Wahala, page 19
Didier draped the fabric around his shoulder and struck a pose. How dare he be more comfortable than her? Resentment flared and came out as spite. ‘You’ll look like a prat in an African outfit. It’s not a costume, you know. It’s culture. Your appropriating it is almost as bad as blackface.’
Didier laughed, her venom wasted on him.
‘Boo!’ Ronke said. ‘Don’t be horrid. That’s like saying Kayode isn’t allowed to wear a suit. My mum wore native all the time in Lagos. Take no notice, Didier. Rafa’s going for it and he’s so excited.’
‘Rafa? Why’s he going?’ asked Boo.
‘He’s my date,’ said Ronke. ‘Kayode can’t make it; he’s doing something else.’
Doing someone else, thought Boo. ‘Typical,’ she said out loud. And then felt bad when Ronke’s face reddened. It wasn’t her fault her boyfriend was a cheat. Boo closed her eyes and tried to shake the word ‘cheat’ out of her head.
‘Let’s measure this little one first.’ Patience pulled out a pad and pencil. ‘You won’t need much cloth – you’re a skinny little thing.’
Sofia stood on tiptoe to make herself taller as she always did – the height chart on the back of the door was forever two inches out.
‘How did Isobel find you?’ asked Boo.
‘Ehn, I’ve known Miss Isobel since she was little girl, longest time. When she call me say come sew cloth in London, I know say God don butta my bread! Her mama was my best customer in the old days. Beautiful woman. Very shapely, ehn. You know white people no get bottom, but Mrs B, she get am, o!’
‘Papa is white, and he has a bottom,’ said Sofia.
‘White people’s bottoms are like pancake. You are lucky your mama has Naija blood. Or you might have pancake bottom too. Where are your people from, Miss Boo?’
‘My people are from Yorkshire,’ snapped Boo.
‘My bottom is round!’ Sofia stuck out her bum.
Didier stuck his bottom out too. ‘Mine’s bigger than Mama’s. Maybe I’ve got some Nigerian in me.’
‘Ikebe super,’ laughed Ronke as she patted her own backside.
Patience cackled. Boo squeezed her bottom in. She was standing a foot away from the group and it felt like an abyss. My home, my family and still I don’t fit in. You don’t want to, said the voice in her head.
Ronke passed Boo her phone. ‘How about something like this for Didier?’
Boo looked down. A man wearing a tunic with slim trousers. She laughed. ‘It looks like a dress. Didier would never wear that.’
Didier peered over her shoulder. ‘I like it. Is there enough fabric?’
‘Yes, o! Plenty, plenty. Miss Isobel’s costume only requires one yard.’ Patience kissed her teeth. ‘I swear, that girl is allergic to cloth.’
Once they were measured, Sofia dragged Ronke to the garden to meet her slug. Didier followed. Boo hoped Patience would leave. ‘More water?’ she asked half-heartedly.
‘Yes, please, Miss Boo.’ Patience handed Boo her glass.
Boo filled it from the tap. ‘So have you known Isobel long?’ she said to break the silence. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized they’d already covered this.
‘Oh yes, since she was a small girl. Her mama was my best customer. She is still my favourite.’
‘She’s still in Nigeria?’ asked Boo, surprised.
‘No. She fled in ’ninety-one when everything scattered. She no go return. She was good to me – gave me money to set up my shop. And she remembers me at Christmas, sends me Western Union from Moscow without fail. God bless her.’ Patience eyed Boo from crown to toe. ‘Now what of you? Let me make you one nice dress. You don’t want to look like a trespasser.’
‘Thanks, but I’ve got something to wear.’
‘Na your choice be dat. I go make you handbag and headwrap. The aso ebi be like entry ticket – it shows you belong.’
The last thing Boo wanted was a bloody headwrap. ‘That will be lovely,’ she said. If only belonging was that easy.
THE HOUSE FELT WRONG WITHOUT Sofia. Boo was used to being home alone or home with Sofia or home with Didier and Sofia. What did couples without children do? What had she and Didier done in the years before Sofia? What did Simi and Martin do? They went out. A lot. But they must stay at home sometimes. They couldn’t be having sex all the time. Could they?
Didier rubbed her shoulders. ‘How about I run you a bath?’
