Reading the Ceiling (10 page)

‘Why don't we get some tea going? Joy, you can go through to my office and feed the fish if you like.'

Remi's pores are oozing with news. Barely has Joy scampered off does she hiss, ‘I found him out. And I've got proof.'

I move to the kettle, the constant producer of tea-induced comfort.

‘What proof?' I ask.

‘The tickets for that dance at Hotel Manding. He didn't ask me whether I wanted to go.'

Remi and Kojo graduated through teenage love to settled marriage and are now teetering through a weary cycle of accusations and protestations. Remi tackles all her battles iron-clawed.

‘He might have forgotten,' I say.

‘Oh no he didn't. He bought the tickets and he used them.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Oh yes. I found it on his credit card statement. And not just that – more.'

‘What are you doing, checking up on him like that?'

‘I found out by accident! I was looking at what he's been spending his money on, to try to convince him that if we budget better, we'll be able to afford to send Joy to a private school.'

The kettle spurts out hot water – I've overfilled it again – and clicks itself off. As I make a move towards it, Remi hastens, ‘No, I'll make it for us. Here I am, spoiling your birthday with my troubles.'

‘What are friends for?' I smile and let a pause settle us both. ‘Remi, maybe you shouldn't be so nosy – it might work better for you and Kojo. You've got to think about Joy too.'

‘Of course, I'm thinking about her. But I need to show her that women don't have to stand for every kind of nonsense. Look at all I do for Kojo. How I try to take care of him. How could he do this to me?'

Remi's face is shiny with indignation, assisted by the kettle's steam.

‘He is a good father, I've seen how he dotes on Joy.'

‘I can't excuse him because he's a good father!' She thumps the kettle down, keeping her hand on the handle.

‘Not just that. You've been such good friends.'

‘Why are you taking his side all of a sudden?' Remi abandons tea making and stands braced, arms akimbo.

‘I'm trying to understand, not take sides. Are you sure he's having an affair, by the way?'

‘He didn't even bother to answer my questions.'

With the sound of Joy's footsteps in the corridor, I add in my final shot, ‘Give in a little. For the sake of peace.'

Remi's face is stormy and I watch her fight to stave off the stream of protests gurgling up her throat. Joy walks in through the door. I ask her, ‘How is JeinJein?'

‘A bit lonely,' Joy replies. ‘You should get her a few more fish for company, Aunty Dele.'

Remi has the ghosts of her choices to live with. And I have mine.

Her father also drops in to Remi's more often, and I see him there once or twice a week. There isn't really a courtship. After Fred waits out the socially acceptable year of mourning, he simply turns up at my house one day and makes a little speech which includes an assessment of how his age has had minimal impact on his prowess, a brief overview of my marital prospects, and how sensible it would be of me to marry him.

‘And I have always been fond of you,' he concludes.

I tell him I'll think about it.

I dismiss it as soon as he leaves.

Frederick Adams is persistent though. He mentions it to Remi as soon as he gets a chance, asking her to put in a good word for him.

Remi is unsurprised. In her assessment, ‘Look, when I was growing up, there were all kinds of stories about him with women. I don't know how much he's changed. It'd be odd having my friend as my stepmother. We'll have to work it out as we go along. You'll have to take your chances if you're interested.'

And at first, I really am not.

Then Mrs Adebayo sends me a cutting from a Lagos society magazine.
Cutting
does not do it justice – it is not raggedly cut out of the magazine, but specially reprinted, stapled to a copy of the magazine's cover which features the lead story: ‘Lagos' Wedding of the Year'.

It comes in a yellow foolscap envelope, my name written on with a flourishy kind of handwriting, all loops and connecting lines. It is postmarked Amsterdam, and stamped as PRINTED MATTER. It is eight pages of glossy photographs, accompanied by a smattering of text.

On the cover, Akim is in a white
agbada
 embroidered at the neckline. The wife is petite, in an off-the-shoulder dress made out of the same material; a thick collar runs into a banded sleeve with delicate swirls of embroidery similar to the main pattern on Akim's outfit. This co-ordinated look is commented on in the text. The outfits were designed by Bishola Adeyinke, an in-demand who clothes the president's daughter.

