AFRICAN WRITERS SERIES

KEHINDE

BUCHI EMECHETA
 *

,■ : .. f
BUCHI EMECHETA was born in Lagos in Nigeria. Her
father, a railway worker, died when she w*is very young. At the
age of ten she won a scholarship to the Methodist Girls’ High
School, but by the time she was seventeen she had left school,
married and had a child. She accompanied her husband to
London where he was a student. Aged 22, she finally left him,
and took an honours degree in sociology while supporting her
five children and writing in the early morning.
Her first book, In the Ditch, details her experience as a poor,
single parent in London. It was followed by Second-Class Citizen,
The Bride Price, The Slave Girl, which was awarded the Jock
Campbell Award, The Joys Of Motherhood, Destination Biafra, Naira
Power, Double Yoke, Gwendolen and The Rape of Shavi as well as a
number of children’s books and two plays, A Kind of Marriage,
produced on BBC television and Juju Landlord, produced by
Granada. Her autobiography, Head Above Water, appeared in
1986 to much acclaim.

Withdfo\Wn
BUCHI EMECHETA

(l
W
S

Heinemann
 Heinemann Educational Publishers
A Division of Heinemann Publishers (Oxford) Ltd
Halley Court, Jordan Hill, Oxford 0X2 8EJ
Heinemann: A Division of Reed Publishing (USA) Inc.
361 Hanover Street, Portsmouth, NH 03801-3912, USA
Heinemann Educational Books (Nigeria) Ltd
PMB 5205, Ibadan
Heinemann Educational Boleswa
PO Box 10103, Village Post Office, Gaborone, Botswana
FLORENCE PRAGUE PARIS MADRID
ATHENS MELBOURNE JOHANNESBURG
AUCKLAND SINGAPORE TOKYO
CHICAGO SAO PAULO

© Buchi Emecheta 1994

First published by Heinemann Educational Publishers in 1994
Series Editor: Adewale Maja-Pearce
The right of Buchi Emecheta to be identified as the author of this work
has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs
and Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
AFRICAN WRITERS SERIES and CARIBBEAN WRITERS SERIES and
their accompanying logos are trademarks in the United States of America of

Cover design by Touchpaper

Cover illustration by Synthia Saint James

Phototypeset by CentraCet Limited, Cambridge

Printed and bound in Great Britain
by Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berkshire

94 95 96 97 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Ijeoma Camilla
and
Chukwudi Adin
 Acknowledgements

I wish to thank many friends for this book, Kehinde, but space
will not allow.
My first thanks go to my best friends, ‘Women of Pittsburgh,
USA’ - Brenda, Jackie, Familoni, Jane, etc. We spent hours
debating about the so-called ‘Black Women’s Madness’.
I also wish to thank the Odozi Obodo Evangelical Church in
Ibuza, Nigeria. They allowed me to watch closely how the
prophets and prophetesses use the voices that come to them
creatively.
And, last but not least, I wish to thank Jane Bryce in
Barbados for editing the work at such short notice.
 Digitized by the Internet Archive
in 2020 with funding from
Kahle/Austin Foundation

