Reading the Ceiling (29 page)

‘I'm no longer a child, Ma. I can handle the truth.'

Truth. What truth?

‘Amadou
was
your father. He brought you up.'

‘When, if, I have my own children, what do you want me to tell them? That Amadou is their grandfather, even though I know it's a lie?'

‘What could your father have done for you that he didn't do?' ‘Ma, do you remember when I refused to draw people's faces?' I nod.

‘I did a charcoal drawing of myself once. I know the distance between my eyes. I know the shape of my ears. I remember faces. There's nothing in mine that came from Amadou.'

It's my turn to shake my head. ‘Not today, Kweku Sola. I made
one
choice, and it still affects many lives, not just yours.'

‘Amadou is dead, Ma. Nothing you say will hurt him.'

I shake my head again. No. No.

‘The bank have offered me a trainee manager's post in Ghana.' I can't blame him for this. He's free to choose himself out of my life.

‘Will you go?'

‘Maybe.'

We sit at the table while the
mbahal
goes cold.

Amina comes as the sun is layering longer shadows on hard- packed brown earth. Her wine-coloured lipstick unreliably edges her mouth.

We clatter in the kitchen heating up the
mbahal
. Amina chatters away, bringing me up to date with local gossip, including a summary of the recent turn of events in a long-standing marital dispute in which husband and wife have not exchanged a word for over fifteen years.

When we sit down to eat, she tosses her wig onto a nearby chair and massages her weathered hairline. ‘I need to let my head breathe. Should I get my hair braided for the wedding?'

‘I'm not sure. What does Jainaba think?'

Amina's youngest daughter, Jainaba, is about to get married. ‘She said I should do what I want. I ask her for advice and she gives me backchat. Oh, modern children. She doesn't know how lucky she is to have me as a mother.'

‘Has she decided on her wedding dress?'

‘Doesn't care what I think. Yellow she says. Girls in Spain marry in yellow apparently. I said how would she feel if I wore black?'

‘And what did she say to that?'

‘That if I wanted to mourn at her wedding, I was welcome to. This silliness has to stop somewhere, why doesn't she listen?'

‘Better to let her marry as she wants'

She screws her eyebrows together and sends a slanted, slightly hurt, look my way.

‘Don't you think she should let me enjoy being the mother of the bride?'

At this point, we are tucking into Bintou's excellent
mbahal
, which Amina comments on. ‘This Bintou of yours, she learned in the end, didn't she? How to cook, and clean.' Without pausing for much breath, Amina picks up her previous topic. ‘We came back here for nothing. I thought it would calm her wildness. All that effort I spent trying to get her to respect her elders.'

‘Jainaba is very much like you were. She knows her own mind.'

‘But just once in a while, to listen? I have some good ideas for the wedding.'

‘I'm sure you have, but you'll have to give in this time.'

She moues her mouth as she considers what I've said.

‘You've been so lucky with Kweku Sola. He's sensible and, I hear, doing well at Standard Chartered Bank. You've done well by him.'

I blurt out, ‘He wanted to know who his father is when he came round earlier.'

Amina's spoon stops halfway to her mouth.

‘And what did you tell him?'

I shake my head.

‘You know something, Dele? Lie.'

When Amina leaves, she leaves a space empty of air, as if her energy has sucked it all up, carving her shadow where she had been sitting moments before.

To allow myself to ignore her airless shadow, I put on some of my old music. What should I tell him? The whole truth or a slice of it? If a slice, what do I leave out? I lie on the couch and stare at the ceiling. It is white, not a single rain-blemished dot. It can tell me nothing.

I try to write out a note to him: ‘I think your father is dead. He used to work for my mother.'

My lover thrust his hand through the latch-opening; / My heart began to pound for him.

‘There was no love. His name is Osman Touray. He came from Mansakonko. I never had anything else to do with him.'

I stare at the words. I scratch out ‘I think'. At the beginning I add, ‘This is not easy for me to say'.

