Ogadinma was lounging beside Tobe on the veranda, drinking freshly pressed orange juice and looking out on to the street, when the telephone rang, and Tobe went to get it. Her body still tingled. They had spent the past three days doing nothing but making love and waking up and eating. She had begun to learn the way his body moved, how quick and greedy he was for her. All of this time, she did not know that this was what being married felt like. She had never seen her father with a woman, had never seen her uncle and aunt sharing what she now shared with Tobe. When she thought of marriage, she visualized a mere cordial relationship with emotionally distant people who played the constricting roles of husband and wife, who spent their lives talking about how to find money for children’s school fees and rent, how to keep their children well-behaved, who went to church together and slept behind a curtained-off bed. Not what she enjoyed with Tobe. She sipped her juice and sighed as the tangy sweetness trickled down her throat. She skimmed through the pages of Wole Soyinka’s The Trials of Brother Jero, hardly digesting the words on the page. She had read the play three times, though, and knew the lines by heart. She listened for Tobe’s return. She knew that when he was done answering the telephone, he would come from behind and kiss her neck and scoop her into his arms, and they would return to the bedroom, or, if he was impatient, make love in the hallway, or in the kitchen. He was that greedy for her body.
She waited for his return, her body prickling in anticipation. But he spent too long taking the call and she sensed then that something was not right. So she went inside and found him by the telephone, head bowed, one hand holding the handset against his ear. He spoke in a quiet, grim tone. When he put down the telephone, he told her, his voice low, that soldiers had arrested Segun over allegations that he had diverted government money.
Her heart sank into her stomach. She came and sat beside him and thought of what to say to him, and wished she knew how to lift his mood. But she didn’t know the right words to say, how to break through this sad veil clouding his eyes. ‘They will not see us,’ she said, finally.
He muttered something incoherent, grabbed his car keys on the side table, stood and said he needed to go somewhere. He did not tell her where. She waited for him. She imagined he had gone to the army headquarters to plead for Segun’s freedom. When he came back hours later, he did not touch the food she served. He did not pull her to him and kiss her neck. He did not answer immediately when she asked for the update on Segun. He stared blankly at the television, and his square face seemed to crumble into folds of anguish.
That night, when he joined her in bed, he stared blankly at the ceiling for a while, lost in thought. So lost was he that he did not hear her the first time when she said, ‘Segun will come home soon, I strongly believe it.’ She shook his shoulder and repeated the words again before he said, ‘I hope so.’ And then he held her against his chest, but he did not make any attempts to peel off her nightdress or even kiss her. She waited for him though, nudged him with her body, pressed her lips to his neck, but gave up when he began to snore lightly.
The following day, she was contemplating the grating silence in their home when her father called, the first time since she had moved in with Tobe.
‘Ị makwa, it rained yesterday and I put a basin by the side of the TV because the leak from the floor above has worsened,’ he began, ‘but that stupid landlord is not thinking of repairing things. All he knows is how to increase rent.’
‘Tobe’s friend was arrested by soldiers yesterday,’ she said. ‘The soldiers are arresting government contractors and sending them to prison. I am so worried.’
There was a short pause before her father spoke again. ‘Nothing will happen to Tobe. Do not fear, ị nụ? Nothing will happen to him.’ He spoke with so much authority.
‘Yes, Papa. They will not see us.’
But she was not reassured. She put down the telephone. The cries of children playing a game of football behind the house filtered in from the window, loud and raucous. She looked around the room; although it was spacious and had windows that ran from floor to ceiling, she felt suffocated. She heard a thud against her wall and went to the veranda to inspect where the noise came from. The rear of the house stood close to the fence, and she could see into the empty plot where the children stood, waiting for her. They had volleyed their ball, again, onto her veranda.
‘Aunty, sorry o,’ they chorused.
She picked up the limp, dusty ball.
