Tayo sat at the Hill Station bar, remembering a night early in his marriage when he and Miriam had come here for drinks before going to the Chinese restaurant next door. He remembered sharing hot spring rolls, and each of them claiming to be better than the other with chopsticks when in fact neither of them had managed to bring food to their mouths without it falling off the sticks first. They’d laughed a lot that night, like new lovers, and then went home to make love so passionately that it had given him hope. But that was then. Now Kemi and Miriam had left him for a life in England. Tayo sighed, pushing aside the saucer of groundnuts and shaking his head to the offer of another beer. Music pulsated from speakers half-hidden by fat bottles of Bacardi and Scotch, and the barmen sang along to a tune that Tayo recognised.
‘Who’s this artist?’ Tayo asked.
‘Michael Jackson, sir,’ the barman answered.
Tayo nodded. Yes, it was Kemi’s music, although now that he was a frequent visitor to bars, perhaps it was more accurate to say that 1990’s pop songs had also become his music. He presumed Kemi still listened to Mr. Jackson, but that too might have changed.
Two businessmen sat next to Tayo, sipping their lagers and debating, in hushed tones, the likely pros and cons of starting an import-export business. Tayo guessed they were speaking quietly so that no one could swipe their ideas, but at times their excitement seemed to get the better of them, and Tayo caught snatches of conversation. One believed in importing electric generators on the basis of predicted increased power shortages. This begged the question: how could Nigeria’s Electrical Power Authority possibly get any worse? Already NEPA was off more than on, and hence the joke, ‘Never Expect Power Always.’
‘By 1994, I’m telling you,’ the man exclaimed excitedly, wagging an index finger in front of his friend’s nose, ‘I’m telling you that so many people … In fact, I can even say ninety per cent of Nigerians will be begging for generators.’
The friend seemed unconvinced, arguing instead for the importation of Mercedes Benz spare parts and the export of Nigerian curios and thorn carvings. Tayo smiled sadly to himself at what their conversation suggested about a country in which continuing chaos and greed were taken for granted. Had Father still been alive, he would have been shocked. Father had always thought that the best investments were in land, so much so that Tayo remembered this featuring in their last conversation. They had been touring the family farm, walking slowly because of Father’s weakened state, past the rows of maize, yams and sweet potatoes. Tayo missed his father. Now there was no one older and wiser to look to for advice. But perhaps it was better that Father had not lived to see his country fall apart while the rest of the world emerged from the tyranny and fear of the Cold War.
Of course, there were always a few things Nigerians could feel proud of. Soyinka had won the Nobel Prize, Okri had claimed the Booker, and Father would certainly have enjoyed all the sporting successes. Who could forget that splendid African Cup final of 1980 when the Green Eagles creamed Algeria 3-0? But such glories could not compensate for all that was wrong with the nation, and it wasn’t just Nigeria, but the whole continent that seemed to be suffering.
Tayo looked wearily beyond the bar to the open doors leading to the pool. The sky was a dark backdrop for thunder and menacing claps of lightning. Outside, families were hurriedly gathering their towels and belongings before the first raindrops. Waiters dashed about, collecting abandoned deckchairs before sprinting back through the bar to the main foyer. Some of the guests would be staying at the hotel, but many, a mix of Africans and Europeans, would be locals visiting for the afternoon, the way Tayo used to come with Miriam and Kemi. He watched people running from the rain and spotted a teenage girl whose confident stride reminded him of Kemi. He smiled at her, but she didn’t see him, or else had been taught to be wary of strangers. All day long it had been like this — one event after another, causing him to seriously doubt the wisdom of staying on while his family had left for England. It began in the morning with the broken water pump which the mechanics insisted could not be fixed without spare parts from China. The next headache came when the houseboy announced that he would be returning home to Kafanchan for the burial of a relative. Then, as if this were not enough, Tayo had just wasted precious time with Mr. Peters.
The meeting with Mr. Peters had come about after Simon wrote to Tayo at the beginning of the year. Tayo hadn’t been in touch with Simon since their Oxford days, but Simon had kept abreast of Tayo’s news through the Balliol Record. When Simon was appointed Chairman of a prestigious London foundation, he’d contacted Tayo and Tayo had, in turn, been thrilled to receive the letter with its mention of possible funding for his university. Foundations generally marched to the tune of the World Bank and IMF, arguing that what Africa needed was vocational and not academic education, so Simon’s Foundation offered fresh hope. Contacts were eagerly established and arrangements made for Mr. Peters, Simon’s Africa Director, to visit Nigeria.
In preparation for the meeting, Tayo had put together all the relevant papers and statistics. He’d even turned down an invitation to travel to New York where he was to receive an award for his new book. And this was all for the sake of a meeting which turned out to be a waste of time. Why had the man even bothered to come over when his mind was already made up about any donations the Foundation would make? He’d offered Tayo second-hand books (none of which were requested by the university) as well as old software programmes that were useless without the computers the university desperately needed.