https://archive.org/details/kehindeOOOOemec
 CONTENTS

I The Letter 1

2 Kehinde and Moriammo 8

3 Albert’s Workplace 13

4 Kehinde and Albert 17

5 Another Patient 25
J

6 The Dream 28

7 The Party 34
8 Albert’s Letters 43

9 Moriammo’s Visit 50
10 Departure 58

II Arrival 64

12 Origins 76
13 School Visit 85

14 Letter to Moriammo 92

15 Decision 98
16 Return to London 105

17 Ifeyinwa 109
18 The Woli’s Vision 115

19 Starting Again 120

20 Just Another Black Woman 127

21 The Rebel 137

Glossary 143
 1 The Letter

Albert picked up the letter. He gently lowered himself into the

chair by the table. His hands were steady and controlled. On
opening the letter, he laughed out loud. His family looked up,
surprised, as Albert was a highly disciplined man who seldom
allowed himself the luxury of loud natural laughter. Something
omnious curled inside Kehinde’s stomach. She had seen the
back of the letter. It could come from only one source - Albert’s
sisters in Nigeria. Albert allowed himself a girlish giggle. His
children, Bimpe and Joshua, stopped eating their tea. They
looked at each other, shrugged and then smiled. Albert, who
was not unaware of their impatience, prolonged and savoured
the suspense.
‘Who is it from?’ asked Joshua, fourteen, scooping a spoon of
baked beans into his mouth. He could not stand the exclusion
any longer.
‘It’s a letter from Aunt Selina and Aunt Mary. They want me
to return home.’
‘They want you to return home? What of us?’ Kehinde asked,
bringing in a pot of tea. ‘They have been hinting at it for a very
long time, now they’ve got the courage to spell it out. Return
home, return home indeed! They keep forgetting that you left
Nigeria a young bachelor and that now you have a wife and kids.
Return home, just like that, enh?’
‘You know what home people are like. When they say “you”,
they mean all of us!’ Albert explained in a voice so low and
conciliatory that it was almost a whisper.
‘Don’t we count then?’ Bimpe piped in.

1
 ‘Will you keep quiet please, young lady! I happen to be talking
to your mother.’
‘She is right though,’ Kehinde said as she sat down heavily in
her kitchen chair, feeling suddenly tired and virtually useless. An
eel of suspicion wriggled in the pit of her belly.
Theirs was a typical East London mid-terrace house with a
small living room. Attached to the poky kitchen was a pantry,
now converted into a dining room which was so small that when
the family sat at their meal there was little room to move. There
was another large room at the back, with a glass door opening
into a small, untended garden. It was a room in which they could
have eaten in comfort, a room the estate agent described as the
morning room, but which the Okolos called the big bedroom.
Kehinde and Albert slept there. What would they be doing with
a morning room or a lounge, when they already had a living
room in front and a pantry that served as a kitchen/diner? Their
arrangement saved two bedrooms upstairs. They sublet one on a
permanent basis, and the other one occasionally to bring in that
extra pound or two. Whenever there were visitors from home
they asked the temporary tenant, who was usually a student, to
move.
Albert suspected that this was not the appropriate time to
pursue the letter. He stuffed it into his shirt pocket, nonchalantly,
putting on a big show for his watching family, to demonstrate
that he did not care very much for what his sisters had to say.
This had the desired effect. Kehinde sighed deeply and turned
her attention from her husband to her kids.
Albert and Kehinde ate their ground rice and egusi soup. The
children had recently started to complain about the monotony of
having ground rice and soup every evening so once in a while,
like tonight, to stem further argument, Kehinde would heat some
baked beans and serve them on toast with a little salad of lettuce
and tomatoes. The parents thought it was an awful meal, but the
children knew what they wanted. They loved it, despite its
plainness.
After satisfying herself that the family were tucking into their
tea happily, Kehinde went on in a hurt tone. ‘They did not even

2
bother to ask how we are.’ This was the right time to talk about
her hurt at being regarded as a nonperspn by her sister-in-law.
‘All they know is come home, send money, come home. What is
in Nigeria anyway? Are we not happy here? They just want a
chance to nose into the way we live. Come home!’
‘Well, they did ask how we all are. And they say there is an oil
boom in Nigeria, and that one can actually pick work up in the
streets. Nigeria needs us. The government says so. Even the
Europeans are leaving their countries and rushing to Nigeria.
My sisters are thinking of oui^own good, you know.’
‘Leave the white people out of it. Everybody knows they
always rush to any place that has cooked yams ready for them to
eat.’ Kehinde replied tightly in Igbo.
Joshua looked at his sister. ‘Let’s get out of here. Whenever
they speak their language, it means they don’t want us around.’
Kehinde, who was always indulgent towards her son, ignored
his rudeness, which she rationalised as the normal behaviour of
a fourteen-year-old boy establishing his identity. She simply
laughed and ventured, ‘Whose fault is it that you don’t speak
your mother tongue when you refuse to learn?’
‘You mean your mother tongue. Mine is English. Remember
you said that when I was born, the first thing you said to me
was, “Hello Joshua!” So I speak the first language I heard.’
Kehinde started clearing away the tea things. Bimpe got up to
help, squeezing in between chairs. Joshua, feeling left out,
marched noisily out of the room, and soon after the sound of the
television came through the wall.
It was Albert who noticed it was late and that the children
were still watching television. It was always a battle to get them
to go to bed; Joshua wanted to stay up and see the end of the
football match, arguing that he was fourteen and all his friends
at school would be talking about the match the next day. ‘I’ll
look a fool, Dad, if I can’t put in a word, just because you didn’t
let me stay up to watch. Think of it, Dad!’
Bimpe joined in, insisting that at eleven, she was practically a
teenager too, and should not have to go to bed at nine o’clock,
her agreed bed-time.

