A Bit of Difference (31 page)

In the morning it is the same. Her mother has two phone lines, which are both dead, so she uses a cell phone. She still doesn't have a driver, so getting around will be tedious. Deola shows her mother how to turn on the cable television, a service for which her mother pays and forgets to use. The cable company is based in South Africa, and here in Nigeria, they can watch CNN and American sitcoms. Her mother enjoys
Everybody Loves Raymond
.

Lanre drops in at lunchtime. Deola has no idea when he found out she is pregnant or who told him, but he pats her shoulder and says, “Hang in there.” For an awkward moment he looks as if he is contemplating doing the Ali shuffle around her and punching her, anything that might take her back to her asexual days.

They laugh about the doorknob and the frozen food. Lanre says her mother doesn't throw anything away and is reluctant to spend money on repairs. He spends practically all he earns on his house so he can live comfortably. He has a well on standby for water shortages, during which his houseboy pumps water to filter and boil. Diesel is his biggest expense because of his electricity generator.

“That's if you can find diesel to buy,” he says. “That's if, when you buy the diesel, they haven't gone and mixed it with something that can ruin your generator.”

Deola panics, not at the idea of sending drivers on diesel explorations or making them queue overnight during petrol shortages, but ending up with that warped air of self-satisfaction people in Lagos have when they talk about their daily ordeals. Lanre advises her to sell her Peugeot 205 and buy a Peugeot 505, which can easily be serviced.

“Since you're a Peugeot person,” he says. “But let me warn you, armed robbers like Peugeots.”

“How will I manage?” she asks.

“Small matter,” he says.

With relish, he tells her about the other difficulties she will face: traffic, poor quality repairs and servicing, stupid and devious house help. Mosquitoes. Good schools are expensive and so is pediatric food and medicine. Any serious illness and she would have to get on the next flight to London, if she wants to survive.

“I'm just warning you,” he says, when he notices her expression. “There is so much frustration here. Too much. People will harass you, insult you and waste your time. They can't stand to see you happy or successful. They must bring you down somehow, and they're not the ones who are trying to rob you of your money, or your life. Every day, you're fighting to hold on to what you have and to stay alive. What you will go through here will make you want to run back to London. That is Lagos for you.”

“Why does everyone keep saying I should come home, then?” she asks.

“Because,” he says, “Abroad, you can have it all—money, good health and security—and it's as if someone is chipping away at your backbone every day with that racialism rubbish. I can't deal with that.”

z

On Saturday, Lanre visits her again, this time with Eno and the boys. They eat pounded yam and okra stew for lunch and afterward, instead of allowing the boys to watch a DVD, they entertain them with stories about Lagos of their childhood. For the boys, this is like a history lesson. They have never played in their neighborhood because it is too dangerous: armed robbers might attack. They are transported from an air-conditioned car to an
air-conditioned room because of malaria.

“Remember when that sports car almost ran you over?” Deola asks.

“It was a Porsche,” Lanre says.

“He asked the driver if he could take a look inside afterwards. Can you imagine?”

“I was a bush boy. It was the first I'd ever seen in my life. What was I to do? Remember when I fell out of the pawpaw tree and I almost concussed myself?”

“Where was Mummy when this was happening?” Deola asks.

“Mrs. Bello,” Lanre asks. “Where were you when your children were roaming the streets aimlessly after school?”

Her mother is in the sitting room. She can't hear what they are saying because she is listening to a Pearl Bailey album. “Takes Two to Tango” is playing.

“Taking a siesta,” Lanre says, “and dreaming of Harry Belafonte.
Day-O! Day-O!”

Eno laughs harder than the boys, who might not have not heard of Harry Belafonte. Eno might also be settling a grudge. Deola's mother has treated her the same way she treated Deola, ignoring her comments and accusing her of absenteeism.

“Remember Plaza Cinema?” Lanre asks.

“How can I forget?” Deola says. “That's where we first saw a film in a cinema,
Born Free,
and those badly behaved American kids kept putting their feet up on our chairs. Remember how Jaiye told Mummy you bought cigarettes there when you just bought bubblegum cigarettes?”

