Everything Good Will Come (17 page)

I wondered about Mike. He was meeting my father for the first time and we planned to sit on the veranda during the dinner. The doorbell rang again as I adjusted the napkins on the table. It was him.

“I was just thinking about you.”

He was in traditional wear: a white tunic and black trousers. He bent to pick up something leaning against the wall and dragged it into the doorway. It was a mosaic of different colors, like a jagged rainbow.

“My sky,” I said.

“I didn't say I was going to give it to you,” he said.

I steered him toward my father, who was talking to Aunt Valerie, a Jamaican woman whose voice skipped like calypso. At first my father looked as if he were under siege, then I presented the mosaic to him. My father perched it on a table.

“What a stunning piece,” Aunt Valerie said. “Did you do this, young man?”

“Yes,” Mike said.

“He's an artist,” I said.

“That's wonderful,” she said. “Sam, come and look at this.”

Her husband, a baldheaded man, walked over with Uncle Fatai. Uncle Fatai's wife, Aunty Medinot, hovered in the background. In support of my mother, she rarely came to the house. Just seeing her made me feel guilty, but my father had invited my mother, and she refused to come. “For what reason?” she asked.

“This young man did this, Sam,” Aunt Valerie said. “Isn't it wonderful?”

“It looks like a sunset,” her husband said.

“Or fire,” Aunt Valerie said, throwing her head back.

“Both,” Uncle Fatai said.

I drew close to my father.

“He's an architect,” I said, “but he does this on the side.”

“Really,” my father said.

Mike approached us with an apologetic smile. “I never thought they would... ”

I patted his shoulder as we returned to the living room. He deserved to be embarrassed for bringing a gift for my father.

“That woman says she wants to see my work,” he said.

“Show it to her,” I said. “But save Obatala for me.”

I snatched the mosaic from him and carried it to my father's room. There, I smoothed my dress and dabbed some cologne behind my ears.

I hurried back. Peter Mukoro had arrived in my absence. A huge man with a thick black mustache, he was already holding court.

“Our last regime claimed they wanted to wage war against indiscipline, and yet they couldn't fight it among themselves. Military coups are the worst form of indiscipline. No respect for the constitution. No respect for those in power... ”

“Our people are indisciplined,” Uncle Fatai said.

“How?” Peter Mukoro asked, stroking his mustache.

“You're driving and someone tries to run you off the road.”

“Trying to avoid potholes,” Peter Mukoro said.

“Speeding through traffic stops?”

“Running from armed robbers.”

“Teachers not showing up for class?”

“Can't afford transportation.”

“Hospital staff selling supplies on the black market?”

“Benefits in kind.”

“Bribery?”

“Tipping,” Peter Mukoro said.

He continued to speak as though he were making a toast and twirled his cigarette. I edged toward Mike. “Come, let me introduce you to Sheri. This man won't stop talking. He loves his voice.”

“I've already met her,” he said.

“When?”

“She came in here when you were away.”

I sat on the arm of the chair. “What did you think?”

“She seems... reserved.”

“Sheri?”

“To me, she was.”

I stood up. “Excuse me, I have to check on the food.”

Inside the kitchen, I found Sheri pouring curry into a big ceramic bowl. Her waiter was standing by to take it into the living room. I could smell the coconut rice and sweet ginger of the pineapple bake in the oven.

“Is everything ready?” I asked.

She nodded. “You can call them in now.”

I paused by the door. “You met Mike?”

“Yes,” she said.

“What did you think of him?”

“He's nice.”

Throughout the evening, they showed nothing but courtesy for each other. I'd expected some interest, some camaraderie even, but soon I realized that they shared nothing in common. Mike would find Sheri too old. She would find Mike far too young.

Peter Mukoro continued to dominate the conversation meanwhile. He was predicting the demise of our country under the new military government. They were making plans to devalue our currency, and to scrap foreign currency regulations. Most of us who needed foreign currency for business or travel welcomed this. We envisioned a time we no longer had to succumb to black market rates. There were places in Lagos you went to buy US dollars and pounds sterling, from hawkers who loitered like drug dealers. You had to be sure you were buying the real thing.

“We're finished,” Peter Mukoro was saying. “The naira will be like toilet paper now. And if we take the IMF loan we can kiss our independence goodbye.”

My father seemed to be enjoying his tirade, rocking back and forth. I refilled his wine glass. “Fill my friend's as well,” he said, pointing to Peter Mukoro's.

Reluctantly I did.

Peter Mukoro tapped my arm. “I was calling that lady, that yellow lady in the kitchen, but she ignored me. Tell her we need more rice. Please.”

“Her name is Sheri.”

“Yes. Tell her we need more rice. And beer. Wine is like water to me. I'm an African man.”

I delivered the message to her word for word.

“He can't be talking to me,” she said.

“Who then?” I asked.

“He must be talking to his mother.”

I laughed. Titus had already annoyed her, asking her to serve guests from the left and not from the right. Sheri wore her head tie turban style and it dropped over her eye brows. Her profile was hysterical. She was taking her work too seriously, I thought. I could snatch the head tie and make her run after me. I carried a bowl of rice back to the dining room with a cold bottle of beer.

“Ah thanks,” Peter Mukoro said. “Brother Sunny, you must ask for a hefty dowry for your daughter. Look at her, good hostess, lawyer, and all that.”

“I would be glad,” my father said, “if someone would take her off my hands for free.”