3
 Albert swore under his breath, his face contorted in an effort
to control himself. Both children were yelling like army sergeants.
Albert walked deliberately to the television and switched it off.
To bed, both of you. When I was your age, I didn’t even have
television. Off to bed.’ The authoritative tone finally had an
effect. Silence descended, and the two children slunk off to bed
without saying good night.
Kehinde was already half asleep when Albert came into their
bedroom. The quiet was a relief after the scene in the front room.
‘Early to bed? It’s only ten o’clock,’ Albert commented, as he
changed into his pyjamas.
‘I keep telling you that I don’t feel well. I haven’t felt well for
some time now. I was suspicious, so I went to the doctor this
morning.’
‘Suspicious of what?’ Albert asked in a low and tremulous
voice.
‘I’m pregnant.’
‘What? Pregnant? Kehinde, please sit up and look at me. What
are you talking about?’
‘I know how you must be feeling, especially now your sisters
have suddenly realised they have a brother. Now you earn
enough money, own a house . . .’
‘We own a house,’ Albert said quickly. He was not unaware of
the legal status of a wife here in Britain. In Nigeria, the home
belonged to the man, even if the woman spent her entire life
keeping it in order. She could never ask her husband to leave the
house, as was done here. But Albert did not want trouble, so for
the sake of peace he said, ‘Our house.’
In fact, Albert was only being realistic, since Kehinde earned
more than he did. It was because of her position in the bank that
they had been able to get a mortgage. But a good wife was not
supposed to remind her husband of such things. When Kehinde
said ‘your house’, she was playing the role of the ‘good’ Nigerian
woman. Conversely, when he said ‘our house’, he was being
careful not to upset her. After almost sixteen years of marriage,
they played this game without thinking.
‘I didn’t get pregnant on purpose to thwart your going home

4
plans.’ Kehinde wanted a real show down, but this time Albert
refused to play. *
‘Going home plans? You make it sound as if I’ve been planning
for it secretly.’
Albert, undressing in slow motion, regarded Kehinde as if she
were an alien being, rather than the woman he’d lived with for
fifteen years. Why become pregnant at this time of all times! He
sat on the edge of the bed, his head bowed. Groping for comfort,
he remembered how, when the children were little and they all
slept in one room, they used to say their prayers together. When
did they stop? He supposed the children must have grown out of
it, and now he and Kehinde, despite their Catholic upbringing,
no longer prayed either. Evidently conversion had not been able
to eradicate their parents’ long-held traditional beliefs. They
both came from polygamous families - his father had two wives,
Kehinde’s three. The Irish priests, not knowing which way to
turn, had baptized them all, seeing it as a chance to save these
‘lost souls’ for Christ. Abruptly, Albert’s thought returned to the
present.
‘How did it happen? I thought I’d been careful,’ he asked
aloud.
‘How am I to know, enh? I always warn you not to bother me
when I’m asleep. Haven’t I been warning you that it could
happen? When you wanted to come inside me earlier on in our
marriage, you used to be so nice. You took the trouble to wake
me up with love. Now you’re always impatient. You grip my
breasts from behind as if you’re going to force yourself on me,
and before I know what you’re about, you’re done. I don’t even
know if you’re using any protection or not. So I hope you’re not
doing like some Nigerian men and suggesting it’s my fault.’
Albert ignored her complaint about his sexual methods, but
was curious to find out what she meant by her reference to
Nigerian men.
‘Are you the only one who doesn’t know about the latest
method of blackmailing women into submissiveness?’ she
retorted. ‘They say: “You are not carrying my child,” and the

