The kitchen table had become Vanessa’s favourite place to write. The house was silent except for the ticking of an old clock. 3am. Tick tock, tick tock, Vanessa rocked her head from side to side in time with the sound as she stood up to make herself some tea. Yes, she thought to herself, this was what happened to mothers later in life; they became nocturnal creatures. She would always go to bed early with Edward, but then get up at these quiet moments of the night — the perfect time to think. Edward would sometimes join her, but only for a minute or two to remind her that she worked too hard and that she needed to sleep. She promised she wouldn’t be long. He knew she’d stay up, and she knew he knew, but this was their script and there was comfort in sticking to it. Now, as she waited for the water to boil, she thought of Tayo. It would still be daytime in California. What would he be doing? At least he was safe now. She sighed and returned to the table with her mug of rosehip tea.

Everything was laid out: the manuscript, the photographs and Saratu’s letter. Shortly after Father’s death, Edward had suggested that she read her father’s manuscript and consider publishing it. She’d been reluctant to do so at first, given how badly the relationship with her father had deteriorated over the years. For a long period, between Mother’s death and Father going into care, Vanessa had hardly spoken to her father because of his refusal to accept Suleiman as his grandson. She’d thought many times of cutting him out of her life. Instead, she hid her father’s nastiness from Suleiman and visited him in the home as little as possible.

When Father died, she’d wanted to get rid of all of his papers, but Edward had encouraged her to read them first which, after much procrastination, she did. She found, as she’d feared, a manuscript full of racist and patronising comments about Africans, but the manuscript also contained many interesting details of the colonial period and this presented something of a dilemma for Vanessa. While the racism was deplorable, she couldn’t deny that the writings were of some historical significance. The manuscript included detailed notes on what was accomplished in the course of a District Officer’s day and descriptions of journeys made on the Aureol. All that was missing was the perspective of the Nigerians who worked with her Father. In the end she had written to friends in Nigeria, hoping that some of Father’s former employees might still be around to give their stories. At first nobody replied, but then she received the letter from Saratu.

Vanessa smiled as she placed the letter back in a pile. She would have loved to see Saratu again. The photograph was a Polaroid and the colours were faded, but the resemblance was clearly there. Saratu was looking like her mother now. She was round and short with the same beautiful smile as her mother and dressed in the pale blue nurse’s uniform with a wide, navy blue belt and silver buckle. Vanessa remembered the times when she and Saratu had played like sisters, climbing trees, running, jumping or playing at being mothers. How different their lives had now become. Saratu was a competent mother of six and she the somewhat failed mother of one.

She put the photograph down and touched the second photograph of Mother. Then she picked up the picture of Danjuma and held them side-by-side. Danjuma’s photograph was one that Mother had kept in a drawer along with other pictures from Nigeria. Danjuma was posing in a smart shirt and formal trousers. He stood at an angle, looking across his shoulder at the camera. ‘Where did you take this picture?’ Vanessa murmured. ‘Did you send it to Mum? And what is this ‘irresponsibility’ that Saratu speaks of?’

As a child, Vanessa had always believed that the reason she and Mother returned to England before Father was for her education, but last year when she’d broached the topic with Uncle Tony, he’d told another story. Something had happened to upset Mother in her second year in Nigeria, but nobody knew quite what. All Uncle Tony knew was that Father travelled a lot, leaving Mother behind, and he speculated that Father had had an affair. So if Father had had an affair and mother was close to the gardener in a way that had always seemed to rile Father, what if … Vanessa began to scribble what she knew as the facts on her notepad.

 

June ’46 — Mother and Father marry.

March ’47 — I’m born.

June ’47 — Our family sets sail for Nigeria.

Mother excited to go to Nigeria — her first time. Mum’s parents alarmed that she’s leaving with young child but can’t dissuade her. Mum strong-willed (she married man her parents disapprove of).

1948 — Difficult year. Mum and I get malaria. Father thinks it’s a bad idea to keep wife and daughter in Africa. Why? Mum wants to stay. She loves the sunshine, the outdoors, the locals. She makes friends at the market, at the clinic, with the house servants. Not what Father expected. Embarrassed that wife befriends locals, esp. house servants.

