Web of Lies (2 page)

Sade drummed her fingers on the gate. No sign of Femi. She was aware of an unwelcome pair of eyes, behind narrow black shades, roaming freely over her. On the other side of the road, diagonally across from the school entrance, Lizard Eyes posed his long, lean body against the wooden fence as if he were in a designer jeans ad. Sade suspected he had chosen his position deliberately. On the billboard above him, a silver coupé gleamed against a spectacular golden sunset, ready to roar across open desert dunes. He probably fancied himself as the owner…among other things. The only difference after nine months seemed to be his hair—tight cornrows with little tails that looped up above his neck. A frilled-neck lizard! She wished she had the courage to say it to his face. But merely the thought of being within breathing distance of him made her feel ill.

A gang of students surrounded him, all boys except for
his sister, Marcia Richards, and her friend Donna Layton. Both girls were in her tutor group and—like everyone else within hearing—Sade had picked up the gossip. A stranger listening to Marcia’s tales might have thought that her brother had gone away to a holiday camp for a few months. The tale that no one doubted, however, was that Lizard Eyes had become a “babyfather” while he was away. The “babymother” had also been in year eleven at Avon High. But as soon as it was known that the girl was pregnant, she had disappeared. People said that she had gone to live with relatives out of London. Shortly afterward Lizard Eyes also vanished. The first rumor was that he had been charged for making an underage girl pregnant. Marcia shut up anyone who asked her, but she didn’t actually deny it. When the real reason for her brother’s absence was printed in the local paper, however, no one was surprised. There were not many ways that a sixteen-year-old in this part of South London could afford new designer outfits almost every week.

With her back turned to the gang across the road, Sade kept her eyes trained on the glass entrance doors. She willed Femi to appear. Would he really just ignore Papa’s lecture? If he had gone home ahead of her, he wouldn’t be able to get into the flat until she arrived. Heaven knows who would be hanging around the stairwell. Femi had been begging Papa for weeks to give him his own key, but their father had stubbornly resisted. He wanted Femi to come home with Sade.

By four o’clock she had started to panic. Hurrying home, she risked the shortcut between the derelict petrol station and the half-finished houses from which thieves
kept stealing the building materials. Young men sometimes hung aimlessly around the old garage—one reason for normally avoiding this path, even though it saved at least ten minutes. Fortunately, no one was there today. As she came out from a stretch of overgrown grass, she could see their gray concrete block of flats, but there was no sign of Femi anywhere along the second-floor balcony. He wouldn’t be waiting by the stairs because of the smell. She scanned the pavement around the block. Children sometimes rode bikes there, but today it was empty. She breathed rapidly as she took the stairs two at a time. No one was here, either. Only debris in the corners.

She was fiddling with her key in the lock, wondering what to do next, when their neighbor Mrs. Beattie poked her head out from next door. Her pink scalp shone through fine silvery strands of hair.

“Ah, there you are, at last! I saw that brother of yours sitting outside on your doorstep. The poor mite looked quite deserted!”

Femi appeared from behind her. He avoided Sade’s gaze while Mrs. Beattie continued.

“I said to myself, was it not my Christian duty to ask him in? You know what types hang around here. But he’s been safe with me, and I’ve given him a good cup of tea and a slice of apple pie.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Beattie,” Femi said politely.

Sade had difficulty restraining herself until they were inside their flat.

“Why didn’t you wait for me?” she demanded in a fierce whisper. The walls were thin, and she didn’t want
Mrs. Beattie hearing her shout.

Femi ambled toward his bedroom, head bent, shutting her out.

“I didn’t see you,” he mumbled. “Too many people…Papa is crazy!”

Before Sade could reply, he had slammed the bedroom door.

F
RIDAY
5
TH
S
EPTEMBER

Sade was dancing in their tiny kitchen, listening to her Discman and waiting for the rice to boil, when Papa arrived. On weekdays he had only an hour to rest between his day work at the Refugee Center and night work driving a cab. Sade had once asked how his head didn’t burst from listening to so many sad stories at the center.

“An information officer needs a head like a good oven,” he said. “It gets very hot. You have to let the stories cook inside without the oven exploding.”

His image had made her smile. Papa had become a good cook in England. On weekends he took charge of the kitchen, usually making a big pot of stew and black-eyed beans on Sunday, which lasted them for a few days. Sometimes he boiled yams, fried plantains, or made
egusi
soup. He had learned to cook as a student, but Mama had
always presided over the kitchen at home. Papa tried getting Femi to help. But Femi’s interest never lasted long, and he would rather slip away to watch television. Later, if he complained that Papa had used too many red peppers, Papa would say that Femi should have stayed to check him. Femi’s standard retort was “You wouldn’t have listened to me anyway.” During the week, however, Sade prepared supper. Trying to involve Femi usually meant an argument. It was easier to leave him alone. Only patient Mama had known how to charm him.