5
 N

woman ends up spending time and money to prove that the child
really is his.’
Albert chuckled in spite of himself. Yes, he knew of a few
instances. A tough woman could be brought to heel by a husband
claiming that the child she was carrying was not his, and then
forgiving her all the same. She would never be able to hold up
her head among his people. Very few would believe the woman’s
side of the story, and a woman who dared to suggest a blood test
to clear her name was considered presumptuous. Yes, a neat
blackmail.
Albert turned off the bedside lamp and sat in the dark,
considering. He had already made the decision to return home.
It was only a matter of when. After eighteen years, he pined for
sunshine, freedom, easy friendship, warmth. If he could get
Kehinde on his side, winning the children over would be easy.
He wanted to go home and show off his new life style, his
material success. He would be able to build houses, to be
someone. Nigeria was booming, and he wanted to join the party.
Now this hiccough. What to do, enh?
Albert was a thin, wiry man of forty. Kehinde, who had never
been thin, was now, at thirty-five and after the births of two
children and years of eating takeaway fish and chips, comfortably
plump. Albert liked her that way. He found thin women unsatis¬
fying. What was a man expected to fondle at night, when there
was a gale outside? Give him a plump African woman with a
heavy backside, like Kehinde. He looked in her direction. ‘What
are we going to do, enh?’
‘You asking me what you are going to do? Are you no longer
the head of the family? Bimpe is almost twelve after all. She is
not too young to have a brother or sister, or is she?’ Kehinde was
aware that she could talk to her husband less formally than
women like her sister, Ifeyinwa, who were in more traditional
marriages. She related to Albert as a friend, a compatriot, a
confidant. This was one of the reasons for the uneasiness she had
felt earlier that evening, when Albert was reading the letter from
home.
Albert’s heart sank. ‘Kehinde, what of your promotion? And

6
we’ve only just recovered from the last lot of child minders.’
Kehinde was intransigent.
‘So, what do you want me to do? Our people believe that
people are more valuable than money.’
‘I know all that. But our people never lived in London, where
parents have to pay a great part of their wages to nannies to look
after their babies.’
Kehinde sucked her teeth and turned her face to the wall,
pulling the bed clothes to her side. Giving up, Albert got into
bed. He did not complain about the bed clothes. It was too late
for an altercation, but he lay rigid for a long time. He had
planned to calm her about the letter by making love to her in
that particular way she favoured. He would have stroked her
legs, working his hands up gradually until his fingers were inside
her body. With his other hand, he would have played koto with
her nipples. Her breasts were warm, full and cushiony. She
would have gasped and the night play would have begun. And
then, while carried away, she would have agreed that going home
was not only a good idea, but the best and only plan for them.
But the news of the pregnancy had spoilt all that. A police
siren tore into his thoughts, and set him wondering whether it
was right to drive at such high speed. They could end up killing
an innocent somebody. He turned this way and that way,
wondering about it.

7
 2 Kehinde and Moriammo

Despite the sunshine, there was a chill in the air, causing

Kehinde and her friend to pull their Marks and Spencers
raincoats closer to their bodies.
‘This new bank building is overheated, abi?’ Kehinde observed.
‘It’s better than being cold,’ Moriammo responded.
‘I’m not complaining.’ The two women, who worked together
in the bank in Crouch End, walked briskly to the local Wimpy
bar, just a block away. They ordered beefburgers and coffee.
‘Can you count the number of times we’ve been here over the
past ten years or so?’ Moriammo asked idly, biting into her food.
They had to eat quickly as it was Friday, and they had to dash
and do the shopping during their lunch break. Kehinde did not
feel like hurrying. She was taking tiny sips of coffee.
Moriammo watched her for a while and said with her mouth
full, ‘Eh, today na Friday. We get plenty shopping to do. Why
you dey chop small, small, like oyinboT
‘Not be only oyinbos wey chop small small. In fact, sef, dem
chop so so fast too. You never see those women wey dey sell
cabbage for market chop?’
They both laughed, but the laughter stopped abruptly, as if on
cue.
Moriammo, with her dark brown eyes that were always edged
with black tiro, peered closely at Kehinde.
‘What is the matter? Abi, you done quarrel with Alby?’
‘Oh, I no know, Moriammo. I don tell am say, I pregnant.’
‘Hm, him no happy? These our men just wan make we get
belle every time.’

