Patience Is a Subtle Thief, page 1
Dedication
For the ones waiting on proof that their lives matter,
and that their dreams are possible.
And to my dear Kunle,
you said that I should finish . . . that I would finish.
And here we are.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Acknowledgments
A Note from the Cover Designer
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
IT WAS A DAY TO CELEBRATE HER FATHER, BUT BY THE time Patience walked into the white party tent on the massive lawn of his two-acre mansion, she was twenty minutes late.
Another staid party to celebrate yet another of his professional victories.
She looked down at her dress, a short and flirty frock made of thick lace in an ugly shade of brown. A color only Modupe would love, she thought when she had first seen it a week before.
As she made her way through the crowd, she caught a glimpse of Modupe’s penetrating gaze.
“Where were you?” Modupe said. “We looked for you in the house. The ceremony is about to start and you’re just coming?”
“Sorry, Mummy. I was getting dressed,” Patience said with the same pointed dip in her voice that came whenever she called her stepmother Mummy. In her mind, she was merely Modupe, and purely Margaret’s mother, not hers.
“Why is this dress so short?” Modupe said, looking Patience up and down. “You ruined the dress I gave you? Did you lose your head, ehn, Patience?”
“Mummy, it’s not ruined, it’s just—”
“We will talk later,” Modupe said, before hurrying to the high table to greet the VIPs.
Patience expected Modupe to scold her, but she had taken the risk willingly. She had shortened the hem of her dress and smiled each time she tugged the needle to secure a stitch. When she had put it on and looked at her reflection, gone was the bush Ibadan girl she often saw staring back.
“She is about to implode,” Margaret said as she dragged her chair closer to Patience, bringing the half sisters shoulder to shoulder. “You’ve really outdone yourself.”
“Long dresses in this heat? She wants us to melt.” Patience looked up at the tent’s towering ceiling. Tall industrial fans powered by her father’s massive generator spun uselessly, only churning the day’s thick heat. Women attendees fanned themselves with her father’s ceremony booklet to make up for the lack of air.
She surveyed the crowd further—the usual cast of Ibadan’s who’s who: businesspeople, politicians, chiefs, dignitaries. They arrived in Mercedes and Peugeots, driven by drivers who parked next to her father’s personal fleet of Mercedes and Peugeots. The men donned heavy aso oke agbadas with coral beads dangling from their necks. Their women wore delicate lace, high tied geles, and 24-karat gold jewels.
“I wish you had made my dress shorter like yours,” Margaret said.
“Next time.” Patience bumped shoulders with her.
“Is Daddy really going to have us sit through this entire thing?”
“Shhh, it’s starting,” Modupe said as she sat back down.
“We’ve gathered on this fifth day of September 1992, to celebrate Oyo State’s new commissioner of finance,” the governor said. “He is a multimillionaire businessman, a pioneer in creating concrete blocks used at some of Ibadan’s most important construction sites. He was educated in America at Howard University in Washington, DC.”
Patience shifted in her seat. Her dad lingered near the stage, standing tall and proud.
“He is a devoted husband and beloved father,” the governor continued.
“Beloved.” Patience spoke the word softly. As it stumbled off her tongue, she wondered if she truly loved her father. He had never said “I love you” to her or Margaret, nor did she expect him to. On the off chance he ever did, she wondered if she would believe him. Love was the thing families spoke of in fictional American TV shows.
“He is a leader, and now he will proudly serve Ibadan. Ladies and gentlemen, I present Chief Kolade Adewale!”
The crowd cheered as he walked onto the stage beside the governor. The two men turned to the photographer and posed.
Snap, snap!
“My distinguished friends, it is an honor to accept this appointment as commissioner,” her father said, squaring his broad shoulders, once he took the podium. “I promise to serve Oyo State in the light it deserves. I’m proud to say that Ibadan is my birthplace and my home. Thank you so much for being here today to witness this grand occasion. Thank you.”
As usual: a man of few words, Patience thought as she shifted in her seat. The crowd applauded. Many stood and made their way toward him as he stepped down from the stage.
Modupe also stood but in a state of agitation.
“Fatima! Fatima!” she yelled across the aisle to her personal house girl. She turned to Patience and Margaret. “Look at this useless girl standing there like ọdẹ!”
The meek girl dressed in a stiff, khaki-colored maid’s dress hurried over, squeezing past guests.
“Are you deaf?” Modupe snapped. “Go tell the caterer to have the food ready to serve!”
“Yes, Ma,” Fatima said. She curtseyed and moved on with shame in her eyes.
“Girls, oya na! Go and congratulate your father.” Modupe ushered Patience and Margaret toward the crowd.
They lingered behind the attendees, who hugged him, shook his hand, laughed with him, and posed with him for photos. Then the crowd grew thinner.
