A few weeks after her father arrived, Kemi had introduced Tayo to John Harris, Professor of Ethnic Studies at San Francisco State University and grandfather to the children Kemi nannied. Professor Harris was delighted to meet Tayo and eager to get him to the university once he had convalesced. Very soon after, it seemed, Professor Harris was offering Tayo a part-time job in his department. Tayo was surprised and grateful for the offer, but at the same time, he had little desire to interact with people and a teaching job, he felt, would force him to do just that. Moreover, what would he teach? He would have politely declined had it not been for the fact that he knew Kemi needed the money.
So Tayo started teaching and, to his surprise, he enjoyed it—the students, the easy access to materials from the library and the opportunity to work on his own writings. He taught two classes: one on the political history of West Africa and a second on oral histories in Northern Nigeria. A few weeks into the semester, as he was walking from the department to the library, someone tapped him on his shoulder.
‘Professor Ajayi, I do believe!’
‘Yes?’ Tayo turned, expecting to see a student.
‘Ah ah!’ Tayo exclaimed. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘What are you doing here?’ Kwame laughed as they embraced.
Kwame had been teaching at the university for seven years and had only just heard of Tayo’s arrival. The meeting felt like a homecoming to Tayo and from that day on he had a friend with whom he talked about Nigeria as well as his experiences in America. It was with Kwame that he would soon rekindle his love for jazz, occasionally going to Rasselas in the city or to Yoshi’s across the bay. Tayo’s leg soon began to show signs of improvement and then came the news that General Abacha had died, and this gave Tayo some hope.
Tayo stopped minding when Kemi stayed out late at her boyfriend’s and even looked forward to Laurent coming to the apartment, as he did more often these days, to cook them a decent meal. Tayo bought himself a radio, listened to the BBC and NPR, and stopped watching television. He began to take buses to Grace Cathedral and he listened to the boys’ choir on Sundays. He bought music now, feeling better that he was earning some money. And as his leg steadily healed he became more adventurous with his walks. He went to the water every day, sometimes more than once, for the exercise. His route was down Franklin Street to the Wharf, across to Fort Mason and on to the Marina.
As he walked, he liked to look at the houses and imagine who lived in them and where the people came from. Most of those on the stretch of Franklin Street between Lombard and Bay were split into apartments where young people lived. He would see them sometimes jogging or carrying their washing to a laundromat. Sometimes he would smell their food from open windows — eggs, bacon and cinnamon. He presumed that most worked in the computer industry. He would see them in shops with their cell phones, beepers and laptops.
There were not many children in this part of town, but a few elderly people would venture out from time to time, accompanying or accompanied by their funny-looking dogs. He sometimes walked back along Bay through Fort Mason, where the houses looked quintessentially American — pretty little box-shaped homes with white picket fences. Military personnel owned these, or so he thought, but never knew for sure. Then there was the Safeway supermarket and the long stretch of stunning houses that stood behind the Marina. Occasionally he would see fancy cars parked in the driveways and bright lights glowing in some of the rooms, where curtains were never closed. But many of these mansions looked uninhabited, like holiday homes for the rich.
By the water’s edge, Tayo watched the boats and the fishermen. It was where ordinary people, even the poor, mingled with tourists and the neighbourhood locals. Tayo always paused to watch the fishermen. Some would be squatting and fixing bait to their lines, others would be standing about casting their rods, while others sat, waiting patiently for a bite. Sometimes they caught big fish but mostly just little ones. Tayo chatted to the fishermen and surprised them with his smattering of Cantonese that he still remembered from a past visit to Shanghai. He practiced the language with them, gradually adding a few more words to his lexicon. Back in Kemi’s apartment, Tayo began to cook. He prepared rice and a rudimentary tomato and onion stew. He discovered, to his surprise, and with Laurent’s encouragement, that he was not a bad cook.
Time went by more quickly now that he was due to return to his home country. Obasanjo was back in power and Tayo looked forward to participating in a new Nigeria. He was in touch again with Vanessa and had even taken the time to track down other old friends. Bolaji had been appointed Professor of International Law at Nottingham; Francis had acquired an American accent and citizenship, and was working for the State Department in Washington D.C.; and cousin Tunde was the pastor of the fastest-growing Nigerian church in London. Yusuf was still in Jos and had started, of all things, several Christian television stations. Tayo supposed that Yusuf had converted to Christianity, but it might simply have been one more opportunistic ‘Yusufian’ move. When Tayo went on his walks he held imaginary conversations with these friends. He usually walked for an hour, or longer if his musings needed more time, as was always the case when he thought of Vanessa.
