By spending time with Ada, whether dropping Zeal off at his summer kindergarten, eating pepper soup at O’jez, watching a movie at the cinema or going swimming at Ikoyi club, Abel was beginning to see a completely different side of Lagos. While it could be a city with a huge appetite for human flesh, it was also a seductive mistress with a tender touch.
True, the city had, like the hungry sea that bathed its haunches, opened its mouth wide and swallowed his brother whole, yet it was providing Abel with pleasures hitherto unexperienced, and it didn’t hurt that he had a beautiful, intelligent woman for company.
On the days when he didn’t go out to meet someone or see Edgar Ofio, the investigating police officer in charge of his brother’s case, he would go to Ikoyi club with Ada. She loved to swim and even though there was a pool at the house she said she preferred to swim in the public pool.
‘At least if you start drowning someone can help you,’ she told him with a laugh. ‘It’s boring swimming alone.’
Abel could swim. He wasn’t perfect but he had learnt, alongside his brother, from spending time at the village stream in his maternal homestead. That morning they had changed into their swimwear and were taking turns to stand under the tap before getting in the pool.
Ada had on a stunning one-piece swimsuit that accentuated her curves and hugged her bosom. Standing there, watching the water course all over her, Abel felt himself stir in an embarrassing way. He turned away quickly and placed his palm over his crotch.
They swam for a while and then he dried himself, pulled on a T-shirt, and left her at the pool to go and read the papers in the library. There, he came upon a story about a kidnap gang smashed by the police in Asaba. He was always tickled by the words journalists employed in such situations:
Robbery gang routed
Kidnap syndicate smashed
Robbery kingpin nabbed
You could almost predict the exact term, as if they had a bag of words they dipped into for certain reports.
The story about the four-man kidnap gang in Asaba made him think about home, or what used to be his home just one month ago. School would reopen in six weeks and he was glad he had finished marking his papers before he travelled. When he was leaving Asaba he had felt he would be gone for a couple of days at most, but a month and a few days later he was in Lagos living a completely new life.
There were luxury cars, a mansion, nice clothes, comfortable shoes, good food, a bar full of good wine and spirits – a life he couldn’t have imagined two months back.
His brother was still missing, he knew, and even though he realised that hopes of ever finding his brother were growing dimmer with each passing day, he did not want to stop looking, aware that that was what was required of him. It was his duty as first son and older brother.
Steeling himself, Abel finally called their sister, Oby, and told her the bad news. While she sniffled and cried, he warned her not to tell their mother or relatives. He’d ensured that his mother’s allowance was sent promptly, and when she’d called to ask after Soni, Ada told her that he was on a long trip to China.
Abel didn’t know how long they could keep up the charade, but he knew that time always found a way to resolve even the thorniest issues.
He was duty-bound to do what was required of him as the first son and older sibling. He would search for his brother until it was clear that the search could no longer go on, and only then would he rest. When that time would come, however, he could not tell, and he did not know what he would do when the time came to go back to school.
Many nights as he lay in the downy bed, his head propped up by the softest pillows he had ever touched, Abel would wonder whether he could tear himself away from all this and return to his dump in Asaba. Could he go back to the drab, spartan life he used to live, away from the comfort of his brother’s mansion, the times spent dining in nice restaurants and swimming at the club, his pocket bulging with money?
If he decided to quit his job, there was no fear of going broke, at least not in the foreseeable future. His brother had over eight hundred million naira in cash in six different banks. He had five houses in Lagos aside from the one he lived in and Ada told him there was an apartment in Essex and two in Florida.
‘You know your brother can’t stand the cold, so he had to buy a house in Florida, where the sun is always out.’
Abel’s well-ordered but frugal life had suddenly been turned round. He was living the good life but existing in a state of flux. Was he now a Lagos Big Boy? Or a mere teacher on vacation?
These questions intruded upon him in his quiet moments. He always pushed them aside, but that morning, sitting in the small library at Ikoyi Club, Abel knew his future depended, in large part, on his ability to forget. Therein lay his dilemma: how to forget by not remembering.
How to sleep in a man’s bed, how to get warm at the sight of his wife, how to wear his clothes, drink his wine, play with his son, spend his money and not remember that he was still missing.
The thought insisted upon an answer and left his eyes brimming with tears.