8
 ‘I beg stop-o, Moriammo. Your voice dey give me headache!’
Moriammo became thoughtful, chewing slowly and not saying
anything for a while. Kehinde had been snappy all morning,
whereas Kehinde and Albert should be happy that there was
going to be another baby. After all, Bimpe was almost twelve
now.
Kehinde pushed her beef burger away and said, ‘Sorry-o,
Moriammo. Only say, sometimes I no understand that man I
marry. He dey worry more for my job here for bank than for the
pikin. And to make matters jVorse, him sisters write from home
say make we return. Dem say money plenty for Lagos, and jobs
dey go for two for half a penny.’
‘Well, dat no be bad thing, abi? I wan go home too. My trouble
be say Tunde no get qualification at all at all. Dat man, him no
get no experience in anything except to write ticket for Nigeria
Airways counter.’
They laughed again.
‘Him be good man, though. They fit transfer him to home
branch, you know Moriammo. Dem say our Naira almost be the
same as pound. The value just dey rise every day.’
‘I know, I dey see am every day for the exchange rate table.
But why you and Alby careless so, ’specially as he no sure if him
want any more pikin? Shame on you both. Dis na England, abi
you done forget? Here two pickin dey fine.’
‘Boh, go siddown my friend. You wan tell me say you and
Tunde no dey do the tin for night again? Go siddown, boh. Who
you dey deceive? Me? Wetin worry me be my promotion here.’
The smile had disappeared from Kehinde’s face. ‘If I born this
pikin, I go take almost one year off work. Boh, all this wahalaV
‘Na wa-o. After all the wahala wey you go through before dem
’gree promise to give you promotion. This trouble, na wa! We
women no dey win any ting for this world! I tink say Alby right
to worry about it though. But, hmm, you go get the promotion. I
dey sure.’
‘Where I go get the promotion, enh? Where? Here or for
Nigeria? Abi, you done deaf now? I tell you say, Albert’s sisters
write say make we come home.’

9
 ‘So, wetin you wan do? Tanda here when Alby stay at home?
You go let him stay home alone among those Nigerian acadas?
You no know say those young overeducated women dey thirst for
been-to men as small baby dey thirst for suck? I no dey-o! Make
you think twice, my friend.’
‘My Alby no be like that. Him different. I fit swear with my
life for him,’ Kehinde defended her husband. And she felt she
was speaking the truth, since Albert had never given her cause
to worry about unfaithfulness.
‘Kehinde, I beg, wake up-o; make you just wake up.’
‘Wetin you mean Moriammo? I tell you say Alby no be like
that.’
Their attention was diverted by the entrance of two young
women with six young children between them. The children
looked pinched and deprived, the mothers harassed. It was not
the first time Kehinde and Moriammo had seen them.
‘These ones na one-parent family. Homeless, too,’ Moriammo
commented.
‘Ah, how you know that? They just be ordinary women with
unemployed husbands.’
Moriammo shook her head. ‘No, I heard them talk the other
day. Dem dey lie for that bed and breakfast place up Crouch
Hill. Allah! I no understand why some women fit allow them¬
selves to be trapped in such a situation. Why dem no get jobs,
even if na ordinary cleaning?’
A thoughtful pause followed, during which the two black
women, well established in their jobs and in their homes,
scrutinised the two younger women.
‘And dis be dem country too. I think they just lazy,’ whispered
Moriammo, who could only see that the women were white. ‘You
know Tunde’s cousin, Abeke, she dey read to be sociologist. She
don tell me say some of these women just get pikin, so the
government go give them flat. Look that one, wetin she won do
with three pikin when she self still be one?’
‘Well this story done get K-leg, as we say for Eko. Boh my
sister, make we dey go, we get shopping to do,’ said Kehinde. ‘I