‘Dis boys no dey hear word,’ said a firm voice from the next compound. A woman leaning on the railing. Her name, Ogadinma would later learn, was Ejiro. Slight and fair, and looking not much older than Ogadinma, she had the intimidating air of someone who went about making sure everyone acted properly. ‘Na so dem take dat ball break my window yesterday. Make you no give dem dat ball again,’ Ejiro said.
Ogadinma liked her immediately and considered doing as she had said, but the boys were already kneeling, their pleas vigorous.
She tossed the ball over and they beamed and chanted thanks. Soon they were kicking at it again, shouting instructions at each other, the episode already forgotten.
Ejiro shook her head.
‘I couldn’t do that to them,’ Ogadinma said, feeling suddenly apologetic. She switched to Pidgin. ‘Dem don beg tire. I go be like bad person if I no give dem de ball.’
Ejiro waved away her apology and retreated into her house. But they met again that afternoon when Ogadinma went to shop for groceries at a store close by. The woman was small, and the skin of her knuckles and her knees were startlingly darker than her face and arms. She should tell her to stop bleaching, but since they barely knew each other, she raked her gaze over Ejiro’s body and searched for something kind to say.
‘You remind me of Sade Adu,’ she said.
‘People always say that.’ Ejiro laughed. She spoke English with the same musical quality her Pidgin carried. ‘What cream are you using? I don’t like how dark your skin looks.’
Ogadinma felt stung. ‘I use Nku and my skin is just fine.’
But Ejiro ignored her defensiveness. ‘Nku? That rubbish cream? Use Tura and see how beautiful you will become. See my skin? You can’t be married to a rich man and have your skin looking like those women hawking vegetables under the bridge.’
Ogadinma inhaled deeply, anger rising hotly up her face. She should have uttered a terse reply, but Ejiro had already moved on to another topic, was already picking out things from the shelf and talking about how she loved using only foreign spices and Uncle Sam’s rice to cook for her husband.
Later, Ogadinma asked Tobe, ‘Am I too dark? Biko tell me.’ She told him about the encounter with Ejiro.
He laughed. He seemed suddenly happy, so at peace, and Ogadinma was pleased that the dim veil had finally lifted from his face. That evening, when they dined out with Kelechi and Femi, he told them how she had been worked up by what Ejiro said.
‘Please don’t listen to these Lagos women. Don’t let them intimidate you into bleaching your skin,’ Kelechi warned.
Soon the conversation switched to Segun. Tobe had visited him in prison and had contributed towards paying up what the soldiers accused Segun of diverting. Ogadinma marvelled at his unquestioning loyalty, how he encouraged Kelechi and Femi to help their friend. She liked their friendship. Since moving to Lagos, she had made no friends of her own. Ejiro, though unpleasantly blunt, seemed honest. And she had kind things to say when they met two days later at the same grocery store.
‘I like dis your skirt,’ Ejiro said, as she picked through shelves for Uncle Sam’s rice and imported spices. ‘I have one that looks just like it. Did you buy it from the boutique down the street?’
‘My husband gave it to me yesterday. I don’t know the shop he bought it from.’
Ejiro gave her a superior smile that seemed to say that Ogadinma was stupid for letting her husband do her shopping for her. ‘I know all the happening boutiques in town. The last thing I want is my husband shopping for me. What do these men even know?’ she said. ‘Please pass me the Maggi liquid seasoning,’ gesturing at the slender bottles lined up on the top shelf.
Ogadinma began to explain that Tobe chose what she wore, but she knew that would make her sound dumb. So she said, ‘I like your lipstick. Where did you buy it from?’
‘My sister sent me a packet from London. That’s where all my cosmetics come from,’ Ejiro said. ‘I saw your husband driving out this morning and wondered if you drive too.’
‘No, I don’t drive.’
‘You should. You are the wife of a big man and shouldn’t be seen trekking the streets of Lagos, sweating like a truck-pusher.’