—
By the time Abel woke, the sun was up and there were strong rays streaming into his bed. He covered his face with a pillow to keep out the glare but he could still feel it hot against his skin. They hadn’t got in until well past 6am, because they’d had to drop Auntie Ekwi at home. The vigil started at midnight and ran all the way to 5am. They sang and prayed; Abel, Auntie Ekwi, Ada and about a dozen prayer warriors enlisted for the vigil. The prophet and the prayer warriors spoke in tongues whenever the prophet asked them to pray in the Spirit.
Abel had wondered how he would cope, praying all night, but somehow the five hours had passed swiftly and he was surprised when the session came to an end and the prophet said his Alleluia.
This time, Abel was prepared with something substantial in an envelope.
‘God will do it, my son,’ the prophet told him as they filed out.
When he woke up that morning after napping for a few hours, he felt something else too – a stiffening of the joints. Pushing the pillow off, he tried to make a fist. It hurt. Alarm flooded him as he got off the bed. He walked naked to the bathroom to pass water, all the while trying tentatively to make a fist and feeling the pain shoot up his arm.
He was having an attack. He hadn’t had one in about four years. He knew what medication was required, had always known since he was a kid, but the thought of it and the memories that came rushing in left him anxious.
He brushed his teeth, showered and got dressed. By the time he was done, he could hear Zeal laughing out loudly from behind the door in his mother’s room. He had the same laughter Soni had, a high-pitched cackle full of joyful abandon. Abel marvelled at how the genes transferred even the most mundane things from father to son.
As he pulled on his socks, he glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece: 10.50am.
Downstairs, the house help was setting the table. She brought him the English breakfast Ada said Soni insisted on eating before he left the house every morning.
‘Most times he eats once a day,’ Ada had told him. ‘And he always said one must eat like a king at breakfast.’
Abel had no appetite, so he drank coffee and nibbled at the toast.
He drove out of the compound, his mind on Victoria Island. He was headed to a pharmacy on the ground floor of the Silverbird Galleria. Ada had taken him there once after a movie to buy Vitamin C and cold remedies for Zeal.
‘At least here you can be sure of what you are buying,’ Ada had said. ‘Most people die in this country not from poor care, but from fake drugs, do you know that?’ She had a way of ensuring that you responded by asking a question at the end of her comment.
Abel said he thought so. An aunt of theirs, the one who came before his mum, had died from a fake dose. She had survived a motor accident and was prescribed an anti-tetanus injection on account of her injuries. Abel’s dad had gone to buy it because it was not stocked at the local hospital where she had been admitted. He ended up buying a fake dose. She got lockjaw and died four days later.
‘My father was devastated and never forgave himself. In so many ways, I felt as if he loved that woman, Auntie Ify, more than he loved my mum. It was through her that he met my mother, and her death was something he never got over. My mum told me he went to the chemist where he bought the drugs and beat up the owner. He was arrested but, according to my mum, my father would have gladly gone to the gallows just to make it right.’
‘Wow, Soni never told me that story.’
‘We were quite young. I was four or five and Soni must have been two or three. I’m sure he didn’t remember.’
‘Well, you know what they do to people who sell fake drugs in China?’
Abel shook his head.
‘They execute them; one bullet to the head. If they did that in Lagos, many people would die.’
‘It’s that bad, eh?’ Despite his aunt, who had died many years ago in that remote village, he hadn’t really thought there was an epidemic of fake drugs. The ones he bought were mostly for headache or diarrhoea or they were antimalarials. They were everywhere and he had never taken any that weren’t effective. When his attacks came, he knew what cocktail to take and it had always worked from the time he was in the boarding house right through university.
‘It is. I remember just after Zeal was born. We were still living at Ilupeju then. I asked the driver to buy baby food and he went to a shop close by instead of the supermarket we usually bought from. That night, Zeal started stooling. It was crazy. By 5am when we eventually braved it and drove out to the hospital he was as light as a piece of paper. They had to pass a line and Soni was crying and vowing to kill somebody if his son died. I couldn’t stop teasing him afterwards but there and then, as I watched my son wither before my eyes, I could have killed someone too.
When we got back, Soni had the driver take him there. He reported the shop to the police and got NAFDAC involved. When the man was arrested, all he kept saying was “because you have money, abi, because you have money”. He didn’t see that he had almost killed a baby. They should do the China thing here – one bullet to the head.’ She pointed a cocked finger at her temple.