She could drag a bath out for half an hour. Forty-five minutes even. But she didn’t want to sound too keen. ‘Hmmm … maybe. Why are you being so nice?’
‘I’m always nice. And I want you to be happy. Lately you’ve been so uptight.’
‘I’m not uptight.’
‘Sorry. Stressed? Angry? I don’t know. Help me out here, Boo.’ Didier lifted her chin and gazed into her eyes. ‘One minute you want to work full-time, the next you don’t want to work at all. I can’t say the right thing. You’re not you any more. So talk to me.’
Boo pushed his hand away.
‘What’s wrong, Boo? Are you unhappy? Depressed?’
‘Trapped,’ Boo whispered.
‘Pardon?’ said Didier sharply.
‘Nothing.’ She rubbed her temples.
‘You said trapped.’
‘If you heard me, why did you say pardon?’
‘What’s trapping you? Is it me? Sofia?’
‘Of course not. I don’t like being called uptight.’ Boo stood up. ‘Look, forget it. I’m going to have a bath.’
‘Fine. Take your time,’ said Didier coldly.
She ran the bath, stepped in, stepped out, wrapped a towel around her and went back downstairs.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why I’m being such a cow. I can’t even blame my hormones. Maybe it’s a midlife crisis?’
‘You’re thirty-five.’
‘An early midlife crisis?’
‘Well, you have another reason to hate me. I forgot to book dinner and everywhere’s fully booked.’ Didier looked defeated.
‘I don’t hate you.’ Boo moved over to his lap, climbed on and kissed him. ‘I love you.’ Her towel slipped and he bent his head and kissed her breast. She felt herself respond. It didn’t feel seedy. She didn’t feel exotic. An image of Neil flashed into her head and her stomach lurched.
‘Stop! I’ve left the bath running.’ She jumped up, clutching the towel around her.
‘We could share it.’ Didier leapt to his feet.
‘I’m not in the mood.’
‘We haven’t had sex in weeks. What’s wrong, Boo?’
‘There’s nothing wrong. I’m allowed to not feel like it.’
Minutes later, she heard the front door slam. She closed her eyes and sank under the water. But it didn’t help – the guilt went with her.
When Didier got back, dripping with rain and laden down with groceries, he was contrite. As if he had been at fault. ‘I’m sorry, ma chérie,’ he said. ‘Let’s start again. You’ve always loved my vongole.’
‘No, I’m sorry, Didier.’ Boo rubbed his wet hair with a clean towel. ‘I know I’ve not been nice lately. I’m going to snap out of it. I do love you.’
Boo sat at the island while Didier scrubbed clams. She told him about Ronke’s stalker turning up and Kayode hitting him. Ronke had said pushed, but Boo reckoned she was playing it down.
‘Thank goodness he was there.’ Didier filled a pan with water and added a fistful of salt.
Boo bit back the too much salt comment. ‘He nearly got arrested for assault.’
‘Then the police are stupid. He was protecting the woman he loves. I would do the same if anyone touched you or Sofia.’
For the first time in for ever, Boo felt comfortable. She considered telling him about Simi – how she hadn’t told Martin she’d got pregnant. It was illogical (and cruel), but part of her wanted Simi to seem like a bad wife. As if it would make her seem like a good one. But Martin was Didier’s best friend. And Simi was hers. She couldn’t betray her.
After supper, Boo sat contemplating her life as Didier washed up. Her phone pinged. Picture messages from Ronke. ‘Come,’ she said, taking Didier’s hand and leading him to the sofa. They flicked through the images together. Sofia and Ronke with slices of cucumber over their eyes, in party dresses. Sofia wearing a pair of Ronke’s shoes, in the kitchen. Sofia making Jenga out of fish fingers, on the bed, surrounded by toy soldiers and cushions. Didier laughed. Boo kissed his neck. The phone fell to the floor. They made love in the kitchen, like they used to before Sofia. He felt right. He smelled right. It was comfortable. It was wonderful.
21
Simi
SIMI REPEATED HER MANTRA: Three more sleeps till I get my flat back. Ten more sleeps and I’ll be with Martin in Vermont. I can get through this.