10
didn’t touch this food. I wonder, would they be offended if I gave
it to them?’
Moriammo shrugged her shoulders. She put on her coat and
patted her hair into place, making sure she did not look at the
young women and their families. ‘Make you try, now. They fit
only say no. Women like them, no dey have racial prejudice.
They can’t afford it.’
Kehinde got up. With unsure steps she walked to the older of
the two women. She whispered, ‘I ordered food, but I haven’t
touched it. I don’t feel hungfy, I’m expecting a baby you see,
still very early. I’m going through the sickness stage.’
‘Are yer? I know all about it. Ta very much. Jodiiiii, bring
that plate over. The lady gave it to us.’
‘The beef burgers and ail? Corrr!’ cried five-year-old Jodi, as
he dashed towards the table at which Kehinde and Moriammo
had been eating. He was so unabashed that everybody laughed.
‘You done do your Christian act for the day,’ commented
Moriammo, as they walked away. ‘Poor kid. Must be hard
though, raising kids in this town with no husband.’ The child’s
naturalness had apparently touched her heart.
‘Yes, and no home. Well, we work hard for what we have. I
don’t have much sympathy for them. Some women choose a life
like that to prove how tough they can be.’
‘Come on, Kehinde, no sane woman go choose such a life. Na
just by mistake or hard luck. Not everybody get good luck for
this world, you know.’
‘I tell you, I have seen one such woman. She’s a townwoman
of ours. She has six kids. She said her husband beat her, so she
left him. Of course the man disappeared. The woman now lives
in a council flat - one of those dangerous and filthy ones. What
annoys Alby is that she noises any little success she has, as if we
all cared. The other day, she gave a party because she had
bought a sewing machine. Imagine!’
Moriammo laughed. ‘Well, oyibos do that too. I’ve seen it in
Fiddler on the Roof. The young couple invited the whole village
because they had bought a new sewing machine. They called it a
new arrival.’

11
 ‘O Moriammo, be serious. Alby no dey allow me to associate
with such women. We no get anyting in common!’
‘But dat woman get heart-o. Six pikin! Allah BabaV
‘And she is so well educated too. She should have known
better.’
‘Maybe too much book bad for women. Tunde don dey say so
often. If she no be so much acada, she for don stay for her
children at least. Now the husband dey enjoy. And when the
children don grow finish, them go forgive them papa. Allah,
please lend a hand to the women of the world.’
‘Exactly, that’s what I been dey say. Monkey dey work,
baboon dey chop.’
‘Wetin be im name self, this your townswoman? Just curious.’
‘Her name na Mrs Elikwu - Mary Elikwu,’ Kehinde spat.
‘Allah, lend a hand. Una women too stubborn, self. Six pikin,
no be joke-o.’
By the door, Moriammo laid a hand on Kehinde’s shoulder
and confided in a low tone. ‘You know I go try make another
child. You never know, maybe I get lucky and have a man-child
this time after my two girls.’
‘Moriammo, you be copy cat.’
‘I know. Better than being jealous.’
‘You tink say Tunde go gree?’
‘I go make am gree. By force!’
They laughed helplessly as they crossed the road and entered
the big supermarket in front of the clock tower. Moriammo took
two wire baskets from the stack by the automatic doors and gave
one to Kehinde.
‘Thank you, my friend.’
‘Any time,’ said Moriammo, in a voice like a song.

12
 *

3 Albert’s Workplace

One of the reasons Albert Okolo chose to live in Leytonstone was

because of its nearness to his workplace. He had only to drive for
about fifteen minutes and he would be there. He could virtually
slip out of the house a few minutes before his work started
without disturbing his family.
He never ate breakfast, a habit he had from Nigeria. He slid
out of bed not wanting to disturb Kehinde and drove to work
mechanically. He had driven that same road, that same corner
and that short-cut, so often that he could do the distance with
his eyes closed. At work, he slipped mechanically into the routine
of his job as storekeeper.
‘Morning Alby,’ greeted his colleague, Mike Levy.
‘Morning Mike,’ Albert drawled. He did not have to look up;
he knew who it was. For once, he did not go on to ask about
Mike’s health and that of his family, a Nigerian habit Albert had
never shaken off, even after eighteen years. It was so automatic
that Mike waited unconsciously for it and unwittingly readied
himself with the usual answer: ‘They are well, at least they were
when I left home.’ And Albert would say in reply, ‘That’s all
right. We thank God for another day.’ The omission alerted
Mike that something was wrong. He watched his colleague
thoughtfully.
Others came in, who, in the English manner, did not bother to
say ‘Good morning’, except for Prahbu, a man they called ‘India’
even though he came from Pakistan, who greeted all the other
storekeepers and went straight to the tea machine. The noise of

