A Bit of Difference (21 page)

“What is going on over there?” Jaiye asks.

Deola shakes her head. “God knows.”

“Old hags,” Jaiye says.

Even Lanre is stunned by Jaiye's insolence. He seems to have forgiven Deola, though, and he asks, “Do you want me to come to the airport?”

“Don't worry,” she says. “It's too dangerous.”

“You're going back to work on Monday?”

“Yes.”

“England is too strict, man. What happened with your NGOs?”

“One of them was questionable. Do you know much about microfinance?”

“Enough.”

“Is Trust Bank involved in any of that?”

“We don't advance money without collateral.”

“But you sponsor community projects. Why not a microfinance scheme?”

“What for?”

“Consider it charity money.”

He nods and she can tell he is approaching her idea from a business angle.

“It can't do our image any harm,” he says.

There are more commemorative cups and food wrapped in foil paper on the dining table, but the faces, smells and sounds are Deola's keepsakes. She sits and absorbs them in her final moments, knowing that the comfort she has here will not last much longer.

She leaves her mother with a full house and Aunty Fadeke sings “All Will Be Well” in Yoruba, an octave too low. She is glad to be leaving Lagos. Lanre's driver takes her to the airport via Third Mainland Bridge. She is not to tip him too much. That might spoil him. The sky turns orange on the way. She feels queasy with each jolt and pepper burns the back of her tongue.

“Is it bad with the armed robbers?” she asks the driver.

“Very,” he answers.

His name is Mr. Mashood. He has a quiet pride, unlike Comfort, who sulks whenever she is called and has to be corrected several times. Comfort parades her discontent, which doesn't earn her much sympathy. Mr. Mashood is always courteous, as if he has decided that antagonizing his employer is not worth his while.

During lunch, Deola saw him in the garage, eating his share of the caterer's food with a spoon and clicking it against his top teeth. He bowed slightly to greet her. She might not have noticed him had she not lived overseas and had the experience of being ignored at work.

Now she considers his safety from armed robbers as she sees his eyes in the rearview mirror. Whenever she is on her way out of Lagos, she gets the impression she is emerging from a thick fog she hasn't been aware of. After they pass Third Mainland Bridge, she checks her phone for incoming calls and messages and she has none. She returns her phone and remembers Wale's recorded greeting that ends with a “
Shalom
.”

The Business of Humanitarianism

L
ondon is unusually hot for this time of the year. Autumn should be sneaking in at the beginning of August, but there isn't even a suggestion of wind outside and the air conditioner inside Kate's office blows out nothing but dust.

“It's global warming,” Graham says to Deola.

This is his explanation for any variation in the weather, even when the temperature drops. There have been longer summers in the past. He stands up and smacks his thigh. Their meeting is over and he is leaving the office for the day as he is flying to Kenya tonight.

“Be prepared for more heat,” Deola says.

“It's winter there,” he says.

“All over?” she asks, wondering if Kenyans call this time of the year winter. “Where are you going, Nairobi?”

“Mombasa,” he says, widening his eyes.

He takes great pleasure in saying this. His reports on his international travels are a change from embellishing his morning commutes from Kingsbury. He slouches as he leaves the room.

“So,” Kate says, “we're okay with Dr. Sokoya, then?”

Kate has recently had a haircut, which makes her look younger. She also has color in her cheeks now.

“Yes,” Deola says.

“But not with Rita Wachuku.”

Kate will attempt to pronounce “Nwachukwu”; Graham won't, despite his familiarity with world cultures. He will struggle over a Russian name, though, and might even bite off his tongue to get a French name right.

Deola didn't bring up Elizabeth Okeke's allegations when he was around and she doesn't intend to. Only with other Nigerians will she admit there is rampant corruption in Nigeria.

“They're not organized at WIN,” she says. “Rita wants something and Elizabeth wants something else. Elizabeth was talking to me about a microfinance scheme. She didn't want to involve Rita, but I promised her I would follow up with you.”