Mama Tosan seemed to have upped her game this time around. Simi’s pristine flat had turned into a dump. Each evening there was more crap to trip over. Why in God’s name had they bought two sheepskin rugs when they lived in one of the hottest countries in the world? And a massive wicker picnic hamper, complete with chintzy blue and white crockery.
‘Mama T, you live in Surulere, not Hampstead,’ Simi had said, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice.
‘Ehn, we can have picnic in the Harmattan, when it’s cold,’ her stepmother replied. ‘I saw it on the TV, Downton Abbey programme, so elegant.’
Cold? You were lucky if it dropped below seventy-five in Lagos. And there was zero chance of them sitting outside, being eaten alive by mosquitoes. ‘Lovely,’ Simi said.
With Dad and Mama T in her flat, Simi’s office should have been her refuge. But it wasn’t. The Chitrita Phaishan pitch had not gone well. They hadn’t had an official ‘no’, but Simi could feel it in her bones – it was going to be another failure. A repeat of Shanghai.
‘Sorry, not the right fit,’ the headhunter had said. Simi had expected it but the rejection still hurt. She hadn’t mentioned any of it to Isobel, whose constant flattery and praise made Simi feel worse, if that was possible.
Simi was always on edge when Dad was around, and without Martin it was worse. Today she’d had a panic attack at work, the second since Dad arrived. Her hands shook, her knees quaked, her heart thumped. She managed to hold it together until she got to the loo, locked herself in, took big gulpy breaths. She knew the drill: own your accomplishments, separate feelings from facts, love yourself, break the silence. But she had no accomplishments. She felt like a failure because she was a failure. And as for breaking the silence – she’d tackle that once she was with Martin in Vermont.
When she got home that evening, Simi crossed her fingers as she turned the key. Dad and Mama T were meant to be spending the night at Olu’s, babysitting the wonderful (terrible) twins. Thank God. That was another thing: the constant thanking of God was infectious. Simi had done it at work today; Gavin had given her a worried look.
The flat was dark and quiet, and she stepped cautiously in. She turned on the lights in the sitting room. It was tidier. Not up to Essie’s usual standard, but she couldn’t blame her – it was difficult to clean around so much stuff. The coffee table was piled with rubbish. Two Bibles (his and hers); a three-inch-thick wad of filthy naira notes, bound together with an elastic band (less than a fiver in proper money); four pens with chewed lids, three notebooks, two Argos catalogues (they had a real problem with sharing); a tub of multivitamins; a blood pressure monitor (Dad was a hypochondriac who checked his blood pressure twice a day) and two pairs of reading glasses.
On top of all the junk was a note from Essie.
Greetings, Simi. I tried my best, but I ran out of time. I had to run an errand for your daddy. Please can you settle next time – I have left the receipt. Kind regards, Essie.
What the hell? She had told him Essie’s job was to clean, not cook, make tea, wash clothes, run bloody errands or offer short-term loans. This was so embarrassing. Treating her house like a hotel was bad enough. Treating Essie like a house girl was bang out of order.
Simi went to the kitchen with her sushi supper. Three pots were soaking beside the sink, another note from Essie sat next to them.
Simi, the pots need to soak for some hours. The bottom was burned. I didn’t want to scrape them. I know they are expensive.
Black specs floated on top of brown, dingy, spumy water. It made Simi feel sick. She donned rubber gloves and scrubbed. She wasn’t sure her beautiful, barely used, teal Le Creuset would ever recover.
It would be worth it if they were even a tiny bit grateful. But they weren’t. Dad had been sulking since he’d arrived. Nothing was good enough. She should have been at the airport to meet them, taken time off work to ferry them around, stocked the cupboards with proper food. Simi explained that work was busy, pointed out that he’d given her no notice. He scowled and compared her (unfavourably) to Olu: ‘Praise God, Olu shows respect for his father. He booked his annual leave as soon as I informed him of my visit.’
No praising God for Simi, who had paid for the cab from the airport, whose flat they were squatting in, who had spent last weekend at their beck and call – even though she was wiped out with jetlag.
‘You should take Wednesday off and follow us to Madame Tussauds. Spend some time with the twins. Olu never sees you. He said you are a stranger to your niece and nephew, Simisola! It is not good, o.’