The three of them sat at the small table in the kitchen to eat. Sade imagined that suppertime reminded Papa of his newspaper office in Lagos. She and Femi were the cub reporters with Papa in the editor’s chair between them. He never accepted that “nothing happened.” Even Femi knew this. Today he told Papa there had been an accident in school and a teacher’s finger had been nearly cut off.

“Who said it was an accident?” Sade interrupted. “Fla—I mean, Mr. Gordon said there was an incident, not an accident. Weren’t you listening in assembly?”

Femi gave her one of his blank looks.

“I don’t have any more news,” he said to Papa.

“Did you two walk home together?”

It was the question Sade had been waiting for. She stared at Femi. Let him give Papa his excuses before she swung in! But Femi remained silent as a stone. Papa looked from one to the other, his eyes glinting behind his spectacles.

“You disappoint me,” he said quietly.

His words cut Sade. She was ready to deny, to accuse.
But her complaints suddenly boiled dry. What was the point? Papa had heard the soundtrack before. The only thing he hadn’t done yet was to beat Femi.

“Bad things can happen anywhere, Papa,” Sade heard herself say as Papa’s gray tufted eyebrows rose like untidy flags. “Bad things can happen even at the school gate. We meant to walk together—but sometimes things go wrong. Like today—I was late because my English teacher was talking to me about writing a play. You should let Femi have a key, Papa! He was waiting outside the flat alone and Mrs. Beattie took him in. She said it was her ‘Christian duty.’ It was so embarrassing!” Sade knew that Mrs. Beattie’s holier-than-thou words would irritate her father. She waited for the storm.

But it didn’t come as she expected. Instead, peering at her over the straight gold rims of his glasses, he said softly, “You know it’s not just these local thugs that I have to think of….” His voice trailed. He didn’t need to say anymore. Sade fell silent. The gunmen who murdered Mama in their driveway in Lagos had long arms. How could she ever forget the voice over the phone?

If we get the family first, what does it matter?

She knew that Papa, who had always been so open in speaking out, now wrote his articles about Nigeria under a made-up name. She knew why Uncle Dele had taken a job in an art college outside London. Papa’s younger brother had been in England longer than any of them. He had been active in the Nigerians for Democracy movement until he began to receive death threats around the same time that the gunmen had come for Papa in Lagos.
He had left London a year ago and said openly that he felt safer in his small village in Devon where he was the only Nigerian. He joked how General Abacha’s agents could be spotted a mile away in the countryside. But it wasn’t really funny. It was because of Abacha and his soldiers that they were stuck in this small flat with windows into which the sun hardly ever shone. Why else would they want to live thousands of miles away from their real home with its spacious, airy rooms, surrounded outside by flowers with colors of sunrise to sunset? Sade no longer even asked Papa when he thought they might return. Recently they had watched a wildlife program in which a hyena sank its teeth into the buttocks of a giraffe. Papa had said it was just like General Abacha.

That hyena won’t stop until he has torn off the flesh all the way up the neck. Abacha wants to lick out Nigeria’s eyeballs so there won’t be anyone left to see his crimes.

Even though she had been free of her own nightmares for the past few months, Sade knew that the nightmare in their country wasn’t over. Their father was not making things up.

Papa broke the silence, pushing his chair back and forcing himself up. He glanced at his watch. He was late. He would come home after midnight. No wonder his black hair had become peppered with gray in the last two years.

“Make sure you do your homework, young man, and not with the television on,” he said to Femi. “Remember that I’m the one asking your sister to check on you—for your own good.”

Femi offered to help Sade do the drying up. He didn’t even argue about going to bed. She took it as his way of thanking her for asking Papa to give him his own key. He must have been really surprised. Indeed, she had surprised herself.

F
RIDAY
5
TH
S
EPTEMBER

The first thing Femi saw on the kitchen table on Monday morning was a key. It was placed in front of the chair where he usually sat. Papa’s head was bent toward the little radio. Femi’s first instinct was to run and hug Papa, but a tight little string inside himself held him back. He knew that Papa was going to talk to him when he had finished listening to the news. It was something about Africa. That meant Papa would be listening even more intently.

“Nigerian Alpha jets attacked a ship docked in the Sierra Leone port of Freetown yesterday. A Nigerian commander claimed that it was carrying nerve gas, arms, and ammunition to supporters of the military coup that forced President Kabbah of Sierra Leone to flee from Freetown in May earlier this year.”

Femi’s ears pricked up at the mention of Nigerian jets.
Normally he would not have bothered to listen.

“Leaders of twelve West African states recently voted to impose a blockade on Sierra Leone. They have called for the coup leader, Major Johnny Paul Koroma, to hand back power to President Kabbah and his democratically elected government.

“Nigerian troops are leading the joint West African force and have warned all ships to steer clear of Freetown harbor. Only those with food and humanitarian aid are being permitted to enter. A spokesman for Major Koroma accused the Nigerians of causing chaos in Freetown and killing civilians in the bombing.