I keep the rest of the slices of truth to myself. It is best to be certain, best not to dangle two possibles before him. Best not to say how I chose. And how it led to him.

I take a clean sheet of paper and start all over.

Daughters of Jerusalem, I charge you: / Do not arouse or awaken love until it so desires.

These driftings breed discontent. They bring memories of being a girl. Being eighteen and full of hope. I should rest easy – passions like these would never have worked in my kind of life. Better this way, this kind of living, grabbing at contentment whenever I can. The phone rings and creates diversion. It's Reverend Sillah.

If the Church of Christ Brethren never noticed my departure, my mother's old church has certainly noted my entrance.

He says, ‘When I saw you at the market, I forgot to mention the new fund raising for refugees.'

‘How is it going?' I ask, stirring up some inner bravery but not really wanting to know, at least not right now.

‘Excellent. Excellent.' I can see him rubbing his cheek in enthusiasm. ‘At this rate, we'll be able to support twenty of them in all.'

‘You've worked hard on it. Well done.' I give credit where it is due.

‘I was wondering whether you have time to come round and see the petition I am sending to the United Nations refugee office. My grilled squid turned out really well. I could cook you some more.'

How do I say no? Is it impossible to say yes?

I am a wall to some in this community. I am a wall because I choose to contribute to as many causes as I can, sit on the many committees I am asked to join. With all this love talk and wedding talk and Solomon thinking, today I see myself as a mirrored wall, where others see their own reflection but think it's me. Or maybe a tinted pane in one of those high-bumpered four-wheel drives in which the passengers can see out, but no casual passer-by can see in. Glass, anyway, because I know better than anyone else the many times in the past when I could have shattered myself into tiny little pieces, unglueable, destroyed.

Tea works best at times like these, and I have in my hand an old mug, old from my thirteenth birthday. All of thirty years later, it has only one chip on the rim above the handle, and a tiny crooked crack down the side. The handle is white, the inside navy blue. My hand curves around it, and it returns diluted heat. On the outside, white polka dots puncture dark blue. My mother died today. It is evening and I am sitting on her verandah drinking tea.

Sprigs of golden showers hang heavy on the vine that has worked its way over the verandah roof and down each pillar. As I breathe in and out, a cluster of the tube-shaped flowers, orange and free, moves slightly with my breaths. In. Out. I don't hear the househelp Nimsatu as she comes close. The tiles in the house have got used to her hardened bare feet traipsing up them several times a day. She stands at my shoulder and speaks. Her first words bite into my collarbone and some tea jerks into my lap.

‘Missis said there were some things I could have. That big
awujor
pot in the kitchen. I was wondering whether I could take it home with me tonight.'

I turn to stare at her. Her words don't make sense. My mother's body was taken to the mortuary at lunchtime. We are having a family meeting at seven to discuss the funeral.

‘What did you say?'

She repeats herself. ‘There is a large
awujor
pot in the kitchen that your mother used when she needed to cook food for many people. It was one of the things she promised I could have when she died. I want to take it home now.'

Some words trickle in. There is a pot. For cooking for many people. To be taken home now. My mother has promised this. A pot?

‘You mean that heavy pot? The metal one on three legs? The one she always used to cook
benachin
at Christmas?'

Nimsatu touches her headscarf and pushes it forward. There are tiny knots of hair at the back of her head, skimmed with grey.

‘Yes, that's the one I'm talking about. She keeps it in the store beside the dining room. I mean she used to keep it there. But it's still there. Right on the bottom shelf, because it was too heavy to lift if we put it any higher.'

She has two
malans
on. The brown one underneath has the beak of a yellow duck peeking out under the scrunched flowers of the one on top.

‘And you want to take this home with you tonight. You mean right now?'

Her hands move up again to her headscarf.

‘Yes.'

There's a pot on three legs, desired by Nimsatu for many years, that she wants to take home.

‘What if we need it for cooking here?'

‘I can always lend it back to you. As long as everyone knows it's mine.'

‘Why can't everyone know it's yours if you leave it here until we've finished with it?'