Abel’s thoughts were everywhere as he drove past the tollgate, onto Ozumba Mbadiwe, and sped past the impressive Oriental Hotel, which everyone said was owned by a past governor of Lagos state.
He took a left turn at the Civic Centre – owned by Jim Ovia, former banker and one of Africa’s richest men – into Adetokunbo Ademola. The 1004 Estate was to his left. He remembered visiting a friend once, back when he was at university. He had been disappointed. The place was dirty, crowded and filled with cars, most of them broken down. Inside, the houses didn’t look too impressive either. There was a pervasive civil-service air about the place that spoke of neglect.
It had been built in a fit of indulgence and excess by the federal government as residential quarters for 1004 federal legislators – hence the name. They stayed for a while and then, like all things Nigerian, it was no longer used for its true purpose. A coup took place and suddenly there were no more senators or legislators and the seat of government moved to Abuja, the new federal capital.
So, it became an estate where lucky civil servants and even some non-civil servants who had Godfathers could live.
It was purpose-built, well-appointed and beautifully laid out, but with time, all that changed and the estate lost its allure. Things were changing again. The government had sold the estate to private investors who had renovated it. New tenants were moving in and it was no longer as crowded as it used to be. Abel and Ada had gone there to visit a lady a few days back. There were guards at the gates and the estate looked a whole lot better than it had years ago when he first visited.
‘That’s where the guy landed when he jumped,’ Ada said, pointing to a concrete slab stained brown. She had been telling him a story of a murder/suicide.
‘What happened to that case?’
‘Nothing,’ Ada said, shaking her head. ‘Open and shut.’
The story was that a young woman who ran a nightclub had been attacked by a man who worked for her and whom the tabloids said might also have been her lover.
She was attacked viciously but had managed to call for help. By the time security guards rushed in however, the supposed lover had jumped off the sixth-floor ledge and landed on the slab.
Abel remembered reading the story in the weekend papers back in Asaba and not hearing anything again. What he hadn’t realised was that Lagos was like that. In a city with over fifteen million people seemingly always in a mad rush to get some place fast, nothing held your attention for too long. It was that way with everything: nightclubs, schools, banks, estates, cars, scandals.
Everything had a season.
He drove the length of Adetokunbo Ademola, past the imposing Eko Hotel and Suites, before making a right turn at Bar Beach then driving all the way down Ahmadu Bello Way to the Silverbird Galleria. Because it was a Saturday, mothers supported by an army of house helps were herding their children into the Galleria to shop and see movies.
Most people worked on the Island, where a lot of the companies and banks were clustered. The factories, shipping lines and other businesses engaged in production and distribution were spread out farther afield, some in Apapa (because of its proximity to the ports) but mostly on the mainland all over the Ikeja, Ilupeju, Agidingbi, Ogba and Apapa axes.
Most of those who worked on the Island lived on the mainland and had to commute from areas as far flung as Ikorodu, Sango Ota and Egbeda. To beat the energy-sapping traffic they left home early, meaning that some parents never got to see their children awake during the week. Saturdays became days for making up and were almost as busy as the weekdays, with people shopping, going to the movies, the beach or to weddings. People tried to pack into Saturdays all the things they couldn’t do from Monday to Friday. Sundays were reserved for church services in a city that, though amoral and riddled with crime and criminals, also paraded some of the most ardent churchgoers.
Abel parked the car and walked into the Galleria. He was stopped and searched.
‘What’s that beeping in your pocket?’ the guard asked, running his hand over his right thigh.
Abel pulled back, reached inside and brought out the gold-plated pen he’d picked up from Soni’s dresser.
‘We didn’t have these searches before,’ Ada had told him the first time they came to the movies. ‘But with Boko Haram, no one is taking chances.’
Inside, Abel found the drugs he needed. He bought a bottle of water and downed six tablets, then left the pharmacy and took the elevator upstairs. He went into the bookshop and cruised the aisles, browsing through the titles before picking up a copy of Toni Morrison’s Sula. He thought the price was a bit steep but decided to buy it anyway. He had owned a copy once, but an ex-girlfriend had borrowed and never returned it. The first day he met her, he told her she reminded him of Sula.
‘Who is she?’ she had asked, oblivious.
‘It’s a character in a book.’
‘I remind you of a character in a book? How is that possible? Characters in books are not real people,’ she’d said, half-amused, half-intrigued.
‘I will lend you the book to read and if she doesn’t remind you of yourself, you can call me a liar.’