“Last week Major Koroma sent a message of sympathy to Britain on the death of Princess Diana. He said that the people of Sierra Leone would remember the princess for her compassion as well as for her stance against land mines.”

“Ehn! Ehn! Rogues and more rogues! Wolves who dress up as sheep are everywhere!” Papa turned the volume down on the little radio. He picked up the key and held it out to Femi.

“I’m not happy about this, but your sister made the case. Following in her judge uncle’s footsteps at home! She argues just like your uncle Tunde.” That was high praise from Papa. “So, young man, this is your first key. Make sure you don’t lose it.”

“I won’t, Papa.” Femi wanted to leap and dance around, but he kept his head lowered as he stretched out his hand.

“This doesn’t mean that you can come and go as you
please. I still want you and Sade to walk home together. This is only for emergencies, do you understand?”

Femi grasped the key and promised.

In school he showed the key proudly to Gary. Gary was an only child and was used to having his own key. When he congratulated Femi, however, there was no hint of mockery. Femi felt unusually happy. With his key in his pocket, walking home with his sister no longer seemed such a burden. It was strange how he even felt sharper in lessons over the following days. The jigsaw of so many different teachers, books, rules, classrooms, and corridors was beginning to slip into place. He was going to prove to his sports teacher, Mr. Hendy, that he was a candidate for Avon’s lower school football team. The team practiced after school, and Papa would then have to agree to him coming home later on his own.

He even began to think that he had worried unnecessarily about the camera-eyes boy. He had seen him several times in the playground and learned his name when a girl had shouted, “See you tonight, James!” She and her friends had screamed with laughter as if it were a great joke. Each time James was in a crowd and didn’t seem to notice Femi. That was a relief. He was bound to ask what Sade thought of Errol’s message. It would be too embarrassing to repeat what she had said, even if James’s friend wasn’t the same Errol. Another reason for Femi feeling easier was that the rumors about the severed finger had died almost as quickly as they had spread. In assembly Flash Gordon briefly mentioned that the police were
making inquiries and anyone with information should come to his office. But it was only a sentence before a tirade on the state of the boys’ toilets.

“Hey, Femi bwoy! Where’ve you been hiding, little brother?” James slapped his palm against Femi’s hand.

“I haven’t!” Femi’s voice rose in denial.

“I reckoned you were avoiding me or something! Didn’t see you around.”

James maneuvered Femi a short distance along the corridor away from the door of the boys’ toilets that Femi had been about to enter. Femi smiled weakly. There was no escape.

“So what did she say, then?” James didn’t even say Sade’s name. Femi felt the webbing around James’s pupils close in on him. He mustn’t panic.

“Nothing.”

“Nah, come on, man, she must have said something!”

“She doesn’t talk about that stuff with me.”

The older boy sucked his tongue against his teeth and shook his head in mock despair.

“If girls don’t say things, you got to watch what they do! What did she do when you told her?”

“She threw her Bugs Bunny at me,” Femi said sheepishly.

“Yeeess!” James aimed a friendly punch at Femi. “She liked the message, then!”

Femi’s forehead creased with doubt.

“You got a sister and you know nothing about girls, man! What music does she like, then?”

Femi hesitated. It wasn’t a question he had been asked before.

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Different sorts. Like girl bands.”

“You say no, no, no, no…,” James mimicked. “I know that girl stuff! Does she go out much?”

“Our dad is too strict.” Femi shook his head.

“Tell me about it, man!” James laughed. “Mine was too! When he was around.” The last words had a bitter edge. Then his voice bounced back. “Your dad’s Nigerian, yeah? My friend says Nigerian dads are the worst for strictness!”

“If we want to go out, our dad must know everything.”

James nodded sympathetically. Femi took the cue.

“I want to see Arsenal play football, but he won’t let me go with my friend. He always says he’ll take me, but he’s always working. Even if I want to buy some Arsenal stuff, my dad wants to check it out, and then he says it’s too expensive.”

“That’s my team too, man!” James beamed. “Here!” He grabbed Femi’s hand and pushed something into it. “Get some Arsenal stuff, little brother. A present, right! I’ll see you around.”

Femi uncurled his fingers and stared at a twenty-pound note. By the time he looked up, James had disappeared.

Inside the toilet Femi folded up the note tightly and pushed it to the bottom of an inside pocket of his back-
pack. He would tell no one, not even Gary. Only Uncle Dele gave him money as casually as that and never as much as twenty pounds. James must be rich! But why had he been so generous? The fuss over the teacher’s finger had died down. How could taking a message to Sade be worth so much? James didn’t have to give him anything. Femi felt a twinge of guilt now for complaining about Papa, especially about money. It wasn’t Papa’s fault that they didn’t have enough here. That was why he had two jobs. Maybe it would have been better not to take James’s money. But it happened so quickly and, if he tried to give it back now, James might be offended. It was all so complicated. He should try to stay out of James’s way in the future. In the meantime he needed to make sure that Papa didn’t find out, or there would be awkward questions.