Read Like a Mule Bringing Ice Cream to the Sun Online
Authors: Sarah Ladipo Manyika
Like a Mule Bringing Ice Cream to the Sun (3 page)
This year the shoes are red and suede and although they’re not cheap, or rather
because
they’re not cheap, they’re gorgeous. ‘Absolutely gorgeous,’ I whisper, freeing my hands in order to try them on. I have two traditions when it comes to birthdays. The first is to buy shoes, and this year’s shoes have a sensible wedge heel with a peek-a-boo toe. On the outside they’re a deep, plush scarlet red, and because it’s a big birthday, I match the shoes with my black chiffon dress and double string of pearls. Pearls that have accompanied me to all manner of places – from lunch with Mrs Gandhi to tea at Buckingham Palace, to this little place where I really must get round to replacing the broken glass in my full-length mirror. I climb onto the ledge of the bath and hold firmly to the edge of the door to
balance. This way I can see both the shoes and the dress in the bathroom mirror and imagine, right there, where I place the palm of my hand, the spot for a tattoo. For this is my second tradition, to do something new and daring with each passing year. Last year it was scuba diving, and the year before learning to swim. This year it’s the tattoo and it’s not just the fact of getting a tattoo but it’s where I intend to have it done that thrills me. I’d decided that something on the wrist or ankle would be too ordinary and this was my reason for wanting to talk to my bakery friend. I was hoping to ask her what she thought of bougainvillea – of a long fine thread of it winding its way up my back. Was that a good idea? It was also the reason for purchasing tulips in two different colours, wanting to know which shade she’d recommend or whether she’d suggest no colour at all – just the regular black. Was it black or dark green that most tattoos came in these days? And what colour would look best on my darker skin? My bakery friend has a Chinese dragon that spreads across her back with its feet perched on her thigh. She showed it to me unprompted one day, and explained how it represented her family’s heritage. She said she’d had it done in three sittings to manage the pain. I wonder how long it will take to do my flowers. Not long, I hope, because I don’t like needles. I cringe at the thought of all those childhood vaccinations for nasty diseases. Tetanus. Typhoid. Diphtheria. Yellow Fever. I wonder now if it might be better to choose a design that’s smaller. Perhaps I should just have a small sprig of bougainvillea – something like the size of one of Dawud’s gifts – inked at the base of my neck. I’d never have the courage for something as big as a dragon, but perhaps I could have a tiny little blossom, symbolic of the tropical
climes that I so love. Yes, I’m beginning to think that this is a good idea. What could be more perfect to mark my seventy-fifth than this? I twist for a better view and then, in mid-twist, I slip.
‘You’re lucky, ‘ says the Activities Director at the Good Life Rehabilitation Center.
‘Yes,’ I nod, because I know I’m lucky that a neighbour was at home to hear me fall. And I know that my injuries could have been worse, much worse. And were I not in pain I might have responded more cheerfully; instead I take a deep breath, willing my body into stillness and calm. But today my body wants nothing to do with its old yogi self. I’m feeling exhausted and don’t like the fact that someone has dressed me in a loose fitting T-shirt without a bra. And I don’t like the fact that this sweetly perfumed woman is sure to notice my sour morning breath. So I abandon my deep
anahata
breathing and turn my head, looking to the tabletop for painkillers.
‘What can I get you?’ the woman offers.
‘Nothing, I’m fine,’ I say, because now that I’ve found my glasses, I can see that she’s not that much younger than me. ‘I just don’t like feeling so disorientated.’
‘It’s because of the drugs, hon, still working their way out of your system. You must try to rest.’ She squeezes my hand gently.
‘Maybe I just need something to take my mind off it.’ I prop myself up so as not to be in such a helpless position.
‘Whenever you’re ready,’ she says, ‘we’ve got lots of activities. We’ve got ragtime music, which is happening as we speak, knitting circle and sewing circle … There’s even speed walking, hula hooping, and the iPad 101, which we’ve just added.’
‘Books are what I’d really love.’ I answer, wriggling my hand free.
‘Have you seen the library?’