It was one of his best pick-up lines and he knew Soni would have been impressed. They were lovers for two years, then she left town and they lost contact.
He paid for the book and was taking the stairs down when he heard his name.
‘Abel Dike!’ It was a female voice and there was some tentativeness to it.
Abel turned round and screamed, ‘Calista Adeyemi!’
‘It’s a lie!’ she cried as they hugged. ‘Where did you fall out from?’
‘Asaba,’ he said, smiling and giddy with joy.
‘What are you doing in Lagos? You finally left Asaba, have you?’ She guided him downstairs to a fast-food restaurant. They found a seat and, laughing like the young girl he used to know, she took his hands in hers and whispered like a shy schoolgirl, ‘I have missed you, Mister Dike.’
‘And me, you,’ he replied and meant it.
They had gone out for three years back at university and he remembered how Soni would tease him: ‘Bros, so you are going to fuck only one girl in this school?’
They’d lived together for two years, then split after graduation, when she had gone abroad for her master’s. He had refused to marry her and become a British citizen.
‘You broke my heart so badly I am still picking up the pieces,’ she said. Calista had always been direct and open about her feelings.
‘I’m sorry, but I was too young and you were just too focused.’
He held her gaze for a while. A smile danced around the edges of her full lips. She hadn’t changed much, even though age had given her face more character. She still had the dimple in one cheek, the twinkle in her eyes and the crow’s feet that appeared when she smiled. Her teeth were still as white and even as he remembered them, and deep in her eyes he could see that she still had it for him.
‘So, how many kids do you have now?’ he asked
‘None, yet. You?’
‘None. I haven’t found someone to marry me. You married?’
She shook her head. ‘Nope. You used me up. You left nothing of value.’
He heard her laugh and was transported to the University of Jos, to the cramped space he shared with Soni and one other student before he and Calista moved in together. It was a Friday morning and they were making love and for some reason she was having these multiple orgasms and she always had the giggles whenever she came. It went on and on and suddenly there was a banging on the door. Abel ignored it at first but the person was insistent, so he asked who it was.
‘It’s Rahman.’ His Muslim neighbour.
‘What’s up, Rahman?’ Abel asked. ‘You need the iron?’
‘No. It’s Ramadan and I am fasting, please.’
They had stopped, but whenever either of them felt like making love they would say, ‘I am fasting, please.’ It became a sort of code.
‘So, what brings you to Lagos?’
‘My brother is missing.’
‘What, 9 Inches?’
‘Yes, the same one.’
‘Sorry to hear that. What happened?’
He filled her in as fast as he could. He was tired of telling the story.
‘That’s so sad. I work for the Lagos State Government in the governor’s office. If you come by, I could introduce you to the CSO. Maybe he can help with the police. The police always need to be prodded, you know.’
‘Thanks,’ Abel said, wondering how, just sitting there and talking to her, it didn’t feel as if there had been a ten-year hiatus.
‘So, you came to see a movie?’ she asked.
‘No. I came to buy my drugs. My knuckles were hurting when I woke up this morning.’
‘Really, you still have those?’ She had seen him through more than a dozen episodes back in school.
‘Yes, but not as often as I used to. I haven’t had one in four years but I suspect the stress is finally getting to me.’
‘If you are free, we could drive down to my place. I stay at 1004. I can make you jollof rice and smoked fish.’
‘You still remember?’ he asked, and she smiled a knowing smile.
They walked out together and drove to her place, Abel following her Kia Sportage SUV. She lived in one of the duplexes. The interior was simple, minimal but colourfully done up in pastels.
‘You want a drink while I cook?’ she called from the kitchen but Abel didn’t answer. Instead he walked up to her, enfolded her from behind and said ‘I thought you were fasting.’
There was the briefest pause as her brows furrowed, then she smiled in remembrance as she turned to kiss him, standing on tiptoe like she used to. He kissed her back, his body responding to her like it hadn’t to anyone else in years.
‘Show me your bed,’ he said, nibbling on her ears, and she led him upstairs, like a lamb to its shearers.
Lying naked afterwards, her head on his shoulders, her breath warm against his skin, Abel remembered the first time she had found him sick, curled up on the floor of his room, his knuckles aching, his body burning up.
She had pulled him onto his mattress. He told her what the issue was and that even though he had felt the pains in his joints the day before, he didn’t have money to buy his drugs.