Tayo leaned against the bar, reflecting on the fact that he’d stayed in Nigeria in order to help the university and his students, yet in reality he had provided little help. Last month he’d received a suitcase full of cash from an anonymous source, urging him to stop complaining about government policies. He had refused the bribe, but now the threats were less veiled.
Tayo glanced at his watch, waiting for his students to arrive and wondering what he would tell them. He would have to admit that he’d been misled into believing that the Foundation would support their graduate study. Tayo pushed his seat a little further from the bar for a better look outside and saw that the rain had stopped. Workers were busy wiping the plastic deck chairs dry and covering them again in green slipcovers. With no guests outside, the men sang loudly, clicking their fingers and rolling their shoulders to Bob Marley singing ‘Baby don’t worry, about a ting …’
Tayo swivelled on his stool to look back inside. Behind the bar was a recessed lounge with leather seats and pouffes, a more comfortable area to drink and chat. Tayo noticed two Lebanese men with Nigerian women, many years younger than them. The girls wore mini-skirts and strapless tops, and were, he guessed, probably prostitutes. Why else would they be with overweight, middle-aged men? It was simply a question of economics and the amount of cash that could be extracted. His gaze lingered and then returned to the woman he had noticed first, who sat on her own, drinking a Fanta.
She was white and wore a tie-dye dress and sandals that marked her as either someone who lived in Jos and dressed in the way of the locals, or perhaps a tourist. She was reading when one of the waiters approached her and stood before her with his tray held loosely in one hand behind his back. In the background Marley was now singing about not waiting in vain for love. Tayo smiled at the irony, or perhaps the set-up as the woman looked up. She tucked her hair behind her ear, and Tayo saw that she was younger than he’d initially thought. Young and beautiful, the way he remembered Vanessa.
The waiter hovered, but when the woman returned to her book, he took his cue and left. She wore a wedding band, which made Tayo wonder whether her husband was Nigerian or European. There were not many Anglo-Nigerian couples around these days; most had divorced or left the country. Again, Tayo thought of Vanessa. He drummed his fingers on the cardboard beer mat and nodded to the new beat. It was Fela’s famous Lady, in praise of the African woman’s ability to follow her man, dance and show respect, rather than donning modern independent ways. The beat was catchy and the lyrics provocative. Vintage Fela. Tayo had never taken the words of the song seriously but, today, because he was thinking about women, he gave it more thought.
His own African woman had not always followed him and he had never demanded that Miriam do so. Or had he? Certainly, when they first met, she had been more eager to please him than in later years. Perhaps subconsciously he’d thought that Miriam would strike a perfect balance between the modern and the traditional in a way that had never been guaranteed with Vanessa. But in the end, she had done her own thing anyway. He sighed wearily, wishing he could see Vanessa again, just for old times’ sake. If she came to Jos he would show her all the scenic spots — the reservoir, the market places, the rocky outcrops of Shere Hills and, of course, Jos museum. He imagined that she would enjoy explaining the significance of the art to him and he would marvel at her knowledge. They would eat at The Bight of Benin, hands touching beneath the tablecloth, and they might even stay here in Hill Station’s guest rooms, which always looked charming from the outside — small cottages with wooden beams. Tayo pictured the rooms with large beds, white linen and soft feather pillows. Perhaps the rooms also had plush carpeting, air conditioning and maybe even a fireplace for the cooler harmattan months.
Tayo shook his head as a reprimand to his flight of fantasy. He looked again at the woman and considered going to say hello, but then someone else appeared. The man looked older than her, perhaps in his fifties or sixties. He greeted the bartenders in Hausa and, from the enthusiastic replies, Tayo guessed the man to be a regular and probably wealthy. No doubt a high-ranking military officer in civilian clothes. They were the rich ones these days. He wore white shorts, a blue polo-neck shirt and loafers of a style and quality that looked imported. The couple embraced, she shyly, he less so. He grasped her buttocks and kissed her on the lips. The businessmen had stopped talking and the barman was no longer humming as the couple came to the bar and ordered two beers. Tayo was thinking of how things used to be with Miriam when he felt a tap on his shoulder and jumped.
‘Professor Ajayi.’
‘Hawa,’ he replied, hoping she’d not seen him observing the other couple.
He bought her a drink, apologising for Mr. Peters’ absence.
‘What happened?’ Hawa touched Tayo’s hand lightly, startling him with its suggestion of intimacy. It was a young hand, smooth and cool to the touch.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked softly.
‘I’m fine.’ He placed his other hand on top of hers to pat it gently as best as he could, in a fatherly, professorial way.