Reading the Ceiling (9 page)

It's taken me a while to recognise different degrees of toughness in people. After Kamal, I assumed that everyone must get – how did Aunty K put it? – a turn at the ‘University of Hard Knocks', where you get a degree whether or not you realise you are enrolled. It's up to those with nous to make sure the degree's not a third-class, lacking in honours. I survived Kamal. Therefore, I assumed Akim would survive me.

Mrs Adebayo said, ‘He'd written to me to say he'd met the girl he wanted to marry and that he was staying on as long as necessary so he would come home with you.' I knew he meant what he was saying with his eyes. I lied to myself and steered the conversation away whenever he tried to start the seriousness. I did not want anything said. That summer was my comma and life was going to continue after.

It's always easy to get work in a decrepit government, so I make my way back to The Gambia. Home. Away from tired, drizzly weather and into intense, sun-drenching heat. If I had a tail when I left four years earlier, it isn't wagging now.

I stay with my mother for the few months it takes me to find a job and a house. She does not like me thinking about moving out, planning to leave her on her own again.

She complains, ‘You've come back with all these new ideas. In my day, daughters left their mother's house to get married.'

‘Well, we left it to study,' I remind her.

Reuben comes to visit. I discourage a further visit by sitting on the edge of my seat, by excusing myself for needing to hurry out to see my Aunt K as promised. But by the time I move out, he's become a regular visitor, and I sometimes pop in to find him ensconced in the sitting room, chatting with my mother.

I find myself incapable of expanding my social circle. I tee off rendezvous with old school friends. Amina lives in Italy and comes home on holiday. She arrives with energy and, briefly, amuses me with her relentless analysis of the relationships around us, peppered with caustic comments on the nature of social pressure. Moira, I find, has descended into a mist of literal interpretations of the Bible and evaluates her friendships with a proselytising eye, pressing pamphlets on me, along with invitations to her church. The person I see most often is Remi, with whom it's easy to drift back into the ease of our early friendship. She asks me to be godmother when her daughter, Joy, is born.

My mother is pleased with our renewed friendship. She holds Remi up as an example to us, her daughters. One Saturday afternoon, Aunt K comes to visit at the time she knows the food will already be cooked, dished up into matching dishes and lounging, hot for the eating, on our dining table.

‘I came to see you, Ayodele,' she says as she walks in, ‘but. . .'

‘. . . you wanted to see my mother's
shackpa
 soup more,' I finish her sentence.

‘You know me too well,' she laughs, as she settles herself into a chair. She uncovers the first dish and serves herself two large balls of
cassava fufu
, and starts to ladle out spoonfuls of the palmoil-rimmed casserole.

‘Get me some water, dear child.' And I obediently trot off to the kitchen to get her a pitcher of cold water.

‘Thank you. Ah. Food and good company, what more could one want in life?' she says, on my return.

My mother takes on a well-known theme. ‘I would enjoy having some grandchildren.'

‘Yes,' replies Aunt K, ‘but wouldn't you like some sons-in-law first?'

My mother sighs, ‘I only wish that
one
 of my children were settled. That's all I can ask God for at this stage.'

*

I start work at a modest salary, so discreetly modest that I can only afford to rent a small house, two rooms really, in Latrikunda. I find them quite by accident, through an old teacher from school, Mrs Foon, whose parents-in-law rent out a series of properties in their compound.

The Ministry of Finance is set in a quadrangle of old buildings with thick, fortlike walls, and deep-set windows. The courtyard and the internal covered verandah create a micro-climate – it's always cool. The pillars holding up the upper floor are darkened with the sweat of lingering palms, from the hands of people used to waiting. There are many visitors to the other departments in the quadrangle – the tax revenue office, the registrar of companies – and lines of people snake in and out of open office doors. Beyond the doors are standard-issue wooden desks, commissioned by the Department of Public Works and cut and assembled in the men's prison at Mile Two. There are often a few official heads behind the desks piled with selections of bulging files concerning government business.