“Jaiye was an Amebo.”

“Amebo!” Eno says. “I remember her! Wasn't she the gossip on
Village Headmaster
? Now, I wish you boys could see that on DVD. Remember Doctor Bassey?”

“Dio, dio,” Deola sings.

“What?” Timi asks.

“Dr. Bassey was a character on
Village Headmaster
,” Eno explains. “He was Efik, like Grandpa. He sang like this: ‘dio, dio.'”

“What is
Village Headmaster?
”

“It was a TV program.”

“Come,” Lanre asks. “Didn't you steal my Lorne Greene trading cards?”

Deola laughs. “I never stole your Lorne Greene trading cards.”

“You did, and I beat you up.”

“Why were you always attacking your sisters?” Eno asks. “Couldn't you find a little boy to pick on?”

“She deserved it.”

“Don't worry,” Deola says. “My father beat the crap out of him.”

Lanre nods. “Very abusive family, the Bellos.”

“What are Lorne Greene trading cards?” Timi asks.

“Like Pokémon cards, darling,” Eno explains. “Yu-Gi-Oh and all that.”

“You had those?”

“They were only a penny,” Deola says.

“You had pennies?” Banwo asks.

“Pounds, shillings and pence before naira and kobo.”

“When we changed currency,” Lanre says, “we couldn't go out to play for a while because of
gbomo gbomo
.”

“What is
gbomo gbomo
?” Timi asks.

“I know,” Banwo says, raising his hand. “Kidnappers.”

The boys don't speak Efik or Yoruba. They only speak English. If asked they will say they are Nigerian.

“We were told they would cut off our heads and use us for juju,” Lanre says.

Timi holds his neck. “Oh, Mummy, I feel sorry for you.”

“I was in England then,” Eno says, smiling. “We didn't have juju over there.”

“Come on, clear off,” Lanre says. “Calabar juju is the most potent.”

“We're talking about England now.”

“England has juju! What's the difference between psychics and
babalawo
?”

“We drove on the left side of the road,” Deola says to Banwo.

“Why?” Timi asks.

“Because Nigeria was a British colony.”

“What's a colony?”

Eno taps him. “Stop asking questions. Just listen.”

“These children don't know a damn thing, man,” Lanre says. “All they know how to do is to watch DVDs. That's why they all have ADD. Remember comics?”

“You read
Buster
and I read
Mandy
,” Deola says.

“And
Archie
,” Lanre says.

“I wanted a sea monkey,” Deola says.

“Your aunty and I used to ride from here to Ikoyi Club to buy comics,” Lanre says. “Sometimes we walked. There was no traffic. Ikoyi was safe back then.”

He is still a member of Ikoyi Club, which has survived the dilapidation in Ikoyi. His driver takes the boys there. They compete in swim meets. Banwo is taking tennis lessons—he wants to be like Andre Agassi—and Timi wants to play golf like Tiger Woods.

“I met your mother there,” Lanre says. “She was a heavy chick.”

Banwo pulls a face. “Heavy?”

“You mean…” Timi says, widening his arms.

Eno pushes his shoulder. “Who was fat? I was very skinny. It's because of you I put on weight.”

Timi hugs her. “Sorry. I ruined everything.”

Eno pulls his nose. “Look at you. Just sit still and listen for once.”

“When your mum was at Holy Child,” Deola says, “and your dad was at Saint Greg's, he wrote her a letter saying she was the only flower in his desert.”

Banwo bangs the table. “No! This cannot be!”

“He had an Afro, which he used to pat into shape like this. His shirts were always buttoned low, his collar stuck out and he wore a cross medallion.”

Timi covers his mouth. “Ooh, Daddy.”

“I didn't have a medallion,” Lanre says.

“Seyi Davis had the medallion,” Eno says. “But they both thought they were cool, with their sunshades and Old Spice.”

“Seyi D,” Lanre says. “Are you still in touch with Bandele?”

“Yes.”

“What is he doing with himself these days?”

“Writing.”

Lanre shakes his head. “He would be.”