“Smile,” the photographer said to Patience and Margaret once they were at his side.
Snap.
“Go greet my guests, o jàre,” their father said to them hastily before they could utter a thing.
“Yes, Daddy.” Patience pulled Margaret away.
“We have our instructions,” Margaret said. They both snickered. “Maybe you can redeem yourself with Mummy if you greet enough guests.”
“Oh, please. Mummy dearest will have many words for me once this party is over. I trust that.”
“Don’t worry, I will calm her down.”
“Margaret, I’m fine.”
“I know you’re fine, but Mummy doesn’t understand you the way I do.”
“I’ve told you, I’m not for her to understand.”
Margaret pressed her lips together and put her hand on Patience’s shoulder. “Let’s just get this done.”
“You know I hate socializing, especially with Daddy’s old friends,” Patience said.
“Just talk to as many people as you can.”
They walked in opposite directions.
Patience smiled and knelt slightly as a man walked toward her.
“Ah, you’re Chief’s daughter—Margaret, isn’t it? Congratulations to your daddy.”
“Thank you, Sa. I’m not Margaret, I’m Patience.”
“You’re not Margaret?”
“No, I am Patience, Sa. Patience Adewale. Firstborn of Chief Kolade Adewale.”
“Ooohhh, oookay. Patieeeenceee. You are the elder sister. Modupe is not your mum.”
“Yes, Sa, that’s me.”
There had been a time when she felt a gut punch whenever someone expressed the vagueness of her existence within her family. But over the years the feeling had been reduced to a dull pinch. Patience had come to understand it more as confusion than as outright disregard.
She grew anxious as the man began to brag about his son and how people should now call him Engineer Abidemi Adejobi, because he had finished his studies in Scotland, and he was ready to come home and work and build his first house, possibly on Victoria Island in Lagos, because Ibadan had become too small for him.
“Excuse me, Sa, I need to find my sister.” Patience walked on and didn’t wait for his response.
No more greetings, she thought.
She made a swift turn toward the exit of the tent, then started toward the house. She could no longer ignore the dampness un
“Patience,” she heard an unfamiliar voice call out. Who the hell is this now? she thought. She turned to find out. A tall, slender woman dressed in English attire—a lavender double-breasted skirt suit that looked like it was plucked from Princess Diana’s wardrobe—walked toward her.
“Patience, how have you been?”
Patience squinted as the woman came closer.
“Do you know who I am?” the woman said in a slight whisper.
“Oh . . . hello, Ma.”
The woman smiled again. “I’m Aunty Lola.”
Patience hesitated, still confused.
“I haven’t seen you in so long. Don’t worry. I know you don’t remember.”
“I’m so sorry, Ma.”
“Your mother, Folami, she was . . . she is . . . my best friend.”
Patience’s chest shuddered as she took a long breath.
“How are you?” the woman said.
“I’m . . . fine . . . I’m okay.” Patience smiled, hoping to conceal her shock. The woman leaned in to hug her. Patience softened into her embrace. The woman’s voice, her bouffant hairdo, the smell of sticky hairspray, her floral perfume—it was true, Patience had known her once. She hadn’t seen the woman since her mother’s departure ten years before.
“Wow, I’m surprised my father invited my mother’s friend to his party,” Patience said.
“Well, my husband is now commissioner of health in Lagos, and he’s known Kolade for years. We moved to Lagos a few months ago, so we are just here for the party.”
“I’m moving to Lagos next week to go to UNILAG. I finished SS3 this year.”
“Wonderful. My daughter, Bimpe, just finished at University of Lagos. Maybe you can meet with her when you arrive. She can tell you all about the school, I’m sure.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I want you to visit me at home so you can tell me about how you’ve been getting on. Please come and see me,” the woman said, now in a hushed tone. She dug into her purse and pulled out a pen and an address book, scribbled something, and tore the page out. “This is my address.” She placed the paper in the palm of Patience’s hand and clasped her fingers shut.
Patience felt like she was in a dream, standing with a person who had acknowledged her mother after all the years of her absence and all the years of her father and Modupe acting as if she didn’t exist.
“My father told me my mum went back to America. Is it true? Have you heard from her?”
“Patience, that is quite a long story. Please, when you get to Lagos, come to my house and I will tell you all that I know.”
“Aunty Lola, we can go to my room and talk if you prefer.”
“I know you must be anxious to know more, but this isn’t a good place for me to tell you anything. By now you know that your father doesn’t like to discuss your mum. We will talk.” The woman placed her hand on Patience’s shoulder and walked on. Patience turned and watched her approach a man. She stared as they mingled, then as they made their way along the path that led to the parking area.
Patience followed.