1949/1950? — Father tours Mambilla plateau without Mother and I.

Mother’s closest friends: maid (Rose) and gardener (Danjuma).

 

And then it struck Vanessa. What if Danjuma was the man that had told Mother the sticks-and-sandals story? If so, might there have been some personal significance in him being the one to tell her? Were they lovers? Vanessa looked again at the two pictures. She wished she’d asked her mother more about life in Nigeria when she was alive, but she’d always felt too scared to. She was afraid of dredging up memories that would trigger Mother’s depression. But now she wondered if talking about Nigeria might have helped her mother. Father definitely held something against Danjuma, something personal. Vanessa began to put the pieces of stories together. She imagined.

Danjuma, a young man, nineteen or twenty-years-old. Only a few years younger than Mother. Danjuma is strong and muscular and easy-going by nature. He laughs a lot and teaches Mother all that she wants to know about gardening. He offers to take her around the Jos Plateau, to show her the waterfalls and lush forests that she has not seen, and it is on these trips, perhaps, that something starts between them? His youthful spirit and good looks attract her. He finds her beautiful and he likes the way she makes an effort to speak Hausa and to understand his culture and religion. Soon they are doing things in secret. For months they enjoy each other’s company, until Father returns and their secret is discovered. Father refuses to believe that Mother loves a local servant. He wants Danjuma punished, flogged and imprisoned, but perhaps this is when Mother tells Father that if he tries to do this then she will reveal the truth. She will say that she loved Danjuma. And so they compromise. Mother returns to England with young Vanessa, and Father remains in Nigeria. Danjuma is sacked.

Then what? Would Danjuma and Mother have corresponded in secret? She would like to find Danjuma to ask him his side of the story. Vanessa looked at the pictures again and thought of Tayo.

 

‘Mum!’ Someone shook her shoulders. ‘Mum, why are you crying?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Vanessa sobbed.

‘Mum, you’re shaking. What’s wrong? It’s Grandad’s writing, isn’t it?’ Suleiman rested one hand on the table and the other on her shoulder.

‘Yes,’ Vanessa nodded, thankful for this excuse. ‘Can’t you sleep, darling?’ she asked, sliding her hand over his. She looked up at him and smiled.

‘I’d got up to read and I heard you crying.’ He squeezed her shoulder gently. ‘Look Mum, don’t let Grandad’s stuff get to you. You know what I’ve been thinking?’ He let go of her shoulder and walked to the fridge. ‘One day I’ll run a sort of literary agency for African writers.’

Vanessa watched Suleiman pour himself a drink — her grown-up son who was so kind these days. It made her happy to see him excited about ideas and particularly about Africa, which was a passion they now shared. All they had talked about since his return were his business ideas and his desire to promote African art by setting up an arts shop. She and Edward still wanted him to finish university, but Suleiman had inherited some of Salamatou’s stubbornness and his mind was set.

‘Well, if you’re interested in books, you should speak to my friend Tayo.’ Vanessa said, watching the way her son was standing, drumming his fingers against the fridge.

‘You talk a lot about him.’ Suleiman returned with a glass of water. ‘You know, mum, I’ve always wondered what it might be like to have a black father.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It was just something I used to think about, you know. I got so tired of everyone always being surprised that my parents were white. You and dad, you know. So, tell me, were you ever in love with Tayo? Was he in love with you?’

‘You’ll have to ask him.’

‘You’re blushing, Mum.’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘You are now.’

‘Oh Suleiman!’ She reached across the table and tapped him playfully across the head.

‘I’m just teasing, Mum. I know you love Dad and all that, but you’ve always been so passionate about Africa that I reckon you’ve still got some feelings for your African ex. Yeah? That’s what he was wasn’t he, an ex?’ Suleiman winked as he left the room.

‘Oh, did you remember to wash my sweater?’ he asked, popping back.

‘Suleiman!’

‘Just checking Mum, just checking.’