Ogadinma laughed, but Ejiro did not. She was already reaching for another bottle of spice. ‘I will ask my husband to teach me,’ Ogadinma said.
‘There are licensed teachers in town. I know the best driving school in Lagos.’
‘Thank you,’ Ogadinma said, but she wanted to slap herself for cowering before the woman. And later, she was irritated with Ejiro for making her look like she was incapable of carrying herself like the wife of a big man.
They had just stepped out of the store when they heard the loud cries, the thump of feet, the swirl of dust from down the street. Ogadinma saw the bold lettering on the banners the protesters held over their heads which said, association of nigerian students, university of lagos chapter, before she saw their faces.
The students sang in a measured, angry unison. ‘We dey vex, yes we dey vex! Food don cost for market. Light we no dey see. Water we no see drink. We want democracy o. Yes, we dey vex!’
People gathered by the roadside to watch the procession. Ejiro clenched her basket tight and said she had to go. ‘This is not good at all. These soldiers will now see another excuse to start shooting up everywhere.’
She bade Ogadinma goodbye and hastened to her gate. Ogadinma hurried home too.
The chants continued: ‘Today, today, tomorrow no more. If I die today, I will die no more! How many people soldiers wan kill? Dem go kill us tire! How many people soldiers wan kill? Dem go kill us tire!’
From her veranda, Ogadinma watched as the students streamed down the street, hundreds of oily faces twisting and grimacing as they jogged past, chanting. They seemed so fearless, so determined, and she wondered if she would have joined such a protest, to make her voice heard, if she had gained that university admission.
Tobe arrived home shortly after, sweating and mopping his brow, bearing news of the riot. The students had run into a group of soldiers who dispersed them with canisters of tear gas and gunshots. But the students soon regrouped and broke into government buildings, set cars and properties on fire, blocked off major roads.
Tobe loosened his tie. Sharp angles were appearing under his shirt. Until then, Ogadinma hadn’t realized how much weight he had lost. She knelt before him, unlaced his shoes and removed them and his socks. He drew a sharp breath as she unbuttoned his shirt, and then he caressed the back of her neck as she rested her head against his soft stomach.
‘They almost killed Segun,’ he said. ‘They beat him like an armed robber.’
She pressed her head against his stomach again. When his breathing had evened, she rose and said, ‘Come and eat. I made jollof and fish.’
He stood and hugged her, pressing her head on his chest. Then he followed her to the dining room.
The following morning, the federal government announced that it had shut down the University of Lagos until further notice, and Tobe told Ogadinma that Uncle Ugonna had suggested they move to London until things quietened down.
‘I don’t think it’s a good idea,’ he said. ‘Because, what if they have flagged my passport? It will look like I am running away.’
‘What if they didn’t flag your passport?’ Ogadinma asked.
‘But I don’t have anything to hide.’
Now was when she should tell him that everything was going to be all right, that she believed his innocence. But she was shivering with fear; there was no point pretending she wasn’t afraid. And this was because she had never seen him restless like this.
After he left for work the following day, she tried to read Chukwuemeka Ike’s Sunset at Dawn she’d bought the week before, but the words bled into each other and she put the book down. She went to Ejiro’s. The house was not as big as hers, although it was tastefully furnished, and the sofas were clad in shimmery red velvet, the TV stretching from one end of the wall to the other.
‘I may be travelling to London. I don’t know yet. It all depends on my husband,’ she told Ejiro as she cupped a bowl of catfish pepper soup. A sweaty bottle of Maltina sat on the stool beside her. The soup was deliciously hot, but her mind was muddied with worry and she could not tell Ejiro what was happening with Tobe, because their friendship was still new and she did not know if she could trust her with such information yet. She put the bowl down and said, ‘I have never been to London but I hear it’s a beautiful place.’
