Everything Good Will Come (39 page)

The warder pointed to me and Grace Ameh. “You, you,” she said, in a resigned voice. “Follow me.”

I was prodding myself to check for wetness between my legs. I rose with my back bent over and breathed steadily to keep my nausea down.

“Better get a doctor inside here,” Mother of Prisons said, as we walked out. “Before we have another wrongful death in this stinking place! If you think I will ever stop talking, you must be focking joking!”

The warder asked us to hurry back to the hall, “should-in case” armed robbers stole our cars, “plus-including” the men, we were free to go. She released us, no explanations given. She warned Grace Ameh not to participate in further political activities.

Grace Ameh's husband was waiting for us outside. We drove back to the hall and I occasionally caught his scowl in the rearview mirror. I did not know who he was angry with: me, his wife, or the people who had detained us. I did not care to know. I only wanted to get back home. I breathed in fresh air through the back window.

“I'm sorry I involved you in this,” Grace Ameh said before we parted. “I suspected they were watching me but I didn't think they would go this far. Go home and stay home.” She patted my shoulder and I had a feeling she'd left something of herself on me.

I arrived home at four in the morning. Niyi was waiting for me in the living room. He got up as I walked through the front door.

“What happened? I've been waiting five hours now. I thought you were dead.”

I began to undress. My clothes fell to the floor as I told him.

“I can't believe this,” he said.

“I swear.”

“We were living normally, in this house, a few weeks ago. They were making political speeches. Why didn't you leave?”

I was in my underwear, surprised that this was what he couldn't believe. I mumbled, “One person. One person said something.”

“What if they beat you up inside there?”

“They didn't.”

“What if, I said.”

“They didn't.”

He raised his arms. “Come on. Wasn't it enough to be in prison?”

“I didn't ask them to arrest me.”

“You're not hearing me. It's not just about you anymore.”

“It's me they arrested. You weren't there.”

“I'm talking about the baby.”

I couldn't tell if he was holding back from slapping or hugging me.

“I'm sorry,” I said.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Fine,” I said.

“I don't know what else to tell you. I don't know what else to say. Your life means nothing to them. Can't you see? What will I tell people if something happens to you?”

“Please,” I said. “Don't tell anyone.”

He brushed past me to lock the front door. “You're confused, o-girl. It's not them I care about. It's you. You, and you're the one opening your mouth, not me.”

I went upstairs to have a bath, then I lay on my bed in the spare room. I begged my child for a second chance. I could still smell the prison on me.

Niyi would never tell anyone about my arrest, and I would not tell anyone. I would take my time in prison and put it away. Do-Re-Mi, Mother of Prisons, Born Again, Holy Ghost, the woman with the rotting womb. Gone. Niyi went to the police station the next morning. They told him my arrest was an unfortunate incident. Two weeks later when I read in the papers that the hall had been fire-bombed and some of Sheri's customers complained because they would have to change venues for their wedding receptions, I said nothing. I didn't blame the police; I blamed myself for putting my child at risk for another miscarriage. No, they shouldn't have arrested me, and yes, people should be allowed to say what they want. But it was one thing to face an African community and tell them how to treat a woman like a person. It was entirely another to face an African dictatorship and tell them how to treat people like citizens.

I wasn't inviting trouble, that evening. Niyi knew, Grace Ameh knew, which was why she spoke to me with the sincerity of a mother telling her war-bound son, “Make sure you come back alive.”

The day after my release, I saw my doctor for an unscheduled check-up, then I closed the office for a week after he cleared me. I went back to work the following week only because I knew my father's staff would have to earn their livings, even for as little as two hours a day, and also because I realized that wherever I was in Lagos, I was no longer safe. Like a joke, like a joke.

If February seemed long that year, March was beginning to feel longer. At work, jobs dried up as my father's clients shied from dealing with me; at home, Niyi's silence continued. I shuttled between the two locations feeling anesthetized. Only on occasion would I feel breathless for my father's safety and I would immediately fight the feeling down. I dared not think otherwise. Each moment carried me to the next and I no longer imagined prison cells because I'd seen the inside of one. I also promised myself that I would no longer speak for women in my country, because, quite simply, I didn't know them all.

