establishing them from the scratch. Tell me why I shouldn’t just get someone who has a track record and a list of Nigerian contacts?”
“I may not have a list of local contacts, but my CV evidences how I set up new leads for several campaigns in a matter of weeks. I have the ability and willingness to work long hours and find new networks, good references, proven time management, good budgeting, communication and planning skills, and a degree and post-graduate diploma in Mass Communications and Marketing.”
Femi held his hands up in surrender. “OK, Adeola. Let’s sign you up on a short-term contract for three months. How does that suit you? I don’t know what your plans are.”
Neither did she. “Three months sounds good. Then I head back to London.”
“So, let’s talk about remuneration. Let’s say we start off with this … ” He scribbled a figure down on a sticky note and slid it across the table to her.
She shook her head. “I’m an expatriate. I will be responsible for my own bed and board throughout my stay here.”
“I understand your situation, but if I was to go above that, it would really eat into my budget. I was just looking for a consultant – I wasn’t particularly looking for an expat. I can’t afford one.”
“I do come with my international contacts and that would generate interest and leads. I’m worth the added expenditure.”
Femi looked at her for some time then took another scrap of paper, hesitated a second and handed it to her. Deola took the paper and had a quick glance. It was better than she imagined. “Thanks. I accept.”
He smiled and got up to shake her hand. “I would like to welcome you to Target PR. I will get HR to send out a letter with the conditions of employment, benefits and everything else.”
“OK then. Let’s meet the rest of our team. Are you doing anything this afternoon?”
“Not particularly.”
“So you can start right away then. I have a meeting with a client from one of our largest commercial banks in about an hour, and I would like you to join us and get some idea of the campaign they want us to run for them. It’s a new bank and they want something fresh enough to capture an already oversaturated market. Would that be OK?”
“Of course.”
Deola watched as he smiled again in a bright and breezy way, stood up and showed her to the door.
Femi smiled to himself as he drove home. He was glad that the conference he had been scheduled to attend in Abuja had been cancelled at the last minute, as it had meant he been able to recruit a new consultant earlier than he had imagined – and what a credit his new addition had turned out to be.
To have someone like Deola on board, along with her experience, was such a boost. He had thought of her occasionally in the past few days since the flight over from London. He hadn’t seen her in almost twenty years and his hazy recollections had been of a very timid girl, with giant glasses and baggy clothes. He had only seen her couple of times – once at Rotimi’s 21st. The next time he had visited his friend’s home, she had left for England.
Well, Abstract Consulting’s loss was Target PR’s gain. He had been impressed by her calm, quiet way of handling his client’s rather grandiose but impractical suggestions for the bank’s PR campaign, and her proposals had totally won them over. Two hours on the team and they had already landed a lucrative contract.
He noticed that professionally she was the opposite of her natural self, which was more laid-back and less expressive. Funny how some people tended to excel at something that was outside their default personality.
Femi turned into his street and drew up outside his house, a three-bedroomed semi in Ikoyi. The neighbours minded their own businesses and the streets were quiet and without drama and trouble. He liked it like that.
He turned off the ignition and walked through the garden into the house. Every day he saw the garden he thought of his late wife. She had loved that garden and spent time cultivating African tulips, begonias, dahlias, hibiscus, African roses, cassia and morning glory. Neither he nor Morenike knew anything about gardening but he had made sure that a gardener came in once a week to keep the garden looking as good as it did when Sola was alive.
Sometimes his daughter would pick a bunch of the flowers and leave them in a vase on the dining table. It brightened up the house and reminded them both of the person they loved so much.
“Nike!” he called as he walked inside, expecting her to come running down the stairs as she always did. He went into the open plan sitting room, but the house was empty. He frowned and looked at his watch.
Nike was in the sixth form at Atlantic College, a private school with international teachers that cost him the earth, but it was worth it because she was going to study Law. That was the great plan and she was committed to doing that. She had always wanted to be a lawyer. It used to be a running joke that he could never win an argument with the women in his life because they could talk their way out of anything.
He guessed that Morenike was probably at her friend’s house, studying. She had been doing a lot of that lately. They went to the same college, were the same age and Ayo had been there for her especially during the period Sola had been sick and in the year leading up to her demise.
He went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. It was well stocked with ingredients as usual. He had a housekeeper who came in a couple of days to clean and keep the larder well stocked. His coping mechanism during his bachelor days at the University of Lagos had helped him look after himself and his young daughter over the past few years.
