A Bit of Difference (29 page)

“Would you like something to eat?” he asks. “I'm sure you're hungry. You know what? I'll get the kitchen to prepare something for you.”

He turns to Ivie, who raises her hand as if he is offering her poison.

“No, thank you,” she says. “I've already eaten.”

Deola sees her off. The driver is parked outside. The street is residential and barely illuminated by the security lights of neighboring houses. Night watchmen guard their gates. The driver opens the door for Ivie.

“Maybe we can manage him,” she says. “At least your child won't be ugly.”

“Look at you,” Deola says.

Ivie laughs and waves. The security guards padlock the gates after Deola walks back in.

Wale does not stay in the hotel: he has a bungalow behind it. There are a couple of wicker chairs in his veranda, which is covered with mosquito netting. Indoors, he has oil and acrylic paintings by Tola Wewe in startling primary colors and enough space in the room to study them closely. His sitting room is like an uncluttered gallery.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Not bad.”

The air conditioner is too cold. She crosses her arms and comes to a stop at a computer table. He has one of those flat monitors she has been meaning to buy. On his table is a cigar box, bifocals, a Marvin Gaye CD and a framed close-up photograph of a teenaged girl who has eyes like his.

“Is this Moyo?”

“Yes.”

“She is a pretty girl. Do you smoke cigars?”

“Only for show.”

“Are the glasses also for show?”

“I can't read without them.”

“I see you like Marvin.”

The CD is
Let's Get It On
. She is not keen on the song. She prefers “Distant Lover.” There is a pile of newspapers on the floor as high as the table. She is desperate for something else to say.

“You read a lot of newspapers.”

“That's all I read.”

“I haven't been following the news.”

“Why not?”

“I haven't had time.”

In London, she reads local newspapers online via Nigeriaworld.com and finds herself drawn to headlines like “Vision of Mary Appears on Latrine Window” and “Woman Gives Birth to Stone.”

“Have you heard that our president is seeking an extra term?” Wale asks.

“I've heard.”

“We might have a Mugabe on our hands. I just wish every Nigerian could read the newspapers so they can know what is happening in this country of ours.”

“What about computers?” she asks, trying to avoid the conversation they should be having.

“What about them?”

“Not every Nigerian can afford one.”

“We have radios. Radios connect us to the rest of the world.”

“But you turn on the radio these days and all you hear is ‘Yo, yo, yo.'”

All that yo-ing was from disc jockeys putting on American accents. They copy American accents to the horror of those who copy British ones.

“That's in Lagos,” he says. “There are good regional programs outside Lagos,
in Yoruba and other languages. People are always saying Africa needs to catch up with the computer age. I think it is the other way around.” He frowns. “Have you seen your doctor?”

“Yes. She says I'm fine.”

“What does your family say?”

He sits and so does she, struggling to believe they are having this conversation. How should she speak to him? Formally? Casually? She relies on her hands.

“My mother is probably getting to know as we speak. I will see her tomorrow. I just want to find out where you stand.”

“Me? I'm prepared to do anything, anything you want. I know you would prefer to be married.”

“Married? Who said?”

“I just assumed, since that is how things are done.”

She laughs. “Done where?”

“I'm just saying. I can imagine there will be pressure on you.”

“To do what? No one will force me to do anything. At my age, you're just a donor.”

“I hope I'm more than that.”

“Will you be a father?”

“Of course, but can't we be a little friendlier?”

“Sure…”

“Give me a moment, please. If I don't say this now, I may not be able to.”

She was about to agree with him, but she keeps quiet, hoping that his “give me a moment” won't later develop into “let me finish” or “shut up.”