The steps leading up to our small office, the Department of Financial Planning, have recently been painted. In the past couple of months, as we've been trying to negotiate new lending terms for our government's debt, we've had to welcome many foreign visitors – representatives of friendly bilaterals or nosy bureaucrats from the World Bank. In the outer office, Sukai sits behind a desk, an array of phones in front of her. As always, she is perfectly made up, her eyes dark-ringed in kohl, her lips appropriately stained. Today she wears a trailing red gown with intricate patterns of lilies.

‘You look lovely, Sukai,' I say as my good morning.

She smiles back, delighted. ‘It's Chinese silk. Do you know who I bought it from?' She pauses to wait for my shake of the head before continuing, ‘That lady who came last Friday, she gets them from Dubai. You should come and see her things next time she's here.' She stands up and moves her arms so I can see it better. Wafts of the musky
churrai
she's used to scent her clothes drift out.

‘I don't think I can choose as well as you.'

She smiles again. Complimenting Sukai on a regular basis has made my working life much smoother.

‘Is Babucarr in yet?' I ask.

‘No, but he phoned and asked me to remind you about the speech he needs for tomorrow.'

‘Thanks. I'll get started on that now.'

She returns her chewing stick to her mouth, methodically rubbing it against her teeth, its slightly sour sap acting as her toothpaste. The action merely draws attention to her fingers, which are thin, and very much part of the persona she cultivates, an elegant secretary, very marriageable. Not only is Sukai the Minister of Finance's niece, she also has ambitions to marry the head of our department, Babucarr Sanneh.

I get good at my job, really good. I can write proposals better than anyone else in the department, in my entire ministry. I write speeches for Babucarr that come to the notice of the Minister. In his turn, the Minister starts to add urgent requests for word combinations to use for an opening address to a meeting of West African finance ministers in Banjul, for a formal dinner to welcome a visiting American dignitary, or a choice paragraph that will appeal to his hosts on a tour of France. The elegant deliveries get noticed by other ministers, but I am shielded by my boss, who knows he cannot spread my skills too thinly. I am the only one for miles prepared to spend an entire Sunday tidying up words ready for the Minister on Monday morning.

The seasons pass. Storm drains carry away tumbling weights of water towards the sea. The sun burns more ebony into my skin. I let the weather do to me what it likes.

When my fame spreads to the manager of a local consulting firm skilled in marketing weak skills to non-governmental organisations and UN agencies at inflated prices, he finds in me a bargain. I gain additional employment to supplement my government income. I clean up badly written documents at high speed. I impose structure and give them contents pages, and neat headers. I add footnotes and insert diagrams when required. My income grows. I move out of the mud-and-wattle rooms. I buy a car that spends three days each month in the garage.

Taiwo comes home when she finishes her degree in accounting. I'm not surprised that she is the first to fulfil my mother's heart wish. She chooses Reuben, who has by now become a fixture in my mother's household. Reuben laps up the extra attention Taiwo turns on him.

The day Taiwo extracts a promise of marriage from him, Reuben comes to my mother's house to formally request Taiwo's hand. My mother immediately phones me at home. ‘There's some terribly exciting news to tell you. Come now, they're still here.' Her voice is sparkling. When I get home, her gaiety is gambolling around the house.

Reuben contrives a moment alone with me when I say goodnight and head for my car: ‘I hope you don't mind.' His stutter is mild.

There isn't much to say in reply. ‘No, not at all. After all, we are grownups now,' I reply politely and firmly.

Taiwo and my mother appear at the door. My mother gives her a delighted hug. ‘Oh do go and celebrate together. I can't wait to tell everyone else the news.'

My mother's delight continues unabated through the long months planning the wedding. Only one small thing mars the day itself for her – on Taiwo's wedding day, my sister's waistline is stout.

*

Remi's mother falls ill with renal failure and is to go to Dakar for treatment. Remi asks me to move into her guest room and help look after her daughter. Everyone else she can trust is married and busy with family. She does not want to leave hubby Kojo alone in charge of Joy with the househelp as aide.