The church is a cathedral. It has ripples in the dressed stone and the doorway meets in a sharp arch above the rows of people standing in their plumage, surrounding the pair in white. There are close-ups of the bride's bouquet, white lilies against petal tight roses, and sprigs of fresh green palm leaves cradling them.

The photos of the reception show identikit little bridesmaids in fluffy ivory-and-yellow-pastel dresses, and reams of smiling relatives holding plates of food. There are pictures of couples standing with drinks in hand and smiling towards the camera, crowned with names like Hon. Chief Omolabi Adekunle with Mrs (Dr) Jumoke Oyintola. Most captions are followed by a short CV: Deputy Minister of Justice, Chief Executive Officer of the National Petroleum Corporation, Head of OTV network, Finance Director of Northern Airlines.

In one of the pictures on the last page, the caption describes Akim as having a successful career in reinsurance, and as currently the Risk Analysis Director of Nipon Re. In the photo, he sits behind a huge desk, almost bare of papers, an expanse of smooth dark wood with a flat screen settled at the side, three telephone sets clustered on the other side. A huge old-fashioned blotter pad is in the middle, with fresh paper tucked into its flaps.

It's as if I'm on a large empty plain, and I've run full tilt into the only baobab tree for miles. Bang, face on. That I've winded myself and am now lying sprawled across its roots. I look up through sparse empty branches, some with the odd furry green fruit pod, straight through to a sky without a cloud in it. Flat on my back, unsure of how I've navigated myself into this position. Unsure of how I came to be like this: alone.

Did I know what I meant when I said no? Who says I couldn't have spun my own happiness in a life aligned with his?

I didn't kill him. The therapist sorted him out with time enough to rebuild a life. Mrs Adebayo had included a thick sheet of cream paper stapled to the front:
I thought you might be interested in knowing this. With best wishes, TA
. She had found me after all these years – just to tell me.

A temple-throbbing headache beats a refrain in my head:

Each beat of the rhythm tramples my choice into my history.

The next time Frederick Adams helps me get a mechanic to fix my car and asks again, ‘Why don't you, eh, marry me?' I say yes. He isn't perfect. I do not expect him to be. I've heard the rumours. As I tell Amina later, I am weary. I do not want to shoulder love at an intensity I cannot bear. I want respectability and some sex.

My mother sniffs when I tell her: ‘Well, at least everything I trained you for won't go to waste. You'll have a household of your own to run at last.'

Other comments and advice come thick and heavy, laced with humour or spite.

Moira: I guess by this time of your life, you've got to take what you get.

Kainde: Why don't you try someone younger?

Amina: Sample the goods beforehand.

Aunt K: The world changes as you watch it.

Moira: Marriage is a trial but God can get you through it.

Taiwo: At last!

Reuben: I hear congratulations are in order.

Amina (by phone): Not to worry sweetie, my sharp ears tell me he's been around town and some.

Meena (by email): As long as your family is with you, it'll be all right.

My mother buys me a new Magimix that can chop
peppeh en yabbas
, cream butter and sugar, grind fluffy
akara
batter. She raids her cupboards and digs up an inheritance of her household treasures: tablecloths and napkins, embroidered sheets and pillowcases, tea towels with pictures of Buckingham Palace, Arcoroc glasses printed with butterflies, teapots with painted-on sunflowers, sharp kitchen knives.

She says as she hands them over, ‘I saved these for many years. I've given Taiwo hers and these are yours. Kainde's are still waiting for when she's ready.'

At our wedding, my mother's magnificent hat shadows my face as we stand in the sunlight on the steps of the registry office.

‘Boy, I'm telling you, I saw this with my own eyes. Grown-up men like me and you, rubbing their noses in that man's shit for a post in government.'

Frederick Adams is expressing his views on our verandah, lit by two kerosene lamps stuck on hooks on the pillars. There is no electricity tonight.

‘And look at this. Even if we'd been fighting a war, there'd be nothing worth bombing. We're sitting in all their vomit. Ten years and still the same floating dustbin we had with the old guy.'

