Femi was in his office that evening when he got a text from Amber.
Weak proposal. Rude consultant. Not happy. Call me.
He groaned and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to call her. He didn’t want to handle her account. It was one of the reasons why he had got a consultant. He picked up his mobile to call Deola. Strange, he knew she was totally professional in her work as well as being experienced. She had other clients, and everyone seemed to speak of her highly. Just before he dialled, he saw her missed call from earlier that day and realised that she must have been trying to alert him to some issue regarding the appointment with Amber. He must have been in a meeting at the time.
Whatever it was, he couldn’t afford to miss this contract. Bigger agencies floated around big jobs like this all the time looking for their share of the pie, and he could have it handed to him on a plate if he was ready to play the game Amber wanted.
“Hello.”
He sensed Deola’s slight coldness but persisted. “I was in a meeting when you rang. How did it go with Amber Gogo?”
“I thought I put a good presentation together.”
“OK … It’s just, she told me that your figures didn’t add up and the presentation was wooden? Anyway, she wants to see you at 8am next Tuesday with a revised proposal.”
“Seriously?”
“She also said you were a bit rude to her?”
“She was rude and patronising and kept me waiting for almost four hours. Can you imagine – four hours! I mean who does that?”
“Deola, if you are going to work in Nigeria … ”
He heard her sigh heavily on the other end. “This is where you remind me that this isn’t the UK and I need to have a more robust attitude.”
“Deola, I don’t want to patronise you, but—”
“To tell me that I have to put up with unprofessional, sexist, disrespectful and shoddy business practice if I want to work in Nigeria is patronising to all those hard working, ethical professionals who do have good practice. I’ve worked with a few other clients since I’ve been in Lagos … ”
Femi looked at his phone briefly to check the time. He had called his daughter six times in the past couple of hours and she had not responded. He could hear bits of what Deola was saying but it wasn’t registering. He couldn’t believe that his daughter was throwing her life away on this stupid boy. If he got her pregnant—
“ … so I will send you the amended proposal.”
Femi focused back on the conversation. “Sorry, what was that about the proposal?”
Deola sounded a bit puzzled, but said she would brief him in the morning.
“Yes. That will be great. Thanks, Deola.”
He felt oddly guilty at being distracted while talking to her, but Femi was relieved as he ended the conversation and turned off his computer. He was done. Literally. He packed up his work into his briefcase and headed out, bumping into his art director Tuyi, who looked surprised he was leaving so early.
Femi answered his unspoken question. “I’m feeling a little tired. I will see you in the morning. You should go home too.”
He walked out of the building, still feeling ill-at-ease.
Deola was on her way back from a meeting with other clients when she heard the phone ring.
“Hello, my dear. It is your mother calling.”
“Good morning, mum.”
“Is that all you have to say? When are we going to see you? After all, you are here in Nigeria now. We should be seeing you regularly.”
“I’m sorry, Mum. I will try and come over next Sunday.”
“Hmmm. Try? If we don’t see you on Sunday, your father and I will march into your house and bring you here o.”
“Mum, hopefully I’ll see you soon, OK?”
“Hopefully? I will cook your favourite – fried rice, chicken and plantain.”
“OK, Mum.”
The rest of Deola’s weekend was a flurry of activity, cleaning the flat, doing her laundry, going to the hairdressers and working on a proposal to another client.
She was at home working away on her computer on Sunday afternoon while Funmi was in the kitchen on the phone arguing with her boyfriend – a common occurrence. Deola tried to block it out and concentrate on her work – a proposal for an up-and-coming musician who was rapidly rising to the top of the charts. Soji David had been studying to be a doctor before he got the music bug, and his latest song, I No Dey Take Your Love Play, an R&B/Afro-funk fusion, was getting lots of airplay. When she had first started working with him she had no idea what Afro-funk was, but she was warming to it now. Soji reminded her of a younger version of Banky W. He had joked with her a few days ago during a meeting that his parents – who had disowned him for flunking out of medical school and opting to become a singer – were now warming to his music career after he treated them to an all-expenses-paid holiday to Dubai.
Funmi finished her phone call and came into the living room, looking over Deola’s shoulder.
“Fine bobo. They were playing his song at the party I went to last night. Is it true he was studying to be a doctor before going into music?”
“Yep.”
“Abeg he is too young for you.”
“How old is he?”
“Early twenties.”