He presses his palms together. “I don't pray. I haven't prayed in years. I know that may sound unusual to you because everyone here prays. God this, God that. You know how it is. I don't understand it. I think it's arrogant to believe you will be spared just by praying. The other day I read somewhere that we rank number one in a survey as the happiest country in the world and I
thought, Yes, that makes sense. Religion and oblivion go hand in hand. I used to pray. I prayed for Moyo's mum and that didn't turn out right. She was a doctor and she was advised not to have a child, but she did anyway. She joined a church. All that. I don't pray anymore. But recently, I was tempted to and I thought if there is a God, I have left Him to His own devices, the way I have left women to theirs. That was how I was able to sleep that night. Does this make sense?”

“I think so.”

She has the same attitude to God as she has to men. Sometimes, she gives her trust and other times, she can't. His grief gave him a clarity that she lacks. Her father's death simply left her bewildered. What if she never saw him again? What if the whole afterlife business was a lie? What if everyone was saying, “Yes, it exists, it exists,” but thinking, Damned if I know it does. She hopes the dead don't miss their survivors. She hopes a lifespan is a mere blink for them. She would like to hear more about Moyo and her mother, Ronke. How did he feel when Moyo was born? Was he angry with Ronke when she died?

“What were you tempted to pray about?” she asks.

“That Moyo would have a family of her own before I die. Does that sound morbid?”

“It's practical.”

“Did I tell you she was with her cousins?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“The summer holidays can be rough for her. I'm between here and Abuja and she doesn't want to travel with me. I can't leave her unattended, so she stays with my sisters in Lagos. She says they have normal families.”

“It must have been hard to bring her up on your own.”

“I would have been finished without my sisters. My mother lives in Ibadan and she is in her eighties now, so I didn't want her running around.” “How many sisters do you have?”

“Four. Moyo stays with my stepsisters. We grew up together. I also have two half-sisters, but we're not close.”

“Your parents were divorced?”

“No. My mother was not married to my father when I came along. His family didn't actually know I existed until he died. He left me this place. His family wasn't happy about that.”

“The Adeniran family?”

“Yes. My father is… was J. T. Adeniran. He was a lawyer. I'm his only son.”

“When were you tempted to pray, before or after we met?”

“The day you called from England. I was thinking how lucky we were to get over that hurdle, and the next time I heard from you, I was a father.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. It was like juju.”

She laughs. “But it doesn't make sense chronologically. You were probably a father when I first called.”

“You think time is linear?”

“How else can time be?”

“I don't know, but I'll be older than my old man in a few years. Calendars are linear. I don't think time is linear. I believe in time, though.”

“In time? How?”

He shrugs. “There I was thinking I was doing my child a favor by keeping our lives simple. I never let any woman get close to her because I didn't want anyone mistreating her. As it turns out, I have been selfish to her. I met you and at first I thought, what is going on? Now everything begins to make sense. Time provides all the answers.”

She is not sure he is right, but she nods.

“I don't think you were selfish. Nigerian families are too complex.”

“Would you like me to come with you to see yours tomorrow?”

“It's best I go alone. If you don't mind, I would rather not meet your family yet. Have you told them?”

“No. I haven't told anyone. It will be hard to tell Moyo, though.”

“You think she will take it badly?”

“I'm not sure, but it's not exactly what any girl wants to hear from her father, and we're in that phase. Don't get me wrong, she is a wonderful girl, brilliant and very smart, but she doesn't want to listen to anything I have to say. All she wants to do is get on the Internet, send texts and walk around in those low-cut jeans.”

“Low-rise.”

“They're very unhygienic.”

“Come on.”

“But they are. I asked her, ‘Can't you find jeans that fit?' She said they were the latest fashion so I'm not allowed to talk. Last weekend she wanted to wear them to a party and I told her she couldn't. When I was her age, boys were more civilized. Now, it's another story with hip-hop.”

Deola smiles. “My sister is in her thirties and she loves hip-hop.”

“I don't mind hip-hop. I just don't want my child dancing in those jeans. She said if she was not allowed to wear her jeans, she was not going to the party.”

“She said that?”