‘I’ve got meetings on Wednesday,’ Simi explained. ‘I could do Friday?’
But no, Friday was no good. Olu needed them to babysit so he could take his tired, stressed wife out for dinner.
Fitting around Simi wasn’t important. She wasn’t important. And nothing she did would ever be good enough. This wasn’t new. She’d known it all her life. So why did it still piss her off?
She headed to her bedroom, shutting the spare room door, but not before she saw the mess inside. Two huge open suitcases on the floor – billowing clothes and shoes. What was wrong with using the wardrobe?
She stripped off and put on her workout clothes. Gym. Shower. Sushi. Meditate. Sleep.
Three more sleeps till I get my flat back. Ten more sleeps and I’ll be with Martin.
SIMI HAD JUST COME BACK from her run when Dad and Mama T, terrible twins in tow, barged into her room. They didn’t even have the decency to back out when they saw she was half-naked.
‘Ah-ah! Still lazing about at this hour? Abeg, get up,’ said her dad. ‘The children are hungry.’
Simi backed into the en suite. ‘What are they doing here?’
‘Olu had chores. When it’s your turn, you will understand. And you should stop wasting time, sha: you are no longer a spring chicken – approaching forty.’
‘Where did you get this effigy, ehn?’ Mama T picked up the Ife head. ‘It fine pass, o! Where is my own?’
Simi shut the bathroom door and screamed silently.
After a quick shower, Simi took the brats to McDonald’s. She let them order whatever they wanted, which turned out to be nuggets drowned in gunky sauce, McFlurry ice creams and full-fat Cokes. If Olu was bothered about what they ate, he should have fed them.
Simi checked her watch. Two. Ronke was due at six with the dresses from Patience; they were getting ready for the party here. She picked up her phone.
Ronks I need you. I’m babysitting the twins. You need to rescue me. It’s for their own safety. Please come soon. Like RIGHT NOW. Sx
When they got back in, Dad was snoring on her sofa and Mama T was in the kitchen chopping onions – smashing Martin’s Japanese Global cleaver on to the white Carrara marble worktop. Simi managed to swallow back a yell. She grabbed the green Joseph Joseph chopping board out of its nest and slammed it down. ‘Please use this. I don’t want scratches on my marble.’ Chopping boards existed in Nigeria, but sometimes Mama T acted like she’d never left the bush.
Mama T ignored the board. ‘You are back at long last. Where are the tin tomatoes?’
‘Did you buy any?’
‘All normal people keep tin tomatoes.’
‘I don’t. I don’t cook.’
‘A woman must be able to cook or she won’t keep her husband. Ehn, you must go to the shop. Let me write a list. And take the children; I don’t have time for them now.’
‘But I’ve just got back,’ said Simi.
‘Daddy is hungry,’ said Mama T. ‘Do you want him to starve?’
When Simi returned for the second time, the flat smelled acrid (Mama T believed in burning food to get rid of the germs) and Dad was awake. But there were sunlit uplands – Ronke had texted, saying she was on her way.
Simi dumped the kids in front of the TV and collapsed into the armchair opposite her dad. ‘Did you have fun at Olu’s? Were the kids good?’
‘They are wild. No discipline. They need to come to Nigeria and learn manners.’ He picked up his notebook and put on his official face. ‘Simisola, I need to talk to you. Olu is planning to do an MBA to bolster his career prospects. He’s an academic so he won’t have any problems. And we will all rejoice when he can put MBA after his name, in addition to LLB Hons.’
‘First I’ve heard of it,’ Simi said cautiously. She would rejoice if Olu held down a job and stopped sponging off her.
‘He wanted to discuss it with me first. Of course I am delighted – he has my full blessing.’
‘Good for him.’ Simi stood. ‘I’m going to make a coffee. Do you want one?’
‘I don’t drink coffee at this time. But wait now, I am talking to you.’ He waved her back to her seat. ‘Olu needs our support. He doesn’t want to take advantage so he will do it part-time. That way he can continue to work.’
‘Big of him.’ Simi knew where this was going.
‘The exchange rate is so bad. Nearly three hundred naira to the pound. Can you imagine? I remember in 1986 it was twenty naira for one pound. You don’t know how we are struggling.’