“Just a few years … ” Funmi fluffed up her Afro. “Don’t mind me. He is a small boy anyway. I’m in love with my own bobo, but the man gets to me sometimes. Can you imagine he was just telling me that when we get married I must not work?”
“Must not what? I hate the sound of those two words put together MUST and NOT. Sounds like my mum or my kindergarten teacher.”
Funmi sat on the edge of her chair and crossed one shapely leg over the other. “Don’t mind him. The guy was supposed to take me to his mother’s 60th. It was a big event. We had even sewn clothes together – but what does he do on the day? He tells me that he doesn’t feel the time is ripe yet. I scream at him, ‘so when do you think the time will be ripe?’ He says when I have his baby.”
“Sounds like my ex. Been there, done that and got the T-shirt.”
“He says he will be a laughing stock if he introduces me to the family without assurances that I am ‘fruitful’.”
“Abeg forget him and look for a man who will love you for you.”
Funmi gave her a pitying glare. “Sometimes I wonder whether you are for real. I don’t know how things are like in Obodo Oyibo, but this is Nigeria. Most of the times it’s a business contract. A womb for the marriage title, financial security and the chance of having a family.”
“Girlfriend, if you are that cynical about the whole thing then why bother?”
“Look, I am not like you—” Funmi stopped. “I didn’t mean it to sound like that.”
Deola shrugged. “I’m a big girl.”
“What I meant is that the idea of being independent like you – living your life, with your own house, car, making your own life decisions – is exciting, and the kind of thing a modern woman should do, but … ”
“But that is what you are doing.”
“Yes, but it is not something I want to do when … ”
“When you are 37 like me. I understand.” Hadn’t she done exactly the same thing? Stayed with a man who had just taken her for granted? And Deola knew that unless a meteor came down and changed the Earth as she knew it, Funmi was going to marry that chauvinistic big-headed boyfriend of hers and spend the rest of her life trying to prove to the world that she was worthy of the title of Mrs.
Funmi sighed. “It is different when you live abroad. Here they will make your life a misery if you live like that. It is acceptable when you are young, but anything past 25 and your mum, your aunts and the old woman that lives next door to you will not stop asking you where your husband is. They just never stop.”
Deola laughed to herself without opening her lips. “It’s just not a Nigerian thing though. That kind of mind-set is prevalent in a lot of cultures.”
“So if you were in was in my shoes, what would you do?”
I’d run. As fast as I could in the opposite direction. I mean, this guy treats you terribly. You have to be at his beck and call 24-7. He doesn’t call or reply to your texts for weeks and then when he breezes back into town, you have to be waiting on him hand and foot. He is holding out marriage to you like a carrot and a stick, making you jump through hoops. He is the prize you will do anything to attain and, like my ex, wants you to get pregnant before he puts a ring on it!
But she said, “It’s your call, Funmi, but—” Deola broke off suddenly as Funmi stood up and doubled over, clutching her abdomen.
“Funmi! Funmi! Are you OK?”
Funmi bit her lip and leaned against the wall. “It’s the cramps again.”
Deola went to hug her. “When are you going to see the doctor about these fibroids?”
Funmi dabbed at the tears of pain that had sprung into her eyes. “I know what the doctor is going to say, and it is not something I can deal with at the moment.”
“No decision is a decision, you know.”
Funmi sighed. “I just need to think about my options.”
OK then, Deola thought, eyeing her friend with concern. No decision.
The next day, Deola knocked on the office door, but then without hesitating, entered and marched over to Femi’s desk.
“Come in,” he said sarcastically.
Deola ignored his tone. “That proposal has been amended almost five times now. It is either the customer does not know what she wants, or she doesn’t want me as the consultant. Maybe she wants you – and I don’t just mean as a consultant.”
He sighed. “She told me you had words.”
Deola sat down heavily in the chair opposite his desk. “I’m really sorry. I know how much this contract means to you, but I don’t think I can work with Ms Gogo.”
“Deola … ”
“She is rude, opinionated, has delusions of grandeur and—”
“Deola … ” He was scribbling something down on a piece of paper.
“In almost 15 years as a practitioner I have never met anyone like—” She stopped. He was smiling and holding up the piece of paper, with the words I AM SORRY written on it.
She sighed, smiling in spite of herself.
“Look, Deola, I totally agree. It’s my fault. I was being a coward. I should never have asked you to take it on. I don’t need her money that badly. Target PR can find other clients that are way less hassle.”
“My thoughts exactly. But … ” Deola folded her arms across her chest. “She wants you. You do know that, don’t you?”