She peeked from behind a wall and saw them enter the back seat of a black Peugeot. The car pulled out of the driveway and pressed toward the exit of the compound. Patience looked down at the paper the woman had given her. Written with her name was her Ikoyi address. She tried to picture herself navigating the intimidating streets of Lagos alone in search of it. She would find her way there even if it killed her.
“So, how many people have you greeted?” Margaret said as she crept up behind.
Patience stuffed the address into her bra, then turned to her half sister.
“I hope you knelt down for people,” Margaret said.
“Yes, I did my greetings. But please, let us get out of these dresses. Aren’t you hot?”
“Very hot. Let me go find Mummy to let her know we’re going to change.” Margaret walked back toward the tent, braving the crowd of people again. Patience thought about her encounter with Aunty Lola. She needed a moment alone.
She decided not to wait.
She walked toward the back door of the house, climbed the winding staircase, and dashed into her room, locking the door behind her. She rushed into her walk-in closet and pulled the large quilt off a medium-size box, finding behind a thin sheet of plastic her mother’s jeweled black sweater, one meant for Christmas in cold American cities.
Then there were her mother’s books: To Kill a Mockingbird, Things Fall Apart, Oliver Twist. Patience read the title of the thinnest book: Becky. It was about the little Black girl who went out shopping with her mother and found a doll that looked just like her. Patience sat down and held the book against her chest. She flipped through the pages and remembered listening to her mother recite each word as she sat on the side of her twin-size bed in her parents’ former apartment in Washington, DC—her birthplace.
She dove back into the box and pulled out newspaper clippings: NIGERIAN SPRINTER TAKES HOWARD UNIVERSITY TO THE TOP; FOLAMI BAYONLE SETS NEW RECORD FOR HOWARD.
She searched through the box and pulled out her favorite photo of her mother—a lean and muscular woman dressed in a red, white, and blue track uniform, holding up one finger to indicate her victory. Patience remembered it displayed in the sitting room of the Ibadan bungalow where she and her parents had lived after they had left America behind.
She had thought of that photo when she joined her own school’s track team.
Her plan then had been simple: make it to the Olympics, so her real mum would see her on TV and locate her. But once practice had begun, Patience was startled by her own clumsiness and sluggish pace. She had quit after two weeks.
She shoved her hands back into the box and pulled out the letters, handwritten by her mother, the paper wilted and oxidized. Patience remembered her fallen tears sitting where the words had bled slightly from the page. One letter was addressed to her four years after she last saw her mother, the other to her father. No envelopes. No return address. Just folded pages.
March 5, 1987
My dearest Patience,
I really tried, but sometimes in life we have to accept when we lose. But like my own mother used to say, one loss doesn’t quantify a total journey. I named you Patience because you took your time. Twelve hours of labor before you arrived. Can you imagine? There was no other name for you. Please understand that the same patience you had in my womb and the endurance I had the day I gave birth to you will remain our link. One day we will meet again, and when we do, you will know what I’ve added to our lives. Let your daddy keep you for now.
Love,
Mummy
Patience had combed over every word each time she read the letter. What did she mean by accepting loss?
“I really tried,” her mother wrote so plainly with no further explanation.
What had she tried to do? Patience didn’t know, and her ignorance had devastated her time and again.
Patience unfolded the letter her mum had addressed to her father and began to read:
March 5, 1987
Kolade,
Please give Patience my letter to her. Please, for the love of God, let her read it. My errors were my errors. But I know who I was to you. I know I did my best when I was at my best. And you know what you did to damage me, even after I changed the course of my life to be with you and to be a mother to Patience. You made your choice long before we moved back to Nigeria. If you don’t give her the letter, please, I beg you, at least tell her I’m in America.
Most sincerely,
Folami
“Patience! Patience! Where is this girl?” Patience heard Modupe’s footsteps approach from the hall. She gathered her mother’s things, threw them back in the box, and pushed it into her closet.
“Yes, Mummy?” she called out. She ran to the door and unlocked it. Modupe burst in. Margaret trailed behind.
“Patience, kini o n ṣe? Today is an important day for your daddy, and you’re in here doing nothing. What is wrong with you?”
“Sorry, Mummy. I was looking for the skirt and blouse you made me.” She went into her closet and leafed through her clothes.
Modupe came in beside her. Patience hoped she wouldn’t notice her mother’s things spilling from the box.
“Look at it here,” Modupe said, picking the skirt and blouse out of Patience’s closet. “I wanted us to look elegant today, but you cut your dress. You young-young girls, you wear these short dresses and think you’ve achieved something. Patience, when you get to University of Lagos I hope you won’t be showing all your legs. Those men in Èkó, they are easily tempted.” Modupe tugged at her earlobe.