“I couldn't believe it. The girl is headstrong. I felt so bad, but I don't remember my sisters being like that. My mother always worked and it was just her raising us. She had no time for nonsense. If she didn't approve of what you were wearing, it was coming off. These days, children will argue with you until they wear you out.”

She laughs. “Or until you beat them.”

“Beat her?” he says. “No way. What will that teach her?”

He takes her so literally. She imagines Moyo is testing him. She can't believe he hasn't figured out Moyo wants to be with his sisters so he can't keep tabs on her.

“What were you like as a teenager?” he asks.

“Awful. I didn't even get along with my brother and sister.”

His phone rings and he answers it. “Excuse me. Hello? Yes, what is it? I said you should bring it here. No, I didn't say that. What is wrong with you people? Can't you follow simple instructions? No, bring it here. Yes, yes, she is here. Hurry up!”

“Who was that?” Deola asks, after he hangs up.

“My barman.”

“Why shout at him like that?”

“Don't mind the man. This place is like Fawlty Towers. If you don't shout, they don't listen. The next thing you know, he will be surfing the Internet and running up my bills. He can't remember anything. I told him to bring your food here.”

“Call him back. I'll go and eat there.”

“You don't want to eat here?”

“I want to take a shower and there is no guarantee I will keep my food down. I should go anyway.”

“Go where? You're always going. From the day I met you, you've been going. Where are you going? I was hoping to hear more about you.”

“You, who can't pick up your phone to call somebody?”

“I didn't want to get a damnation.”

“When did I damn you?”

“‘Why did you sleep?' ‘Why would I call you if I am not sure?' It's not very encouraging. I'm used to a more…”

He stands up to accompany her and she begins to make light of her grievances. Perhaps she was rude and defensive. Perhaps he is just lousy on the phone.

“A more what?” she asks.

“It's like trying to get through barbed wire with you.”

“I'm not a cheap chick.”

“You didn't know that before?”

She pats his face. He has some nerve. First, he assumed she would be eager to get married and now he is assuming she will find him funny. He didn't even ask what she wanted to eat for dinner. He assumed that, too.

“You know I didn't do this on purpose,” she says.

“I know,” he says.

She realizes what it is about him that appeals to her. He makes no attempt to charm her.

z

Her mother is splendid in her disappointment the next morning, magnificent in her displeasure. Her face, bare of makeup, gives just the right touch of gravity to her appearance. Her
adire
scarf is tied high turban-style, like a crown of vindication, and her voice has an oratorical tremor. She stands in the sitting room and addresses Deola and Aunty Bisi in Yoruba.

“I ought to have been told, from the moment you knew. I ought not to have been kept in the dark for this long. I ought to have been given that respect, as a mother. Bisi, you should know better.”

“
Ma binu
, Sister,” Aunty Bisi says, motioning for her to sit. “Don't be angry.”

“No, no, no. My child gets on a plane as you're telling me about her condition?”

“We didn't want you to be upset.”

“Upset? What is there to be upset about? Is this sickness or death we are talking about? This is not a matter to be upset about, and I will not have anyone making decisions on my behalf. Anyone at all. I decide what will or will not upset me. I ought to have been told. I ought not to have been kept in the dark, and that is my issue. I have nothing left to say. No. Let me speak. I have not finished. I have dealt with far worse situations than this and you of all people should know, Bisi.”

“
Ma binu
, Sister.”

“I am not angry. I am not.”

Deola is surprised by her own state of tranquility. It is almost as if her womb has formed a protective shield around her. The chair she is sitting in is comfortable and the air conditioner hums. She is sleepy. She falls asleep easily these days and doesn't wake up until morning. After her nausea dissipates, she eats and drinks more than she used to. Her womb draws her energy. She observes the charade between her mother and Aunty Bisi. Her mother is angry with her, not with Aunty Bisi, and Aunty Bisi is not sorry. In fact, Aunty Bisi is overjoyed. It has been a while since she has been called upon to act as a mediator.