There were many tourists that walked the path behind the fishermen: young, old, black and white. America was a melting pot of people from all over the world and yet Tayo had often sensed some unease around this diversity in his classroom. The question of race was something he’d discussed on many occasions with Kwame.
‘Why do you think I left this country to go to Nigeria in the first place?’ Kwame had laughed when Tayo first broached the topic. ‘Look Tayo, if you live in America long enough, you’ll see that there is no way of avoiding race. Race is a part of the fabric of this nation. You’re either black or you’re white, and this affects every aspect of your life. That’s why so many of us left in the 70s.’
‘But it strikes me that it’s not as simple as black and white,’ Tayo mused. ‘I see race playing out in my classroom between blacks, whites and Latinos. And some of the worst tension I find is between Africans and African Americans.’
Kwame laughed. ‘That’s because most West African brothers and sisters don’t understand or appreciate our history.’
‘And the same could be said for African Americans.’ Tayo added.
‘Yes, you’re right, of course,’ Kwame nodded, ‘the misunderstanding is mutual and easily exploited by whites. How many times have you and your daughter been told by white people how wonderful you are, and how different you are to African Americans? I think you should discuss this in your class. See what the students have to say. Hold a debate.’
So Tayo did. He chose a topic that he hoped would make his students think more carefully about Africa’s history, as well as America’s history. In the style of debate that he’d grown to love at Oxford, he chose a quotation and asked his students to use it as the basis for their arguments. The quote, which he considered suitably provocative and sure to elicit some good debate, came from Trevor-Roper:
‘Perhaps in the future there will be some African history to teach. But at present there is none, or very little: there is only the history of Europe in Africa. The rest is largely darkness, like the history of pre-Columbian America, and darkness is not a subject for history.’
As expected, the statement provoked reaction from the students, but not quite in the way Tayo had expected. Firstly, none of his white students wanted to take a position in favour of the motion, so that was the first hurdle. Tayo found himself having to make it clear to his students that arguing a position was not the same as agreeing with it, but this was easier said than done. White students for the motion kept apologising, and the one African student in the class became offended when an African American spoke convincingly in favour of the motion. At one point, there was almost a fist fight. Tayo would not repeat the exercise.
A ship’s foghorn broke Tayo’s thoughts as he made his way back to Kemi’s apartment. It cried its long lonesome call, warning others of poor visibility in the Bay and reminding Tayo of the Aureol and crossing the Irish Sea. A bird hopped close to where Tayo walked. It only had one leg. Were there many one-legged pigeons by San Francisco’s bay, or did he just keep seeing the same one over and over again? It was injured, but still able to fly. ‘Like me,’ Tayo thought. Injured, yet pulling things together, and metaphorically, if not literally, flying again.
Back at the apartment, Tayo found a Federal Express package waiting by the door. He put it to one side, thinking it was for Kemi, but when she returned home she gave it to him.
‘From the Nigerian Embassy,’ Tayo noted, cautiously turning the package this way and that. He thought of Dele Giwa and had the package been any heavier, he wouldn’t have opened it. Still, as a precaution, he went to a different room from his daughter and opened it at arm’s length. A diplomatic pouch fell out onto the floor. Tayo picked it up and found a letter inside. ‘A letter from the President,’ he murmured, reading the note. Kemi had now joined him.
‘It says you’ve been awarded an honorary degree from Oxford,’ Kemi read over his shoulder.
‘Well this can’t be true? Can it?’ Tayo said. ‘I’ve heard nothing from Oxford.’
‘Probably because they sent the letter to Nigeria,’ Kemi offered. ‘Daddy, this is fantastic! Look, it’s congratulating you on a lifetime’s achievement!’
‘I can hardly believe it. Do you think this is really true? They give these sorts of things to famous people with Nobel Laureates, or OBEs and MBEs, not to ordinary people like me.’
‘Well now it’s you, Daddy! We’ll call Oxford later tonight, first thing UK time.’
‘Well,’ Tayo smiled, in spite of himself. If this really was true then there was someone he would have to call first. ‘I must call Vanessa,’ he said, thinking aloud before he had time to check himself.
Kemi smiled and Tayo tried to recall how much he’d told her about Vanessa. With all the excitement, he couldn’t remember. Perhaps it didn’t matter.