‘No,’ I say. The books that I want are my own books, but the woman has already started to enthuse about the library. She proudly lists some authors who’ve come to speak as if I should have heard of them, but I don’t recognize any of the names. I suspect that none have great literary merit. Then the woman’s phone rings and she apologizes for having to leave. I, on the other hand, am relieved. Now that she’s gone, I reach across the bedside table for the one book that I do have and slump back into bed. I know I’m lucky, I know I am, but I don’t like being this fragile and feeling this out of control.
I’d packed the book in my earthquake kit years ago and then forgotten about both, but whoever found me after the fall must have discovered the bag next to the bed and thought it was my regular handbag. Funny how this emergency bag had come with me even though it wasn’t the sort of emergency I’d been planning for. Earthquakes and tsunamis were what I’d expected. But wasn’t that the thing about life? It was always the unexpected, those events not planned for, that got you in the end. I’d never much liked the feel or smell of this snakeskin bag but I’d kept it for nostalgia’s sake. An elderly Hausa trader had sold it to me in Kano and because I’d bought it at the market with my mother, and because the trader insisted that it would bring me good luck, I’d never got rid of it. The good luck I’d hoped for as a child was for God to cure me of my nearsightedness. I’d once read about a girl who’d lost her glasses, prayed for them to be found, only to be surprised when God answered her prayers by curing her eyesight. So this was the sort of miracle that I’d been hoping for. I’d even taken to rubbing the bag like an Aladdin’s lamp until it dawned on me that God might disapprove. Rubbing lamps in hope of magic wasn’t exactly the Christian thing to do. I’d probably jinxed my chances. But perhaps, after all these decades, this might now be the good luck moment that the trader had foretold, for there’s nothing else in the room to keep me occupied – a bed, chair, commode, a dresser with TV, and a tray of African violets on the windowsill. The little mauve flowers sit in a shallow plastic tray that might once have been someone’s lunch tray. And now that the pain is subsiding I close my eyes and focus on my breath. I’m breathing in, breathing out. What a dreadful list of activities on offer at this place.
I drift to sleep and imagine skydiving and belly dancing. And then I’m dreaming of racing cars at the Safari Rally where Buttercup and I speed towards the finishing line in a plume of red dust.
I awake to the sound of voices coming from outside. Spanish speaking. Someone mentions a party and then there’s laughter. I’m irritated by how much noise they’re making as I try shifting my torso for a less painful position. I cough to clear my throat then reach across the bedside table feeling around for a glass of water. My hand finds my glasses and the book instead, so I take them and try cheering myself with thoughts of home and the books awaiting my return. I keep the books that used to belong to my mother in my bedroom. All her Beatrix Potters are in the tiny shelves behind the glass doors of the cabinet. The dictionaries and magazines sit at the bottom and everything else lives in between. Caesar wouldn’t have approved. He would’ve said the place was too cluttered.
I was twenty-two when we were married, and Caesar thirty-seven. Caesar was younger than my father, but not by much. He had my father’s confidence and self-assuredness but, unlike father, Caesar was world-travelled and university educated which meant he spoke with scholarly knowledge (not just personal conviction) on what was best for Nigeria, what was best for our continent. I was proud of the way people listened to Caesar – of the way people leant forward so as not to miss a single word he said. Caesar spoke quietly, almost inaudibly at times, which was one of the characteristics that initially drew me to him; but over time this mannerism lost its allure and I began to see it as nothing more than practiced charm. I lost faith in politics
and grew impatient with those clinging to my husband’s every word, with the women especially, who flattered him, making him think he could and should become Nigeria’s next president.
Antonio was initially Caesar’s friend. He had come to Nigeria as Brazil’s first black cultural ambassador. He was a photographer and soon beloved by the Lagos elite as much as by those on the streets and villages that he most enjoyed photographing. He was younger than me by several years and a follower of the Candomblé religion – two more reasons (in addition to him being Caesar’s friend) why I didn’t expect to fall for someone like him. But then I also hadn’t expected to be married to someone already married. In the end it was Antonio rather than the preacher that I went running to when I learned about Caesar’s first wife. Antonio was the man who always had time for me, the man for whom pomp and ceremony meant nothing, and the man who asked questions that had nothing to do with the perfunctory. The man that took photographs and believed in the power of art, that believed art could change the world. It was enough sometimes for me just to recall the touch of Antonio’s hand brushing against mine to feel aroused, and then to fantasize about what it might feel like to do more. I imagined many forbidden acts, many places where we might travel together, where we’d dance, laugh, and make love. I imagined being fearless even while wrestling with the fear of betraying my husband (in spite of his betrayal of me) and the fear of being shamed in front of all our friends and in front of Antonio’s sweet wife. Most of all, I feared disappointing my father who’d suffered enough shame with my mother’s death.