Kate sighs. “I got a phone call from Rita while you were there. She said she would like to meet me when she comes here. She's quite keen. She seems really nice.”

“She is.”

Deola won't admit that Nigerians sometimes trust foreigners more than they trust each other, but did Kate not hear her suggestion about the microfinance scheme?

Kate claps. “Ooh, and I heard from Anne last week. She says Dára made a huge blunder in an interview over there. He said he's for polygamy, or he doesn't think polygamy is wrong, or he would practice polygamy. Something like that.”

“He did?”

“Yes, and they're up in arms about that in the Atlanta office.”

“Don't they have polygamists in America?”

“I'm not sure. I think the polygamists are in states like Utah. I should ask Anne about that. She was pretty upset about the whole business. She doesn't think Dára ought to be our spokesperson anymore.”

“Because of that?”

“Yes, that's what I thought, but she's a bit earnest, Anne. Americans can be earnest, and puritanical. I think he's a little green, that's all. He'll get better at interviews.”

“He seemed okay when I saw him on telly the other night.”

Kate wrinkles her nose. “He's green. You'll know what I mean when you meet him.”

“I'm meeting him?”

“Definitely, at the launch. Do people talk about him in Nigeria?”

Deola nods. Nigerians admire success overseas, even when they don't

understand how the success came about or think it is justified.

“Anne's flying in next week,” Kate says.

“So she said.”

“She'll probably tell you more about what happened. Elucidate. You know she and her partner are trying to have a baby?”

“Yes, we talked about that.”

“Oh, you know she's…?”

“I know.”

Deola hopes her expression is impartial. She would do the same for Kate, who now pretends she wasn't soliciting gossip.

She points. “Ooh, and Pam's coming in with her baby today.”

Pam doesn't come in until after lunchtime. She has a shy smile and a rusty voice. Her dreadlocks are tied back with a wrap. She wears silver bangles, which she jingles at her son. He is in a light blue bodysuit and nautical bib. He has so much hair and his eyes are focused. He sucks on a dummy as Kate carries him in the corridor. She coos and rocks him and is about to hand him over to Deola when she changes her mind and hands him back to Pam.

“I forgot,” she says. “Keep away from Pam. She'll get you pregnant.”

“How would I do that?” Pam asks, laughing.

Kate opens her office door. “Don't act as if you don't know, Pamela Collins, you fertility goddess you.”

She is barely in her office when Pam rolls her eyes. Do
oyinbo
women do this? Deola wonders. Signal to one another surreptitiously, “Here we go again”? Pam has only two children. How is she a fertility anything?

“Is he sleeping through the night?” Deola asks.

“Yes,” Pam says. “He's a good baby. He doesn't give me any trouble.”

z

On her way home in the tube this evening, Deola thinks of Pam's baby, whose name is Mathew. She would never give her child an English or biblical name. Her family would be mortified. She pictures Mathew's bodysuit. Why light blue? Why not pink? How did that color code arise? How did it become almost universal and what is the purpose of having separate names for girls and boys?

These thoughts preoccupy her until she walks out of her stop at Willesden Green, behind a couple of elderly Indian women who are wearing jackets over their saris. They remind her of her trip to Delhi.

She tells herself she has to have an HIV test. She will have to if she is to become a mother someday, especially if she has to resort to artificial insemination. She really ought to find out her status beforehand. The side effects of the progestin pills are minimal now, and she expects her period to be earlier or later than normal this month.

At home, she checks her e-mail. On the morning she arrived, she called her mother and sent e-mails to Lanre and Jaiye. Lanre replied with a short “How are you? Hope you are fine.” He and Eno were off to Portugal with the boys. Jaiye still hasn't replied, which doesn't surprise her. Jaiye is lazy about answering e-mails.

Afterward, she searches the Internet for information about HIV tests. She does not want to go through her GP. She would not want to use a private doctor either. They would keep records. What are the implications? Would her records remain confidential? A clinic would be safer. She could give herself any identity and remain anonymous. She looks for the nearest clinic and finds one in Brent and another in Southwark. She chooses the latter.