He brought out the pot of vegetable and fish stew he had cooked and put it on the stove to warm as he turned on the large plasma TV. He had several TVs in the house. His excuse was that he had to keep himself updated on what was happening in the world around him. There was a repeat of a comedy, a football match and a current affairs programme. He stuck with the current affairs and put some rice on to boil while he listened, his mind taking note of various bits of news that he thought might be of use in his work.
By 9.30pm his daughter hadn’t come home. He decided to ring her, but there was no response. He then tried Ayo. The girl was her usual chirpy self, but let slip that she hadn’t seen her friend in the past month. He was puzzled but decided not to say anything. Morenike had told him she had been studying at her friend’s for the past few weeks. She had even spent a night there.
Why had his daughter been lying to him?
It was midnight when Morenike let herself into the house. By this time Femi had called the police, driven to his mother’s house and almost gone crazy with worry. His mother decided to come back home with him and wait.
The door opened and she came in humming some tune to herself. He didn’t recognise it any more than he did the girl that came into the house. Her long hair curled around her bare shoulders and she was wearing a tight-fitting red dress. She carried high black pumps in one hand and her house keys dangled from the other.
Her face fell the minute she saw him and her maternal grandmother sat propped up on the settee looking at her with a stern expression.
“Dad …” She looked from one face to the other. Her grandmother concerned and anxious, her father practically glowing with rage. Femi was certain she had never seen him this angry before. Not even when she had crashed his car. He had forgotten to tell her that he had cancelled his business trip to the East, which is probably why she had decided to go and party. He just stared at her without saying a word, too angry to speak.
“I went to see a friend.”
“Which friend?” The older woman’s eyes were red with weeping. “We didn’t know where you were. You weren’t answering your phone. You could have been kidnapped, raped – in some ditch somewhere. I don’t even know what to say to you!”
“I’m sorry, Dad. Sorry, Gran. I should have called.”
Her father found his voice. “Is this the friend you have been with all the time I thought you were studying with Ayo?”
Morenike fell silent.
“Answer me! If not, I am going to ground you till you are thirty!” her father roared.
“Yes.”
“This friend is a man abi? He just dropped you off. I heard a car just now.”
Morenike was wise enough to know that more lies would make matters worse and clearly decided that partial honesty would be the best policy. “He is a friend of mine. From school.” She couldn’t look at her father. He was pacing the floor like a caged tiger.
“What’s the surname of this fellow?”
She didn’t answer.
“Are you deaf?”
“Where are his parents from?” her grandmother asked.
“Mama, I don’t care where he is from!” Femi said. “That’s not the point. He could be from Mars for all I care. What is he doing with my daughter?”
Her grandmother spoke. “Nike, what has entered into your head? Eh … You know you don’t have time for all this nonsense. You have to focus on your studies.”
“He is just a friend, Gran. Nothing more.”
Femi’s voice was rough. “Did you spend the night with him? That night you said you were with your friend?”
“Dad, it’s not what you think—”
Her father stood up suddenly, the veins in his neck standing out like coiled ropes. “You expect me to accept that you and that boy spent the night together and did nothing? What were you doing? Conducting all night prayer?”
Her grandmother interjected. “Baba Morenike, leave it for now. Let us sleep and discuss this in the morning when our heads are calm and rested.”
“Calm and rested! Mama how can I be calm and rested when some idiot is fooling around with my daughter!”
“I’m sorry I lied to you Dad.”
Femi sighed heavily. “To say that I am disappointed in you is an understatement. Lying, sneaking around and—”
“Dad, let me explain—”
Her grandmother touched her shoulders. “Morenike, I think you had better go to bed. It’s too late to make sense of your behaviour. Goodnight, Femi.” She nodded to him as he slumped back into his chair, deflated and beside himself, with his hand on his head as if he had the biggest migraine of his life.
Femi would seek the boy out and make sure that he never set eyes on his daughter again. He knew people who knew people who could make that a reality. He had never felt like doing anybody physical harm before, but right now he felt like tearing the guy’s heart of his body. His little girl. He had promised Sola he would protect their daughter down to the tiniest hair on her head and he meant it.
He sat in the narrow chair, his tall lanky frame uncomfortable in that cramped position, but he didn’t get up; he was so engrossed in his thoughts and worries. Maybe it was all that time he was spending at work. Maybe that was why Morenike had started this relationship?
By the time he fell asleep he had still not been able to rid himself of an overwhelming sense of guilt.