‘There are many people who'll be coming and going. I've heard Aunty K talk about how well that pot cooks rice, because it moves the heat all the way to the middle. You know your mother bought that pot from an old man from Cassamance who worked metal. He died.'

And she's died too.

There is a low table in the middle of the room, squat atop a busy brown and white tufted rug. On it is a square of white cotton, embroidered at each corner with a convoluted nest of greens, oranges and reds. We are all sitting on thin-sponged cushions stuck into the low-legged, long-bottomed, wood-framed seats.

‘I guess we should discuss funeral dates first. Once we're agreed, we can decide on the format of the service.'

Taiwo shifts to the edge of her seat and bends forward. ‘Reuben and I were thinking maybe he should take charge of meetings and things. You know he has all the experience from work, being secretary to the Board.'

She glances over at Reuben with a face creased with pride, ‘I could take the notes and then together we could make sure everybody does as they are supposed to.'

There are two rows of three chairs, facing each other across the low table. I am opposite Taiwo. Reuben is next to her, their seats separated by a small stool for setting drinks onto.

I know I am going to give in even before I form words in my head to batten down the flash of irritation inside me. He
married
into the family. She was
our
mother. A few seconds pass.

Taiwo reaches out to pat her husband's arm. It is a good six inches away. Her hand touches air as she says, filling in the silence, ‘That's all right, isn't it?'

‘Over to you, then.' I nod to Reuben. Taiwo is prepared. She reaches into her bag and extracts a brand-new lined notebook with
Cahier
stamped on it. A smart new Biro is already slid into the spine of the notebook. They are ready to go.

Reuben clears his throat. ‘Well, as Ayodele was saying, we shall first need to discuss the funeral date. However, there are several other related issues. What kind of coffin for instance? Will we have a wake in this house or not? After that, we will make suggestions on the order of service. During the service, who shall we reserve seats for in the front row? We shall need someone to make sure Kainde know what we plan, so she understands what she has to do when she arrives.'

Taiwo scribbles.

‘You have all those points, yes?' Reuben addresses his wife, who nods hard enough to move her headful of bobbed weave. He continues, ‘There's the catering, of course. We shall also need to set up a roster for who needs to be in the house, this house, I mean – your mother's house – to welcome mourners and ensure they have refreshments. Finally, central to all our planning, we have to discuss the unfortunate business of money.' His right hand orchestrates the air in front of him with his fingers splayed.

His hand stays up while Taiwo makes a final full stop and raises her head. ‘Right,' she says, ‘we have eleven items on our agenda. The first item is the funeral date.'

For each point, it is obvious they have already conferred, and their prevailing view passes. A Saturday of course. Luckily no one else notable has died this week, so we will certainly get first dibs for the cathedral in town. ‘The day thou gavest Lord is ended' is on the list of dirges we are to sing. Appropriate verses will be read – Corinthians – their twelve-year-old son, Modupeh, is suggested as a reader.

‘What a good idea,' says Taiwo. ‘It will give him a lot of confidence in public speaking.'

‘Yes, my dear, put some backbone into the boy. People will talk about how the grandchildren were included in the service. Never been done before, with children as young as ours. Will make history in this town.' Reuben's cheeks gleam with excitement. They stand high on his cheekbones, burnished a deep mahogany. His rimless glasses fit into two dents, and twinkle back strips of fluorescent lighting.

‘I think we could get him to practise +O death, where is thy sting?  It will be a joy to see.'

Kweku Sola is selected as a pallbearer. I am delegated to communicate with Kainde.

There is noise at the gate. A door slams. The metal doors shake with thumps. Aunt K's voice booms a greeting to the watchman. I meet her at the main door.

‘Ah these bones,' she says by way of greeting. ‘It's getting harder and harder to move around. How are you all getting on?'

‘Made all the major decisions, but your suggestions will be useful.' Then I shut my eyes, mouth out ‘Help' before draping myself around her in a tight hug. ‘It's good to see you. Come and tell us what mother would have done for food.'