“He's doing well,” Deola says.

Lanre taps his head. “Is he still…?”

“That was long ago.”

“He was a strange
bobo
.”

“Too
oyinbo
,” Eno says. “More
oyinbo
than my mum. Why was he like that?”

“Different schooling,” Deola says. “Look at my father's family.”

Lanre gets up. “My bottom is scratching me.”

“It must be all that pepper you keep adding to your food,” Eno says, laughing.

He goes to the toilet and she whispers, “Or nerves. He says you and Jaiye have gone haywire and I shouldn't follow you.”

“Don't mind him. You are his whole life, you and the boys.”

“I keep reminding him.”

“You don't have to. He's not a fool. My old man made sure of that.”

Pearl Bailey is singing “Let There Be Love” and her mother is snoring.

She and Eno share more of their childhood memories with the boys. Eno sings the jingles for Cortina shoes and Minta Supermints. The boys block their ears. Deola tells them about trips to UTC at Christmas. The store had a choo choo train, which would take her into a dark grotto. She would wave to her mother. Father Christmas was always fat and brown with cotton wool for hair. She would want to run away from him, but he would persuade her to sit on his lap and take a photograph. For what? A plastic yo-yo in a cellophane bag, every year.

After a while, they get tired of talking about when times were good for them. Lagos has changed.

Her mother is still asleep when Jaiye calls from Jamaica and wakes her. Surprisingly, Jaiye isn't upset that Lulu and Prof are with her mother-in-law. She speaks to Deola afterward.

“Let her have them,” she says. “I'm free of that family. Don't be sad for me. Daddy is giving me strength and look, don't listen to Mummy. All she wants is for you to be married. Don't let her or Aunty Bisi push you into anything. No family meeting if you don't want one. Stand your ground.”

“I will,” Deola says, feeling tired.

“To think I cried over Funsho,” Jaiye says. “How I abused him in front of his mother. I told him he had to leave, otherwise he would end up killing me. She said I was rude to him. Me, Jaiye. She said, ‘Just because your father gave you this house, you think you can treat my son like a woman.' I told her to take her son. She said she would take her grandchildren, too, so I asked her, ‘How do you know they are yours?' She almost fainted. Funsho had to lift her up from the floor. I warned her, ‘Never, ever talk about my father again.' She walked out, then Funsho said he would slap me if I ever insulted his mother again. Me, Jaiye. I told him that if he dared, just dared to lift his hand, he would never forget what I would do to him. He thinks I'm playing. He doesn't know me yet.”

“Princess Diana,” Deola hails her.

The closest any wife in Funsho's family came to challenging his mother was to suggest she was being unfair. Funsho had this to say about that incident, “She was trying to do women's rights, until my brother gave her a dirty slap.”

Deola worries about repercussions. She blames Jaiye's attitude on the gangsta rap Jaiye listens to. Then it occurs to her that Jaiye is fighting for her life.

Princess Diana was gangsta, she thinks.

z

Wale seems to be the only sensible person around. Deola drives to his house on Sunday on the pretext that she is visiting Ivie. She would see more of him if she didn't have to give the impression that he is in Abuja. They sit on his veranda. His air conditioner is too cold. Outside the rain falls quietly and she can smell cut grass. He says he will tell his family about her after she returns to London. That way she will actually be in London when he says she is.

“You can't just lie to them?” she asks, impressed.

“It's not that,” he says. “I like to keep my life simple.”

His life is no longer simple, thanks to her. She does most of the talking. He rests his elbow on the arm of his chair and cups one side of his face. His expression changes from dismay to amusement as she tells him about her family. Lanre will find him overly serious and will definitely think believing in time is pretentious. Jaiye would probably like him. Her mother will love him. Respectful is the exact word she will use to describe him. Calm and respectful, unlike her own children. Her father would have been disappointed. “I don't care what the boy is like,” he would say.

“My family is crazy,” she says, after a while. “I'm sure your family is more sane.”

“I don't know about that, but we are quieter.”

“You are quiet.”

“Me? I'm just listening.”