Ejiro moved to the edge of her seat. The talk about London interested her. She, too, had never been to London, and she would give anything to visit it. ‘You are so lucky,’ she told Ogadinma, her eyes lit up with childish curiosity. She told Ogadinma about her sister, Magdalene, who once visited London and returned with a British accent and bags filled with designer dresses and shoes. Ejiro wanted to visit London too, but her husband was not interested in travelling at all. She told Ogadinma about the places where her sister shopped in London. And Ogadinma listened, laughed, but her laughter flopped weakly as worry nibbled at her insides. If Ejiro noticed her moodiness, she did not inquire after its cause. Instead, she asked Ogadinma if she wanted more pepper soup, if she wanted to try on her lipsticks, if she wanted to see the new set of shoes and bags she just bought from the boutique down the street. Ogadinma was grateful for the lengths Ejiro went to in order to cheer her up.
But her heart sank again after she returned from Ejiro’s. She thought of Kano and felt a disorientating pang as she remembered the trips to her father’s shop, the walks down the streets of Sabon Gari, the games she played at the Ado Bayero Square, the lazy rains of April through to July, the deceptive August break of scorching sun that baked the flatlands, and then the sudden return of the rains in September, heavy and fervent, flooding the streets and tearing down small trees and electricity poles and ripping zinc sheets off the roofs of houses, before dusty winds from the Sahara misted up the air in December through to February, howling and howling and covering everything in a film of brown, sucking moisture off everything and anything, until one’s skin flaked and cracked and leaves shrank and died. She never liked harmattan, but it was when she and her friend Mary gathered with other girls in the yard for their beauty routines, when they scrubbed their cracked feet with pumice stones and slicked the tender skin with petroleum jelly. She missed those days, those little things that made Kano home, those things she no longer experienced in Lagos.
If the worst happened and she had to leave Lagos, she would prefer Kano, her tiny room that looked out on to the yard. She would prefer to live with her father until the storm was over.
When Tobe came home that afternoon, he was edgy, and even his driving showed his restlessness, because he had barely extinguished the engine before rushing out and heading for the boot. He dragged out a Ghana-Must-Go bag which was so heavy he pulled it along the hallway rather than lift it. In his room, he sank to his knees and unzipped it, revealing piles of notes.
‘The Special Committee has summoned me to the Supreme Headquarters,’ he said, his voice quavering. He was sweating as he pulled out bundles of twenty-naira notes from the bag. ‘They have finally come for me.’
Ogadinma stood by the door, unsure of what to do, to crouch and help him, or to just stand and watch him. She did not know the right thing to say at such a time or how to handle this kind of horror. He had pulled up the mattress and begun to stack the bundles in neat rows on the floor of the bed.
‘I will call Aunty Ngozi,’ she said, but he did not look up.
Aunty Ngozi came as soon as she heard. ‘Where is he?’ she said when Ogadinma let her in, her face twisted into a mask of fear. Her roughly tied scarf loosened and floated to the ground. She did not pause to pick it up. She did not even wait to hear Ogadinma’s response.
When Ogadinma came inside, she found Aunty Ngozi sitting beside Tobe on the edge of the bed. She was holding his hand, listening as he explained how the soldiers had dropped by his office with a letter summoning him to appear before the Special Committee to account for all the money he received from the previous government, how they accused him of diverting government money and building substandard roads. He spoke too fast. Ogadinma wondered if he feared he would be jailed, because even though he kept telling Aunty Ngozi that his books were clean, he twisted his hands, sweat pouring down his face and pooling under his arms.
‘Nee anya, look at me, they will not do anything to you. Do you hear me? I say, as long as God lives in heaven, they will not touch a hair on your head,’ Aunty Ngozi told him, her voice firm; she must have sensed that he needed the pep talk to calm his jittery nerves. But Tobe was still restless. He pulled open his bedside cupboard and got out a sheaf of papers, and as he tried to shove them inside his bag, they slipped out of his hands and floated to the floor. Ogadinma staggered as a sharp memory played across her mind, of when she walked into Barrister Chima’s office and witnessed the papers floating off Amara’s desk. She hurried over and began to pick up the paper, her hands shaking.