Femi looked worried. “I got some vibes off her the first time we met and I thought I was just imagining things. Then we met at a business function about a year later and I was keen on pitching what we do. She sounded keen and invited me to meet her for lunch to discuss it further. I foolishly accepted, and next minute she is talking about having coffee upstairs in her apartment overlooking the Lagos skyline. I have made it clear to her in unmistakeable terms that I am not interested, but she doesn’t take anyone saying ‘no’ to her easily. Everything is like some business deal she has to win.”
“Yep. That sounds like her exactly.”
“Since that time I just dey run for her. Which probably wasn’t the best thing to do.”
Deola shook her head. “Best to be upfront about these things.”
Femi looked at her for a long time and nodded his head slowly. “Yep. Honesty is always best.”
“I guess it’s not easy having the shoe on the other foot.”
He looked at her. Her face was as straight as a poker.
They both fell silent and then both spoke at the same time and started laughing.
“OK.” He put his hands up. “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander. What a man can do, a woman can do better kind of stuff, abi? I get it now.”
“Well, what can I say? A lot of men don’t know how to handle it when a woman comes on to them. So good on Amber I’d say.”
“I can see your feminist side coming out now.”
“That’s another thing. The minute a woman makes a factual observation about the imbalance between the sexes, she is immediately labelled a feminist – which, I hasten to add, is not the worst thing in the world somebody could call me.”
Femi raised an eyebrow. “I’m on your side as an ardent supporter of women’s rights.”
“As long as they don’t infringe upon yours I suppose?”
Femi smiled and that made her smile, and as she did so she felt the tension building up between them fizzle away.
“Seriously though, it is great having you on board.”
“It’s been great being here – except for the run-in with Ms Gogo.”
“Well, we win some … Anyway, how about dinner on me?” He caught the surprise in her eyes and proceeded briskly. “It’s my way of saying sorry for subjecting you to Amber’s wahala.”
“There is no need—”
“Please, let me at least do that. For my own conscience. We can’t have you Briticos thinking that Naijas are taskmasters.”
“OK then.”
“How about tomorrow?” He stood up from his desk, looking for his laptop.
“Er … I’ve got a meeting with clients.”
He checked his diary on his laptop. “Friday?”
“Friday is fine.” Deola stood and looked at him straight in the eye, which meant craning her neck, because even in her heels he was at least a foot taller than her.
It was just dinner. He was just saying thank you for helping him with his clients. So why did she sound so breathless, and why was part of her looking forward to it like an excited teenager on her first date?
And why was today the first time she had realised that he had such a sexy deep voice?
“That’s brilliant.”
After Deola left his office, Femi continued tapping furiously away on his laptop, but his brain was rushing further ahead than his fingers.
It’s just business.
Really.
It’s just business. It means nothing. I’m just being social. I’m still in love with my late wife.
He dredged deep into his thoughts and tried to imagine Sola – her face, her smile. Her essence. For the first time in years it was hazy and elusive, flickering around his head, refusing to stand still so he could capture it, and it scared him stupid.
He slammed the laptop closed and stood up abruptly. He had to attend a meeting in a few minutes time with some clients from South Africa. This was a project he was looking forward to working on, and he knew he had to give the presentation of his life to clinch it, but he was struggling to remember his pitch. He picked up his presentation notes and ran through them, hurriedly refreshing his memory.
Statistics reveal that the massive under-18 market in South Africa is still full of untapped potential.
This new product aims to capture …
His breathing slowed as his presentation began to take shape in his mind again, and he went out to meet his clients, ignoring the strange feeling from his talk with Deola.
Later that evening, Deola knew something was up when her mother called and told her to make sure she dressed very smartly for dinner the following Sunday.
“It’s Sunday dinner, mum. Is it not just going to be me, you and Dad? Or is Rotimi and family coming?”
“Well, you know our house is open to everyone. We may have other guests present.”
“Which other guests?”
“You know. Maybe people from church who want to meet you. One of your aunts or uncles. Or a family friend?”
There was some muffled talk on the other side as if her mother was having another conversation with someone else at the same time. Then she was back again. “We will see you on Sunday then, at 5pm. Make sure you are not late.”
Deola’s week had been really hectic, so she had put the whole thing out of her mind until Thursday, when her mother rang her again to confirm whether she was coming on Sunday. It was too late to back track now.
“Yes, mum. I’ll be there.” She had a feeling she was going to regret saying yes.