She complains to me as we work the details out, ‘You employ the older women and they're no brighter than a
kirinting
 lamp. You employ the younger ones and soon they're leaning over while doing the housework, showing off their pert young breasts.'

She's filling out a ruled exercise book with household details. The page is headed:
Food
. 

‘Kojo won't eat the same kind of meat two days in a row, so I have to vary it. Here are some suggestions.' She writes: Monday – chicken curry, Tuesday – fish
benachin
, Wednesday – roast pork, Thursday – chicken
yassa
,  Friday – catfish stew, Saturday –
krein krein
and okra.

Her commentary: ‘But leave out cowfoot with the Satiday soup, Kojo cannot stand the sight of it in the kitchen so he won't let me cook it. Sunday can get a bit complicated because he likes his buffet, so I tend to get several extra things made on Saturday, and finish them off on Sunday morning.'

She sucks the end of her pen. ‘So, for example, if you get Ida to make the base for the
chereh
, and to clean the fish and everything, all you'd have to do on Sunday is to heat up the sauce, steam the
chereh
 and mix them together. Ida can also make some pepper soup on Saturday and wash up all the bits of lettuce you need for a salad.' Her voice trails off, ‘This does seem like a lot of work to hand over to you. Maybe I should just get Ida to work overtime on Sunday morning and get all the food ready.'

‘I can do my best. Perhaps you could explain to Kojo that things may not be as well managed as when you are around.'

‘Well. . .' She pauses. ‘Kojo will be good at helping Joy with her homework, and he'll go to all her school games and stuff. But he does like his special lunch on Sundays.'

‘How about this – ask him to take Joy out for lunch. She'd love that, won't she? Chicken and chips down by the beach, with orange Fantas and ice lollies?'

‘I'll suggest it, but he can be a bit set in his ways sometimes.'

I move in and take charge of Remi's household. It's a novelty looking after a little girl. So I don't mind going into work a bit later and coming back earlier than usual. Remi left thinking she'd be away for a week. She rings several times to give us summaries of her mother's medical condition. I refer to Remi's exercise book often. Kojo does not seem to mind my lapses from his wife's precise instructions.

Remi sends her father home. Frederick Adams comes to visit us with news.

‘The hospital won't let me stay and the damn hotels aren't cheap.' He pats the pot belly which age has embellished and takes a swig of his Julbrew beer.

‘Is she better?'

‘I don't know. Those bloody doctors may be lying. They say she will get better. For all I know, they're hanging on until the insurance money runs out.'

‘How does she look? Can she talk?'

‘Bilor does not know who I am. Remi says they need to do more tests.'

‘When will you know?'

‘Remi will phone if something happens.'

‘Will she be able to manage on her own?'

‘Remi has things under control. She sent me back so I'm not under her feet. She says looking after one is more than enough work. That's why she sent me back.'

He erupts into a spasm of laughs which turn into a cough. He points to Joy, who understands what he needs and runs off to get him a glass of water.

My mother's reaction: ‘What a wonderful girl that Remi is, spending so much time looking after her mother. And her husband has been so understanding, what with letting her go away and coping on his own.'

Remi returns with her mother a month later, looking thin and ashy grey around her mouth. Two days later, her mother is dead.

As the months go by, I spend more and more time with Remi. I get to understand how she's stayed the same as the girl I used to know. And how she's changed.

On the morning of my birthday, the gate creaks open, a clatter of bite-sized footsteps follows. A sober voice counsels caution and the gate bangs shut. More clatter, then a knock at the door. Joy stands a few steps behind her mother.

‘We're here, whether you're going out or not,' Remi announces. I open the door wider and gesture them in. She staggers in with a basket full of fruit, walks to my kitchen and deposits it next to the sink.

‘Goodness, that was heavy. Happy birthday, Ayodele.'

I thank her with a hug and turn to Joy, who is loitering by the door. As always, her glasses dwarf her into shyness.

‘How was your half-term holiday, Joy?' She shrugs, looks at the floor and her fat, ribboned braids fly forward. I glance at Remi who rolls her eyes towards the ceiling and slides her lips apart in a rubbery grimace.