‘I am going with you to see that Special Committee,’ Aunty Ngozi was saying. ‘They cannot accuse my brother of a crime he didn’t commit. Mbanụ! I cannot let that happen.’
‘Sister, my lawyer is going to handle this,’ he said. Then he turned to Ogadinma. ‘Whatever happens, if they take me to jail, don’t visit me in jail.’
‘They will not put you in jail,’ Ogadinma interjected.
‘God forbid bad thing!’ Aunty Ngozi shouted and snapped her fingers over her head. ‘Stop talking nonsense, Tobe. I say, stop talking nonsense!’
But Tobe was now holding Ogadinma by the shoulders, his fingers digging into her arms, his eyes wild like he was possessed by a demon. ‘You must not visit, do you understand me?’ he continued. ‘I saw how they harassed Segun’s wife. Those people are animals. Just wait for me. We will sort things out with them. Do you hear me?’
She and Aunty Ngozi followed him out to the car. He pressed her to his body in haste, and she said she would be waiting for his return. But he was already rushing into the car, and Aunty Ngozi was already getting into the passenger side. She stood by as they drove off, and long after they had left, she still stood watching the empty parking lot. Then she went to sit at the veranda to wait for his return. But he did not come home that night.
Ogadinma heard about Tobe’s arrest the following morning. She had barely slept the night before, had kept jerking awake each time she heard the honk of a car, the bang on neighbours’ gates, the flutter of bats on the roof. She had called Uncle Ugonna’s house ten times and no one picked up the phone. She wondered if they had all gone out, if they were still with Tobe at the Supreme Headquarters. She waited for a call back, and when that didn’t come, she sat watching the phone for a while, a great annoyance exploding in her chest. Why were they not taking her calls? Why were they not calling back? Perhaps they ignored her because was too young, she was still seventeen. Perhaps they felt she was not old enough to meddle with adult business, too young to comprehend the gravity of what was happening. She was so upset. She considered calling her father but didn’t. It was past nine at night and she knew he would be watching Newsline, that he would watch New Masquerade afterwards, that he would remember the times they watched the show together. She didn’t want to spoil that moment with her burden. So, she slept fitfully that night, often waking up to look out of the window, to listen for the call for prayer from the mosque nearby. The world was pitch-black; NEPA had cut off power and it was impossible to see anything outside her window. It was the blackest, most moonless night she had ever witnessed. And when she put her head back on the pillow to catch snatches of sleep, dawn came, and lazy rays streamed through her window, streaking her room gold.
The phone rang. She had been willing for a call, had longed, all night long, for the phone to ring, had worried herself into a nasty headache, wondering what had happened to Tobe. But now her bladder was suddenly filled with urine. She was no longer ready for the news. She inched closer to the phone, dizzy with fear. At the fourth ring, she snatched the handset from the cradle and said ‘Hello,’ panting. She knew then that the worst had happened because she could hear the measured silence at the other end, the laborious intake of breath, before Aunty Ngozi spoke, her words muffled as though her nose was filled with water.
‘Nne, they have put my brother in prison,’ she said, her voice cracked. And then she began to cry. Slow, hoarse cries that startled Ogadinma. Ogadinma’s heart was breaking but she was too shocked by Aunty Ngozi’s cries to grieve, too twisted with confusion to think of Tobe. For a moment she said nothing. She stared at the phone. What was she supposed to do – comfort Aunty Ngozi, or cry, too? She had never imagined that a time would come when she would hear Aunty Ngozi cry like that.
Then Aunty Ngozi told her how everything had happened: Tobe and his lawyer appeared before the military tribunal and submitted all the papers showing he completed the road contract, that it was in fact the government that still owed him some money, but the tribunal gave him the option of paying a heavy fine or going to jail. Tobe refused to pay what he did not owe and they took him away. Aunty Ngozi began to sob in huge bursts again, her voice choked and trembling.
