I must have told the houseboy at least a thousand times not to disturb me with telephone calls at mealtimes. And yet here he is, hovering by the table, telling me that someone called Sunshine is on the line.
‘Just take a message,’ I shout. ‘How many times must I remind you not to interrupt me when I’m eating? And especially not when I’m dining with my honourable good friend.’
‘But, sah …’ Solomon stalls.
‘What?’ I snap, glancing in annoyance at the ball of eba still held between my fingers – too cold now to swallow. This wasn’t the first time my houseboy was annoying me today. In the morning he’d been late with breakfast and his fruit salad had tasted of onions, suggesting that he hadn’t properly washed the kitchen knives. What was going on? Had he found another job? The thought of this now disturbs me. As annoying as Solomon can sometimes be, a trustworthy houseboy is hard to come by in Lagos. So I soften my tone and tell him that unless it’s the American president, this Sunshine person can wait. What kind of name is that anyway? Sunshine!
‘Yes sah, I can take a message.’
‘Honestly,’ I sigh, shaking my head as my friend laughs at the sight of Solomon scurrying away. ‘Sometimes you really have to wonder at the intelligence of these people. Now where were we?’ And just as I’m dipping my eba into the sauce, Solomon returns.
‘Excuse me, sah, but the person it’s concerning is Mrs.’
‘Then take a message. For Mrs!’
‘But…’
‘But what?’
‘This one na for Mrs Da Silva. E no be for Madam.’
‘Oh for goodness sake!’ I struggle to release my napkin, wound too tightly around my neck. I keep tugging at it, brushing aside my friend’s attempt to assist me. The last thing I want is for him to notice my fumbling. ‘Just take the phone to the office,’ I shout at Solomon, still battling to untie my napkin while trying to hide the shaking in my right hand. Once in the office, I snatch the handset from the houseboy and order the door closed behind me. What I then hear on the other end of the phone is an American accent from which I can only decipher a few words. I try inserting my hearing aid, but my wretched hand is shaking so violently and the damned thing screeching so loudly, that I have to abandon it and shout for the person to speak up. Finally, after the forever it takes the woman to inform me that Morayo is not in fact dead, my voice returns.
‘Who are you, calling me from America? You can’t even introduce yourself properly before you start telling me that my former wife is lying in hospital. What kind of way is that to begin a conversation? And what kind of name is “Sunshine” anyway? No, listen to me. I’m telling you, never telephone someone without introducing yourself, without explaining things properly, without putting things in context before jumping to “so-and-so had an accident”. Ehn? Are you listening? What you should have said from the beginning was that she was recovering but instead you just said “accident” and “hospital”, so what was I supposed to think? That someone is calling me all the way from America in the middle of the night to tell me that my wife, my ex-wife, is dead? Even now, I don’t even know who you are. Who are you anyway, making me shout? Are you her nurse or what?’
‘Well, Caesar, if you could just let me respond –’
‘Ambassador is my title.’
‘Ambassador, I was only calling to see if you might help. I was wondering if you knew of any of the Nigerian charities that Morayo supports, or might have supported over the years.’
I sit for a moment, stunned that this woman had the audacity to drop the phone on me. How dare she! And how dare she ask me about Morayo’s affairs? Was she trying to swindle me? Was this some sort of fraud? It’s been years since Morayo and I were properly in touch and yet I’d just been thinking of her, as I always do around her birthday. ‘Stupid me,’ I find myself muttering. Why hadn’t I thought to ask the woman for her number? I shouldn’t have been so rude. Just this week I’d googled Morayo to see if there was anything new and then checked to see if her textbook was still in print. I remember how proud she’d been when she first published the book, one year after completing her Masters. I’d been proud of her too, but jealous of the fact that she seemed more alive in her new-found world of academia than in the embassy life that I thought we shared. The fact that I hadn’t encouraged her was my mistake. Except that I didn’t realize my mistake until it was too late. One day, out of nowhere, she announced that she was leaving. I got home from work and there she was, suitcase already packed. ‘Go then!’ I’d shouted more out of consternation than anger. For years I’d blamed her for our separation; whenever people asked why she’d left, I told them she’d had a nervous breakdown just like her mother, brought on by the death of her father. It was easier to blame her than having to examine the ways in which I’d failed her, and especially so when rumours of past affairs began to surface. Some people were even suggesting that the reason Morayo had gone to live in San Francisco was because she’d fallen in love with a woman. If this were so, then there was nothing I could have done to save our marriage. If she was born attracted to women then what difference did it make that I’d been married before, or that I wasn’t able to give her children, or that my job had ceased to be of interest to her. It meant that her initial attraction to me must have been based on something other than love. Perhaps she saw me simply as a means to an end – as a way of living outside of Nigeria and travelling the world. But deep down I always knew that I couldn’t escape blame that easily. Whether or not any of the rumours were true, I knew that there was a time when our love for each other was real. I remember the funny way she had of laughing through her nose. The eyebrows. Mischievous. Sensuous. I remember the warmth in her hands and the cold in her feet. Those feet that used to chase mine under the sheets. More than fifteen years we’d been together, M. and I. And after we parted she never did remarry. I thought she would, but she didn’t. Feeling discomfort beneath my eyelids I squeeze my eyes shut and instinctively pat my shirt pocket looking for eye drops. I tilt my head back ready to moisten, only to be surprised. My eyes were already watering.