‘What are they called?’ she asked. ‘I can borrow some money from my cousin.’
He gave her the names, and after making sure that he would be OK, she raced out of Village Hostels, took a bike to town and returned in less than an hour.
‘I’ve had it since I was five years old,’ he explained later, as the drugs brought relief.
‘At first they thought it was sickle cell, but my parents were both AA. It turned out that it was just some genetic glitch. There’s no cure, although the specialist who diagnosed it said attacks would get less frequent as I got older.’
‘Can you pass it on to our kids?’ she asked, straddling him.
‘It’s possible.’ He felt himself stir. ‘Won’t you let a sick guy rest?’
‘I will. Just relax; I’ll do all the work.’ She laughed as she took him in her hand.
Lying there in her bed, he remembered how sick he used to get as a child. He couldn’t exert himself, which meant there was no football and before they finally found out what it was and what drugs they could use to suppress it, Abel lost two years of school, with Soni catching up to him. They had ended up finishing primary and secondary school as well as university at the same times.
His ill health affected everything. He was weak, he didn’t have friends, he couldn’t drink beer, didn’t smoke and found it hard to get a girlfriend because he always felt self-conscious. What if the girl found him all contorted and sick? Would she stay? Would she come back?
Calista had found him and she had come back and she had stayed. For that he was grateful.
He eased up a bit and kissed her on the forehead.
‘What was that for?’ she asked, her eyes fluttering open.
‘For being you, my darling.’
—
He had six missed calls from Ada.
He had left his phone in the car when they got to Calista’s and Ada had been calling. The house help had told her he was sick and she was worried when he didn’t come back on time. She had also sent a text message: Philo told me you were not feeling well and we are worried you haven’t come back. Did you have an attack? Soni told me about it. Please call.
He didn’t call. He sent a message saying he was OK and on his way home.
‘Are you alright?’ she asked, jumping to her feet when he walked in.
‘I am good.’ Zeal ran straight into his arms.
‘So where did you go all this while?’
‘I went to get my drugs, then ran into an old friend and we went to her house.’
‘You were with a woman all this while and I have been worried out of my head,’ she snapped. Abel looked up, startled by her tone. She was standing there, tears in her eyes and a pained look on her face.
‘Ada, I forgot my phone in the car. I’m sorry.’ He reached out to touch her but she jumped back.
‘You and your brother – you guys won’t kill me. You hear? I haven’t found my husband and you want me to go looking for his brother. Please give me my son and you can go back to your lady friend.’
She snatched Zeal out of his hands and ran upstairs while Abel stared open mouthed after her.
He slept for a few hours. When he awoke, he washed his face and rinsed his mouth before walking downstairs. As he went down the winding staircase, lines from Eliot came to mind.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare”
Back at Unijos, he had a friend, Olu, who could recite the whole poem. They would go to the Law Faculty with its winding staircase and Olu would intone the lines with Abel jumping in on occasion as they walked all the way down, as if tracing Eliot’s trajectory.
Downstairs at the house, the aroma of jollof rice filled his nostrils and made his stomach grumble. In the kitchen, Ada was stirring the rice in the pot.
‘Do you feel better?’ she asked, making it less awkward for him.
She must have been swimming because she had on a silk robe. It was slightly parted at the top to reveal ample cleavage.
‘Yes,’ he said, then added, ‘I’m sorry about earlier …’
‘It’s OK.’ She raised a palm to stop him, her robe falling open some more. ‘I think I overreacted. Why don’t you wait by the deck? Zeal is playing in the pool. This should be ready in minutes. I’m sure you are hungry.’
‘Yes, thanks,’ Abel said and turned to go. He was crossing the living room when she called his name. ‘Yes, Ada?’
‘Red wine or beer?’ She stood framed against the door, looking ravishing with her half-open robe, dishevelled hair and pose.
‘Beer will do, with the food.’
Zeal was pottering about in his own side of the pool with Philo keeping an eye on him.
‘Uncle Abel!’ he cried. Abel stooped beside him and sprayed water in his face. When the water hit him, Zeal laughed that same high-pitched laugh that Abel knew so well, right from when they were kids into adulthood. Soni laughed at the silliest things and at the most inappropriate times.