As she takes down details, her hand trembles. She would like to pray, but it makes no sense to pray for what might already have happened, or to pray for what countless of people have prayed for without getting their desired results. If she is HIV positive, she might never pray again.

She says a quick prayer anyway, in case Wale lied to her, whimpering to herself, “Help me, Lord,” but this does not calm her down. What if he infected her? What if she infected him? What would happen to his daughter? The ramifications are extensive and possible, so possible that she shakes her head until she doesn't contemplate them anymore.

She calls the clinic on her cell phone. Same-day HIV tests are by appointment only. She says hers is due to an emergency and she sounds convincing enough because she is genuinely tearful. Going to a clinic has to be right down there with going to a triple-X flick on her own. The receptionist says, “We have a late cancellation, but please let us know as soon as possible if you're not able to make it.”

“I will,” she says.

She takes a bath and goes to bed, telling herself she can change her mind anytime. She doesn't have to show up. It helps her to fall asleep and she has a dream she can't recall, but she wakes up at the purgatory hour and lies there as blue merges with orange in the sky.

z

Her appointment is at five o'clock on Wednesday afternoon. She arrives at the clinic early, hoping she will not see anyone. The temperature has dropped considerably this evening and she squints from the wind in her face. Her heart rate increases at the sight of the redbrick building. She walks up the wheelchair access ramp. She played the gambling game on her way here and the traffic lights were in her favor.

There are two men in the waiting room, possibly in their late twenties or early thirties. One has rockabilly sideburns and the other wears cuffed black jeans. The receptionist stands behind the shelf and hands over a registration sheet and a pamphlet.

“Fill this out,” she says, smiling. “Make sure we have a means of contacting you.”

Deola sits by the water fountain, opposite the men. For her name, she writes “Angela Davis” and she fakes a date of birth that would make her a mere twenty-seven years old. She gives her cell phone number. No, she does not want them to contact her GP. Afterward, she skims through the pamphlet, which asks, “What is HIV?” “Have you been at risk for infection?” “Should you have the test?” The pamphlet assures her, “You cannot catch HIV from hugging, kissing, sharing a cup or toilet seat,” then raises her fears with, “Test negative or positive?” She stops reading after the list of disadvantages of being tested, the first of which is prejudice and discrimination.

She is reassured when she meets Dr. Srinivasan. It is hard to tell her age, but she is certainly not fresh out of medical school. She has
shoulder-length hair and shadows around her eyes. Her accent is from East London.

“How can I help you?”

“I would like to get an HIV test. I may have been exposed recently.”

“Recently?”

“Less than a week ago.”

“How were you exposed?”

“Through sex.”

“Anal, oral or vaginal?”

“Vaginal.”

“Were you with a casual or regular partner?”

“Casual.”

Dr. Srinivasan's expression is solemn. “I'll have to ask you a few questions about your previous sexual partners as well.”

Deola lies. She says she had sex six weeks beforehand and has had up to fifty partners. What difference will it make? She has not had any sexually transmitted illnesses. Dr. Srinivasan asks if she would like to test for chlamydia and gonorrhea and she answers, “For everything.”

“For the HIV test,” Dr. Srinivasan explains, “I'll take a blood sample and you'll have to wait outside for the result.”

Deola's heart knocks against her ribs until the sound blocks her ears. She can't hear a word Dr. Srinivasan says after this. What about her cough that didn't go away? Her constant fatigue? How will she walk out and drive home if her test result is positive? How will she tell her mother? Who will tell her mother? How will her family cope with the news?

“Are you all right?” Dr. Srinivasan asks.

“Yes,” she says, but she wants to cry.

She takes shallow breaths as she changes into an examination gown and shuts her eyes when Dr. Srinivasan takes swabs and draws blood from the vein. She is eleven years old again with sore breasts, thinking she has cancer. She is telling her doctor she has a pain in her “chest” because she can't say the word “breast.” He is putting a stethoscope to her chest and listening to her lungs and he is saying, “You're perfectly fine.”