One morning, I came in determined to tidy my father's drawers. His letters were in no order, and I was sure he kept them separate so his staff could not gain access to them. I sorted the bank letters first, then the letters from his accountants. The folder where I found salary details needed tidying, so I flicked through. I discovered my parents' divorce papers:
“Take notice that a petition has been presented to the above court by Victoria Arinola Taiwo instituting proceedings for a decree of dissolution of marriage and also seeking orders with respect to the custody of the one child... ”

My mother had given her reasons for falling out with my father: a neglectful and uncaring attitude; withheld housekeeping allowance; on several occasions did not return home and gave no reasonable answer as to his whereabouts; influenced her child to disregard her; disrespected her church family; made wicked and false allegations about her sanity; colluded with family members to alienate her; caused her much embarrassment and unhappiness. There was something about a car. I could not read on.

Peace came in.

“Someone to see you,” she said.

“Who?” I asked.

“Your brother,” she said.

I refused to allow my heart to jump. I had not done anything wrong. “Please tell him to come in,” I said.

My brother looked like my father, although he was taller. He had big eyes and that wasn't from my father. He was wearing blue khaki trousers and a striped yellow shirt.

“Debayo,” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

He had a widow's peak. That was my father's.

“Uncle Fatai called me,” he said. “I've been meaning to come.”

I watched every move he made. He frowned at a spot on my father's desk, rubbed his thumb over the top of his lip. I held on to my pen with both hands. He did not know if he should come, but his mother would not forgive him if he didn't.

Outside the sound of sirens deafened us temporarily. It could have been a government official passing, a security van escorting money from the Central Bank, or a Black Maria van carrying prisoners.

“What kind of doctor are you?” I asked.

“Pathologist,” he said.

“Eh? Why?”

“It's not so bad,” he said.

“A doctor of dead bodies.”

“I wanted to study law,” he said.

“Why didn't you?”

“Two of us, in here. It would have been difficult.”

He was smiling. Where he found the grace, I could not imagine.

“You have a right,” I said.

He shrugged. “I'm over that now, wanting to work for Sunny. I had people pushing me in that direction. The way I see it, Sunny decided for me.”

He called our father Sunny. He was not as cordial as he appeared.

“Debayo,” I said. “I'm sorry, I don't know where he is, and the little I know, I don't know if it will put your mind at rest.”

“What do you know?”

I told him. He gave me a telephone number and asked me to contact him if I heard anything else. He was visiting Uncle Fatai later that evening. He didn't seem worried and spoke as if he was relieved to have fulfilled his obligation to his mother. I walked with him to his car and we stood facing the road. His ears stuck out a little, and that was from my father. I shielded my eyes from the sun.

“Where are you staying?”

“Cousins,” he said, and then he added. “My cousins.”

“How is your mother taking the news?”

“My mother? They are not together anymore.”

“No?”

“For many years now.”

“I didn't know.”

He turned to me. “You must know I'm the youngest in my family.”

“I didn't.”

“That I have three older sisters?”

“No.”

“He didn't tell you anything about me?”

“A little. Did he tell you anything about me?”

“No,” he said.

“You never even stayed with him?”

He smiled. “Once. Only once, one summer, when my mother caught me smoking, and it was lecture, lecture, lecture... ”

“What were you smoking?”

“Cigarettes.”

“Why didn't you tell him to leave you alone?”

“Him?” he said. “I was scared of him.”

“You were?”

“Weren't you?”

“No,” I said. “Not really.”

He rubbed his thumb over his upper lip again. He was double-jointed. His fingernails were square and they reached his finger tips. That was my father.

It could have been different for a son. Debayo had not offered his help in any way, I thought, and I wouldn't either if I were him.

“You must be the only doctor left in Lagos,” I said.

“No,” he said, taking me literally. “We're many. Some of us don't want to go, even though the temptation is there. We keep hearing about those abroad, doing well, especially in America.”

“Why do you stay?”

“Steady work.”

“For goodness' sake,” I said.

I sensed that he had delivered that line many times before, and I sensed he was enjoying my disapproval. My brother knew everyone in the office. He gave Dagogo and Alabi that manly handshake, before he left. “Man mi,” they called him. When I returned to the office I asked Alabi, “You know my brother this well?”

Alabi nodded. “He's our paddy.”

“Our paddy-man,” Dagogo said.

“I'm not your paddy-man?” I asked.

They laughed.

“Face like stone,” Dagogo said.

“Worse than BS,” Alabi said.

I recognized my father's initials. Bandele Sunday. In his office, I resumed my task. Some school bills caught my eye. They were not from schools I'd attended. I flicked through. There were school reports, letters from a principal. I read them. They were my brother's. He was an above-average student, played field hockey. He was good at math. Once he was in trouble for playing truant. My brother. It was a start.