His friend, Musa Kinteh, replies, ‘They call it progress. Did you see the Celebration of Liberation Day headlines yesterday? We came to power to give “Justice to the Poor”.'

‘You said it, also Water for Wasters. Farts for Farmers. All idiots, that's what we've got.'

‘What makes it worse is that they are
young
 idiots. At least the old guy knew how to do it with style.'

‘These young ones threaten, then bang! bang! Six foot deep.' The two of them are playing
damiyeh
, loudly slapping round wooden pieces on a homemade board cut slightly out of its square by the gardener, and then painted black and white on an uncertain grid.

‘And then they go after your family.'

‘You're right. We can talk and complain. But we have family responsibilities and you never know when they'll go after them to get at you.'

‘
Tai. Tai.
' With each bang of a black-painted counter onto the board, Fred skips over Musa's white ones, embellishing the noise with his own sound of victory before settling to a final, ‘
Tai.
 You were getting a bit overconfident there, weren't you?'

‘Watch your back. One little game does not mean you've won the match. Tell that to our government.' Musa stretches his arms out over his back, his chin, speckled with white beard, juts out.

‘What do you say, Dele, look, I've whapped him again. He thought my mind was on politics but it's all tactics.'

I bring out two more lamps and a tray of snacks for the men. Another two of Fred's friends, Suni and Alhaji, are bent over a charcoal brazier, one holding a small teapot aloft while the other pokes at the coals.

It's game night. The men will play
damiyeh
 on two boards in their own mini-league, well into the start of Sunday morning. A fresh pack of green tea waits on the small table on the verandah. The tea will be mixed with water and brought to the boil. Someone will add sugar. The first round will be light and sweet, with no depth. They will simply pour this away into the flowerbed where those stubby succulents with boat-shaped flowers grow. There's no one younger to give it to, no one who cannot as yet take the bitter tang of subsequent brews, the hit that drives away sleep. Their
ataya
 will be thick and strong, but with a sweet undercurrent. There's a little metal plate that holds four cups. Suni will point the spout downwards and pull his hand upwards, making the tea froth into the tiny glass cups. He will pour it all back into the teapot and make it boil, thicker, blacker, sucking the tannin out of the leaves. When he's satisfied that it's almost ready, he will pour little tasters for the group to confirm his analysis. Heads will nod, or they will rudely tell him to continue his work, to deepen the flavour, to not lighten his hand or they'll choose someone else.

I go to bed early and leave them to it. Despite the threat of mosquitoes easing their way through holes in the netting, I open my bedroom window.

I can hear them.

‘Ayodele? Yes, she's good to me, good for me. Right age too. Young ones want to go discoing every night. Older ones lose elasticity and only talk about who's died and who's born. She's in the middle. I think she'll do me right.'

‘Your first wife was a fine woman too. Gave you three goodlooking, well-brought-up children.'

‘I'm not saying I haven't been lucky. But Bilor stopped delivering the goods soon after our third child was born. She couldn't see the point.'

Hearty laughter, one note brays out a nasal honk – Musa's laugh. Fred's laugh is mixed in too – heh heh heh. Then Musa's voice: ‘That's why you went sampling.'

‘Man, you can't blame me. I had needs that had to be met. We all do.'

A back is slapped. The night carries the hollowed thump. ‘Boy, we know you well. Which of us has not been tempted? We've all been there. At least you didn't leave her.'

‘Not that I didn't think about it. Bilor did many things well. She kept the house clean, she held on to the dalasis I gave her. She didn't seem to hear the gossip. So, it worked for all of us.'

‘Say it again! Don't we all like the good women in our houses and the bad ones in our trousers.'

More laughs which rumble, almost seem to stop, then catch again and carry on.

When they come to pick him up, they come early in the morning. Even the loudspeakers on the mosque in Latrikunda have not been turned on. They come in a quiet white Peugeot, and back up its duck-behind in our driveway, blocking Fred's navy Honda with its crumpled back door. I am awake anyway. I often am, letting the sounds carried on the mixed air of early morning keep me company. Most of the footsteps are quiet treads of boots with thick plastic soles. Then there is the scratchier sound of a smooth-soled pair, wiping grit out from under it on the first step on our verandah.