Kelechi came every night at the close of work, when the hotel bar was deserted and the lady at the reception worked with only one eye open. They stayed in the room, lying in bed tired after they had sex. The bed squeaked too loud. She would steel herself as he moved feverishly above her, hoping that her stiffness would reduce the creaking of the bed. It did not.
She often berated herself after he had left: why hadn’t she asked if he was married? Why hadn’t she asked about the woman in the photograph? Many things had changed since she came to Aba; the future no longer looked hazy. And she was filled with a new sense of recklessness; she felt it in her belly, in her chest, even in the way she walked, which was refreshing.
She began to go on walks around the neighbourhood. She would trek to Okigwe Road to linger at boutiques and cosmetic stores. She found the trek an easy one even though she did not know the city well. All she needed was to keep on the major roads; there weren’t many of them. The path from her hotel led to Okigwe Road and northwards to the junction linking Brass Street and Faulks Road – the route to the famous Ariaria Market. The trip to the market, since she took a bus, should have been all of fifteen minutes, but it took an hour. The roadsides were littered with dirt and decay from giant waste-buckets that hadn’t been emptied, drainages uncovered and filled with muddy water, clogged with plastic bags, breeding mosquitoes.
She looked out of the window all through the trip. Aba was a city of storey buildings – two, three, four and even five storeys that had no elevators, like the houses in Lagos, and most floors were taken up by churches, each one occupying a flat, their loudspeakers perching precariously on the walls, blaring out sermons and songs. Aba was a city of noise.
Though she returned to the hotel the first day, her feet muddied, her toenails clumped with dirt, she continued the aimless wanderings. The Power Line section of the market was occupied by cobblers who made replicas of every designer shoe and bag and belt they laid their hands on or saw in magazines. The industry had blossomed after the Biafran War, she learned. Those who survived the war rebuilt the ravaged market. They made with hands and local tools near-copies of designer items with leather bought from tanneries in Kano. But looking at each piece, she could see the crude finishing, the gaudy representations; these men were creating cheap imitations of the luxuries many residents could not afford. She wondered how it could be if they didn’t need to make these copies, if they made beautiful bags and shoes of their own design, instead of indulging these enervating obsessions.
It was during one of these walks that she found Oma, a hairdresser, who had laughter clinging to the ends of her sentences. Oma talked with her hands and eyes and had a waiting smile for everyone who walked into her salon. Ogadinma marvelled at how one person could have that much energy, a light in a dull room. She did not know much about Oma, but she liked the woman’s laughter, how she made everyone who walked in feel indebted, so that even if they did not get their hair braided or permed or their face made up, they bought a compact powder or a lipstick before leaving.
Oma’s salon became one of her favourite places, in part because nearly every girl who worked there looked her age. Onyedika, the slim girl who washed and braided Ogadinma’s hair into neat, tiny cornrows, said she was studying at the nearby polytechnic on weekends. She was learning how to manage big businesses because she hoped to open her own salon once she had saved enough money, and in a few years, if she worked hard enough, she would open a chain of stores in the city. She talked as she braided Ogadinma’s hair, and her eyes danced with the certainty of one who was determined to achieve set goals.
‘What do you do?’ she asked Ogadinma. ‘You are married?’
‘No, no.’ Ogadinma shook her head. ‘I don’t do anything for now, but I will start something soon.’
‘It is good for a woman to learn a skill or a trade, so she can earn her own money – my mum taught me that,’ said Onyedika. ‘My father wanted her to be a housewife. One day, she borrowed money from her cousin and bought plenty of foodstuffs, a table and some coolers. The following morning, after my father had left for work, she cooked the food and set the table by the roadside and started her own food stall. When my father heard what she had done, he was so angry, but he couldn’t stop her because she threatened to go back to her parents.’
‘Your mother is a very strong woman,’ Ogadinma said.