‘Get your things together,’ Aunty Ngozi said after she had gathered herself. ‘I am coming to collect you.’
It was after Aunty Ngozi ended the call and Ogadinma sat on the sofa, holding her head in her hands, her fingers pressing the sides of her eyes to calm the beginnings of a throbbing headache, that she understood what Aunty Ngozi meant by ‘Get your things together’. There was a subtle authority in that declaration, which made it seem like she had no say in all that was happening.
She went into her room and nearly fell by the bed because her head felt suddenly light, too weak to process all that was happening around her. She pulled out a bag from her wardrobe and began to throw things into it. Her clothes. Underwear. Sandals. Shoes. Scarves. She wished she knew the things to take. She stood in the middle of her room, massaging her temples which had begun to throb again. Then she went into Tobe’s room and stood by the door, staring at the bed where he had so carefully stacked the bundles of twenty-naira notes. She wondered if she should take the money too. She was still staring at the bed when she heard the loud honk of a car, and then the screech of metal on concrete as Kunle threw open the gates. Aunty Ngozi knocked on the door moments later, and she went out to get it.
Aunty Ngozi crushed her in her embrace, swung her lightly from side to side. She smelled of Lux soap and talcum powder. ‘Do you have everything you need?’ Aunty Ngozi asked. Her eyes were swollen and red.
She should ask why Aunty Ngozi had come to collect her, why she shouldn’t be allowed to stay in her husband’s house, but she said, ‘I think I have everything, Aunty.’ And then, without thinking about it, she blurted, ‘Tobe kept money under his mattress.’
Aunty Ngozi nodded and said, ‘He told me to bring all of it.’
They went into Tobe’s room, both of them lifted the mattress and then began to stuff the bundles into the carry-all that lay discarded on the floor.
Ogadinma was relieved by the formal precision in the way Aunty Ngozi arranged the money, how she worked mechanically, her hands so steady, as if she hadn’t been crying that morning. Once they had packed everything, Aunty Ngozi pulled the bag outside, and Ogadinma got her bag, too. As they stepped outside, she let her eyes linger at the passageway, the rooms and the kitchen, before she locked the door. Aunty Ngozi told Kunle she would return every day to check things at the house.
‘Don’t let anyone into this compound,’ Aunty Ngozi told him, pulling an earlobe with her fingers, in the way that people did when they issued important instructions. ‘You dey hear me so?’
‘Yes, ma,’ Kunle said, standing to attention. And to Ogadinma he said, ‘Bye-bye, Aunty.’ Ogadinma mumbled a response and got into Aunty Ngozi’s car. Ejiro’s veranda was empty and the door leading out to it was shut. She wondered if Ejiro was inside, and if she should walk over and tell her that she was leaving.
‘I will come back regularly to check the house,’ Aunty Ngozi said, breaking into her thoughts. Then she turned the key in the ignition and eased the car onto the deserted road.
As they drove out, Ogadinma kept her gaze on their house. She stared at the smooth white walls, the hulking pillars flanking the entrance, the sleek shape of the railings encircling the veranda, the sofa where she and Tobe often lounged in the evenings to sip freshly pressed juice and nibble on fried plantain. How quickly everything had changed. How easily her life was crumbling. She began to cry.
Aunty Ngozi touched her shoulder. ‘Why are you crying, eh? Stop. Everything will be all right,’ she said. ‘The tyrants must release your husband because he has done nothing wrong. He is not a thief.’
Ogadinma’s tears stung her eyes like hot pins. Her nose dripped with snot and her chest was choked with sobs. She didn’t stop crying. Not even when Aunty Ngozi begged her to stop. She cried all through the drive, until they pulled up in front of Uncle Ugonna’s house and Aunty Ngozi killed the engine and pulled her into her arms.