Once, they had been given a ride by his father’s colleague, the vice principal admin. Soni and Abel were sitting in the back with the man’s daughter while his son sat in front. A song came on the radio and appeared to be one the man liked. He started singing along, but there was a problem. Each time the word ‘sunshine’ was sung, the man would say ‘sunchine’ and Soni would laugh. Abel would poke him in the ribs to stop but the more he poked him the more he laughed. Everyone was embarrassed, except for the man, who didn’t realise why Soni was laughing.
When the song ended, he turned back to look at them and asked, ‘What was so funny?’ Any normal child would have shaken his head and said nothing or told some lie, but not Soni.
‘Because you kept saying “sunchine”’ Soni said, and burst into laughter.
The man stepped on the brakes, pulled open the car door and threw them out.
Their father was so upset with the man for letting his children trek home, they never spoke again, but it was Soni whom Abel blamed, even though no one else did.
‘He is an adult for God’s sake. He should control his temper,’ their mother had said as she fussed over Soni.
‘Carry me,’ Zeal cried as Abel straightened.
‘How long has he been here?’ he asked the help as he reached in to pull Zeal up.
‘Over one hour,’ she informed him as he swaddled Zeal in the towel she had provided.
He set him on his lap as he took off his wet swimming gear, then tickled him as he dressed him in dry clothes.
‘If you stay in water too long you will become a fish,’ Abel told him.
‘I want to be a fish,’ he said pulling at Abel’s moustache. ‘It’s like Daddy’s.’ he said, and Ada, who was bringing the food, almost tripped.
‘He keeps referring to him these days. He has been doing that since Monday.’
‘It is good. A son should not forget his father,’ Abel said as he picked up his plate of steaming food. From as far back as he could remember, jollof rice and smoked fish had been his favourite meal. ‘I love jollof rice,’ he told Ada as he dug in.
‘I know, Soni told me. I cooked this as a peace offering,’ she said as she too began to eat.
Abel hadn’t realised how hungry he was until he swallowed the first mouthful. After making love at Calista’s, they had lain in bed and drifted off to sleep, forgetting all about the food she had promised to make for him.
‘Is there anything Soni did not tell you?’
‘About you?’
Abel nodded. He poured his beer and took a sip.
‘He talked about you all the time. I used to wonder what it was about you. I didn’t like you and if you were my brother I would have hated you because it seemed you set a pretty high standard.’
‘You hated me already,’ Abel blurted.
‘Yes, I know, and it wasn’t exactly my fault. You didn’t make it easy to like you.’
‘And now?’ he asked, treading softly, fishing to see whether what he felt and sensed was mutual.
‘And now what, Mr Dike?’ she asked, feigning seriousness even though her eyes were laughing.
‘You still hate me?’
‘Yes, hard enough to go half mad when I didn’t see you.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Please, stop saying sorry. I overreacted. I suppose I am getting, you know, used to you being around and I just panicked. And then to find out you were with another woman … I just, you know …’ She went back to her food.
Abel changed the topic. ‘You know, when you talk about Soni like that, I find it hard to believe, sometimes. It’s as if you are talking about someone else, not the same Soni I grew up with. I always assumed I was the one trying to measure up to him. Everything came easy to him. Any time we moved to a new town or school people gravitated towards him. I always considered myself a failure. Yes, I wanted to be a vice principal, but see what I ended up as.’
‘You have something, you know? You talk to people and it’s like they have to listen. Soni used to say that every reprimand from you was like a whiplash.’
‘He did?’ She nodded. ‘And yet the idiot never listened to me.’
‘But he did. He almost didn’t marry me because he felt you disapproved.’
‘Now I know why you were pissed off with me.’
‘Yes, now you know,’ she laughed. ‘One day, he was talking to me and he said “See, I am here in Lagos trying to make it, you know, to be a wealthy man. But Abel, he is just content being a teacher. I don’t see him under any pressure. I want to be like that, you know, but I am wired differently.”’
‘He told you that?’
‘Yes. He also said that you never needed to … how did he put it now? Swim against the currents because the currents flowed along with you.’
‘And do you believe him?’
‘Yes, I do. You look content, and contentment is important for happiness.’
‘I have my own issues, Ada, my own neuroses. The pig sweats but we don’t notice because of the hair.’
‘I wish we were all that hairy.’
Abel laughed. ‘You are hairy enough,’ he said, pointing. Her robe had fallen open, her swimsuit had shifted and tufts of pubic hair were visible.
‘Onye ala!’ she cried, snapping her legs shut.