Onyedika nodded and continued her story. ‘You see, eh, years later, when my dad suffered financial problems, it was my mother that cared for us, paid our school fees, and even paid my father’s hospital bills. For over twelve years, she carried our family on her shoulders. Just imagine what would have happened to us if she didn’t have her own money.’ Onyedika slicked pomade over a section of hair and began to braid it, her oily fingers working swiftly. ‘It is good to learn a trade.’
‘Yes,’ Ogadinma said.
A light began to grow inside Ogadinma after her chat with Onyedika. She told Kelechi that she was going back to Lagos. They had just showered in the narrow bathroom and he was towelling his body when she said this.
‘What are you hurrying to do?’ The towel slipped to the floor.
She stared at his nakedness, how beautiful he looked even when upset. ‘I have to go back to Lagos. My rent has almost expired. I have to figure out what to do with myself now.’
‘You are leaving because you are tired of me?’
‘And you are married?’ she blurted out.
A pause. ‘You saw the photo.’
‘Are you married?’ she asked again.
‘Yes. She went to America to have our son.’
She wanted to feel anger, but she felt nothing. And it was because she already knew, because she did not care that he was married. ‘I will take the next bus to Lagos tomorrow morning,’ she told him instead.
‘Please, stay a little longer.’
‘No, I can’t.’
He watched as she slipped on her dress, as she gathered her braids into a bunch at her nape. And she wondered what he was thinking. But most of all, she liked that she was not angry that he belonged to someone else. She liked the kind of woman she was becoming.
‘I know a place you can stay. You don’t have to pay rent,’ he finally said.
She stared at him. ‘Where is this place?’
‘It belongs to a friend who lives abroad and visits only once in every two years. I will speak with him.’ He opened his arms. ‘Come here.’
She watched him dubiously.
‘Please.’
She went to him and he held her tightly, his breath warm against her neck.
He still held her when he dozed off into sleep.
She arrived at the duplex in Falomo the following evening. She was sweaty, and her body itched. At the gate, a guard stepped out of the tiny room attached to the gate to ask what she wanted and when she gave him her name, he returned to the room to telephone his oga.
The trip to Lagos was tedious. They had gotten to Berger in Lagos at three in the afternoon, but it took another four hours to get to this area of the city. Kelechi had tried to persuade her to take a flight from Enugu, but she refused. She liked travelling by road because it gave her time to think, to plan, a luxury she was sure a forty-five-minute flight would deny her. But travelling by road left her disoriented and she slept through most of the long trip back to Lagos.
The guard returned and opened the gate. ‘Aunty, welcome,’ he said. ‘Come inside.’ He helped with her bag and led her to the quarters at the back of the big house. The area was swept clean and the manicured hedges sat in the garden like blocks of leaves. A tall tank stood at one side of the compound and a huge power-generating plant sat at the other end. He opened the door and gave her the keys to the apartment and then he said he would return to his post.
‘Wetin be your name,’ she asked him.
‘Deji. Na me be the only Deji for this area,’ he said, flashing a browned-toothed smile.
‘Thank you, Oga Deji.’
‘Wetin come be your own name?’ he asked.
‘Ogadinma.’
‘Welcome, Aunty,’ he said and left.
She walked into the apartment. There were two sofas and a TV. The floor was tiled, and so were the two connecting bedrooms. The width of the bathroom was as wide as her arms stretched out, and the moderately sized kitchen came complete with a gas cooker, pots and pans and plates and spoons and cups; she didn’t need to buy anything at all, and the utensils had never been used. Later, she would think of what to do with her things in the Ketu apartment.
She sat down. Her bag still stood by the door. She heard the ding of a bell, and children from the neighbouring compounds burst out in the familiar songs of gratitude to the power company, chanting, ‘Up NEPA!’ She got up and flipped the switch on the wall and light flooded into the parlour. And this lifted her mood. She brought her bag inside, shut the door. She stripped off her clothes, stepped into the shower and sponged her body of sweat and stress. Then she stood under the shower, watching as the dust coating the floor washed down the drain, until only a clear, soapy water remained.