The message gives no details beyond Morayo’s name: nothing about how or when and only that such-and-such a number could be called for more information. It takes me some time to find anyone who knows about the case, but eventually a nurse confirms that Morayo is indeed in hospital, that she’s had a fall and is undergoing hip surgery. Shocked, I recall my many promises to have tea with her and bring the boys. Every week there’d been some new excuse and I hadn’t gone.
St Mary’s Hospital isn’t far from the boys’ school so the following morning, after dropping the children off, I buy flowers and drive there. I hadn’t checked the visiting hours but decided, if anyone questioned me, I’d just say I was Morayo’s daughter. I’m sure this is how Morayo would have described me to the hospital staff anyway, ‘Sunshine, my daughter.’ So I take the elevator to the seventh floor, pleased when nobody stops me. The area around Morayo’s
bed is cordoned off from neighbours by a plastic floral curtain and I find her on her back, breathing through her mouth. Gently, I place my hand on her wrist and whisper hello. A few stiff white hairs sprout from her otherwise dark eyebrows. I’m sad to see her looking so tired, and older than the last time I’d seen her. I pat her hand and whisper that I’ll be back. I need to put the flowers in water. There’s a side table but no vases. I should have thought of this before.
They’re busy at the nurses’ station but after a few minutes someone offers to help, and after several more minutes of scrabbling around I’m given a plastic water cup. It’s inelegant and too small, but I do my best to make Morayo’s favourite flowers stand up straight while the same nurse now attends to her.
‘Hello Mrs Da Silva,’ the nurse repeats. ‘How are you feeling? Sleepy? You have a visitor.’ Then turning to me, ‘It’s the drugs, you know, that cause the drowsiness. Mrs Da Silva?’ She keeps calling until Morayo opens her eyes, squints at the nurse and then at me.
‘Hi,’ Morayo whispers, a smile of recognition lighting her face. She tries lifting her hand from the cover then drops it when she sees the intravenous drip attached to the back of her hand.
‘I’m so glad you’re okay,’ I stroke her arm.
‘Sunshine?’
‘Yes,’ I smile.
‘Is every, every?’
‘Everything’s fine,’ I say, sensing her struggle with the words.
‘She’ll be tired for the next few days,’ explains the nurse, as Morayo’s eyes flutter for a moment then close again. ‘She’ll do rehab, then physical therapy. The good thing is that recovery from hip surgery is usually quick. It’s what happens afterwards that you gotta keep an eye on, honey. Gotta keep her moving. You don’t want blood clots. She’s gotta get those muscles strong again. You don’t want repeat falls, that’s the danger to watch for.’
I’m careful not to touch anything as I leave the hospital. I press the buttons of the elevator with my elbow and as soon as I step out, I pull out a hand sanitizer, meticulously wiping my fingers and then the length of my arms, before disposing of the wipe. I do it again, just to be sure, before checking my phone for any new messages.
I know Morayo’s building well. Ten years ago I used to live there and that’s when we first met – one emotion-filled afternoon. My in-laws had been staying, and the strain of having to be the dutiful, doting daughter-in-law in a too-small apartment, with Zach still in diapers and Avi a colicky newborn, had proven too much for me. I’d fled to the laundry room trying to pull myself together, but as soon as Morayo asked what was wrong I’d burst into tears. As sometimes happens with the unexpected kindness of strangers, I found myself telling her everything. I told her how inadequate I was feeling, for it seemed that no matter how hard I tried I would never be good enough for my in-laws: never lady-like enough, never subservient
enough, never educated enough, but most of all, never “Indian enough”. It was the latter that bothered me the most until Morayo reassured me by saying, ‘There’s no such thing, darling, as being “Indian enough”, no such thing as one Indian culture.’ And because she was the same age as my in-laws and because she’d lived in India as well as in Africa, I trusted her.