They laughed hyuh-hyuh-hyuh, as only men with too much money should. I ignored them and returned to the veranda.

“Something wrong?” Mike asked.

“Peter Mukoro,” I said. “Every single time he opens his mouth.”

Mike smiled. “He's a man's man. Your father seems to like him.”

We looked toward the dining room. Sheri had come out of the kitchen and was leaning over my father.

“He seems to like Sheri, too,” he said. “Unlike me.”

“Close your mouth,” I said.

By the end of the evening, my head was full of wine. I saw Mike off and he kissed me so hard he pulled me through his car window. We spoke against each other's teeth.

“Come back with me.”

“My father will kill me.”

“You're not a child.”

“I am, to him.”

“Nonsense.”

“Hmm. Where are your sisters?”

“Locked up at home, where they belong.”

The road was empty, except for a few parked cars. Before he drove off, I did a strip-tease. I flashed a breast, turned to wriggle, only to find Peter Mukoro standing by the gates. “Ah- ah?” he said. “Are we invited? Or is this a private reception?”

He laughed as I hurried past.

I smoothed the creases from my dress before I walked into the house and kept my face as straight as a newscaster's. Sheri and my father were in the living room. My father was writing a check.

“That young man,” he said. “What did you say his name was?”

“Mike.”

Count one against him: his name wasn't Nigerian. This could mean his family didn't have enough class to uphold our traditions.

“Obi,” I said.

I expected his next question to be which Obi.

“An artist, you say?” he asked.

“Yes.” Count two.

“And he's given up architecture?”

Count three. I hesitated. “Not really.”

My father peered over his glasses. “That's no good.”

“Why?” I asked.

He turned to Sheri. “Tell her. Please. If I say anything to her, she thinks I'm old-fashioned.”

Sheri laughed. “You have to admit, Enitan. An artist in Lagos?”

My father handed the check to her.

“Thank you,” he said. “It's been a pleasure.”

I saw her to the door.

“Well done,” I whispered. “Now I won't rest in this house. Why did you have to say that?”

“
Aburo
, the artist has jujued you?”

“I think I've outgrown that name by now.”

She raised her hand. “I won't use it if you don't like it.” “Thanks.”

“Bye yourself,” she said, cheerfully.

I shut the door gently and faced my father. He removed his glasses, which usually meant he was about to give a lecture. I braced myself.

“You know,” he said. “I may not know much about youngsters today, but I know a few things and I don't think you should be making yourself so available to a man you've just met.”

I crossed my arms. “In what way?”

“Your demeanor. A woman should have more... comportment. And you can stop following him outside unchaperoned, for a start.”

“Unchaperoned?”

“Yes,” he said. “He might think you're easy. Cheap. I'm telling you for your own good.”

I walked away. Unchaperoned indeed. Look at him. Just look at him, and that Sheri, calling herself my sister. “This is modern Lagos,” I said over my shoulder. “Not Victorian London.”

“This is my house,” I heard him say. “Don't be rude.”

During national service, I received a monthly stipend of 200 naira from the government. This, I spent usually within a week. In return for my stipend, every Monday, I took a day off work for community service. For community service, I met with other national service participants who lived in my district to complete half-day chores. Sometimes we picked litter off the streets; other times we cut grass in local parks with machetes. Most days we begged our team leader, a man who reminded me of Baba, to let us go. He stood over us, gloating as we pleaded. The machetes were heavier than I expected and the grass left my legs itchy. The experience gave me respect for the work Baba did in our garden every week.

Now that he had decided not to work for his uncle, Mike was teaching art classes at a free education school near his home. One morning, after community service, I visited him there. The free education schools in Lagos were the legacy of a former governor of Lagos state. Several years later, and still under-funded, they were teeming with children and lacking teachers. Most of the classrooms were unpainted and some were without windows and doors. I passed a classroom and heard children reciting alphabets; passed another, and heard them chanting multiplication tables. Through the door, I saw a teacher standing by a blackboard with a whip in his hand.

The next room was the teachers' mess. Inside, a woman sat on a chair. She was eating an orange. Her skin was bleached and her hair was sectioned into plaits. In the corner, a man placed both his feet on the table. He flexed his whip at a school girl of about fifteen years who knelt facing the corner with her arms raised. The girl's armpits were stained brown and her bare soles were dusty. There were welts across the back of her legs.

“Good afternoon,” I said.

“Afa-noon,” the man said.

The woman eyed my jeans.

“Is Mr. Obi around?” I asked.

The student turned to look at me. Her face was wet from tears.

“Turn your ugly face to the wall,” the man shouted. “Look at you. Tiffing mango from the tree when you have been warned consecu... ” He whipped her legs.

“Consecu... ” he whipped her legs again.

“Consecutively.” He sucked his teeth. “Tiff.”

“Is Mr. Obi here?” I asked.

He picked his teeth. “Obi?”

“Yes, Mr. Obi, the art teacher. Please, do you know where he is?”

I spoke with an English accent to offend him. He would immediately think I was trying to be superior.

“In class,” he said.

“What class?”

He pointed. “Outside. Fork right, then right again.”

“So kind of you,” I said.

He reached over and flicked the girl's shoulder with his whip. She straightened up.

Mike's class was the last on the adjacent corridor and smelled like a puppy's pen. There were about twenty-five children in a room, intended for half that number. Their desks were pushed to the walls and they were gathered around five large wash bowls. They squished the contents with their tiny fists. Mike was walking around them.