When I arrive at Morayo’s apartment and open her front door I’m surprised to find how hot and musty it is and how cluttered. ‘My God,’ I mutter, looking around at all the books and papers. When was I last here? Surely not that long ago? Books are everywhere, strewn haphazardly across the shelves, some with spines facing inward, others facing out. Nothing on the shelves is arranged alphabetically, even though several months earlier the two of us had spent a whole day alphabetizing her books. Now, like abandoned children’s toys, I discover many more books tucked away in clothes drawers and cupboards. Nothing seems to be in order, and if I didn’t know Morayo better, I might have wondered at the state of her mind. But nothing’s wrong with Morayo. Or is there? Papers and unopened bills are piled on the table. How would I find time to clear it all up? I’d have to hire someone, but there’s no time for that now either. All I can do today is make sure the lights are switched off, check that there’s nothing that needs to be thrown out in the fridge, and find a few books to take on my next visit. ‘But which books, for Christ’s sake?’ In her bedroom I find two newer-looking ones, including a memoir by Maya Angelou. At least I’ve heard of her. Morayo is always giving me books to read but most I find to be too dense, which is why I’m pleasantly surprised to discover a stack of glossy
romance books next to her bed. ‘Not what I would have expected from you, Professor Morayo,’ I laugh to myself. But then again, perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised. Morayo was so uninhibited, so open and unconventional in comparison to most old people. There couldn’t be many women of her age who would choose to spend their savings on a beautiful sports car. I go to the kitchen, pour out the dregs of several accumulated mugs of tea and wipe down the surfaces. I’m almost ready to leave when I hear a rustle. I turn, and then scream when I see what’s perched on the stove. By the time someone comes, the mouse has long gone. Disappeared behind the oven to meet what I imagine must be a multitude of brothers and sisters.
I call Francisco, the man who helps me with odd jobs. Two days later I leave him in Morayo’s apartment to sort through things and when I return, the home is beautifully transformed. Surfaces are cleared and books are standing upright on the shelves. The larger books that don’t fit on the shelves are stacked in piles – duplicates in one pile, exactly as I’d requested.
‘And the mouse?’
‘Gone,’ Francisco declares. ‘Gone. But let me tell you something, this woman, I think she’s keeping money everywhere. I find it in the books; I find it in the kitchen. It’s everywhere, you know, like maybe she’s too scared to go to the bank or something. I don’t know, but here, look …’
He hands me a stack of dollar bills; everything from one-dollar bills to a hundred, and several of those too.
‘Maybe you need to tell her not to put money in all these places.’
‘I will,’ I nod, ‘Thank you. And the other books?’
‘The torn ones? Those ones, I threw them away.’
‘You what?’ I gasp. ‘But, I didn’t ask you to do that. I said the old newspapers and magazines. Not the books.’
‘You said to me to throw all the torn stuffs away.’
‘But no, that’s not …’ I pause. I want to say
you must have misheard,
but I see from Francisco’s aggrieved look that this will make things worse. The last thing I want is for him to feel offended by me saying his English isn’t good. He’s always complaining about people who are prejudiced against ‘Latin people’ and I don’t want him treating me like just another racist gringo. ‘Okay,’ I manage, ‘but now we’ve got to get the books back.’
‘You want me to look in the garbage? It’s a big garbage.’ He says, raising an eyebrow.
By the time I get to the basement where the garbage bins are kept, I can’t see the books. Whatever Francisco had thrown away is now buried beneath other people’s trash – pizza and cereal boxes, glass bottles and soda cans and plastics. So much plastic! I briefly consider emptying the bin on the floor and sorting through it. Madness. By now the books would only be more ruined. So I tell myself that maybe this isn’t as disastrous as it seems. Maybe most of those books should have been thrown out anyway. Morayo has so many books, too many books, more than she has room for. So
I leave the basement and the following day, the bins have been emptied.