13
his ten pence pieces rattled Albert and he lifted his dark lean face
to look at Prahbu.
‘Heh, what’s the matter with ’im?’ Prahbu asked Mike.
‘How should I know? Why don’t you ask him? He’s your friend
too.’
They all set to work in the cluttered warehouse, checking,
labelling, dusting, checking again and stamping. Albert had to
examine and enter the figures and pass them to the gov’nor, who
had a separate box-like room.
‘I’m buying tea for everybody today,’ Prahbu announced at
the mid-morning break.
‘Is it your birthday then?’ asked John, one of the English
workers, now fully awake and friendlier.
‘Nope, I just feel like buying tea for everybody,’ Prahbu said
in the sing song voice he sometimes affected for fun.
‘I didn’t know that Hindus drank tea. You’re the first I’ve
seen.’John was at his jokes again.
‘I am not a Hindu, you know that,’ Prahbu said, laughing.
John had always said this since he had realised it annoyed
Prahbu at the beginning of their association. Not only that, but
John soon realised that calling him ‘India’ was even more
annoying. Prahbu, however, soon got wise, and learnt to react
with humour, which took the sting out of John’s spite.
‘What does it matter what religion? God did not forbid tea.
What does your God say, Albert? You’re a Catholic, aren’t you?’
Prahbu turned the banter on Albert, who was far too quiet this
morning.
‘Yes, I’m a Catholic and I’m about to commit a mortal sin,’
he responded.
John spilled his tea. ‘Wharr? Are you going to kill us for
voodoo?’ Albert looked at John and suddenly noticed that the
slim Cockney who had joined them over ten years before was
getting portlier and portlier, while his high forehead was gradu¬
ating into baldness. He still had his tiny pink mouth which had
the unexpected habit of breaking into laughter when everybody
else had finished laughing.
Albert remained silent. He had to talk to Prahbu privately.

14
Prahbu was his closest mate. John took out his plastic darts and
threw them at the picture of a woman in a bikini pinned to the
wall.
At their lunch break, Prahbu sat next to Albert.
‘Now, my friend, what’s the problem?’
‘Kehinde is pregnant.’
‘Oh? So what is the problem?’
Albert thought carefully before he replied. He knew the advice
he wanted from his colleague, just as he had wanted Mike to
approve of his circumcising h.i's son Joshua, years ago.
‘She’s going to be made a branch manager soon. Can you
imagine what will happen to her promotion if they realise she’s
going on maternity leave?’
‘Shsh,’ Prahbu whispered, making a downward movement
with his hand. ‘They will demote her, or tell her to go back home
and have as many children as she wants. Hm, such jobs are not
easy to find these days, ’specially for our people. Your wife is
very, very lucky to have that job.’
‘Yes, I know. That’s exactly what I mean. I can’t imagine her
walking into another job like that these days.’
‘But you have two kids already, so why not this one?’
Albert shrugged. ‘This is not the right time for another one. I
know abortion is wrong but we are in a strange land, where you
do things contrary to your culture.’
‘Was that what you had in mind? Abortion?’
Albert nodded.
‘What does your wife say to that? Our women can be difficult
when it comes to things like that. A white woman, easy, she’ll
see sense.’
‘Er .i.I haven’t even told her yet. But she will do what I say,
after a lot of tantrums. Stupid country, where you need your
wife’s money to make ends meet.’
‘I know what you mean. Women rule in this country,’ Prahbu
said in a long-suffering voice. ‘And children are regarded as a
luxury.’
Albert nodded. ‘In my country, children are a necessity. They

15
mean a good old age with plenty to eat. And with grandchildren,
people respect you.’
‘Now you’re telling me. You know I have three boys, but Leila
must not get pregnant again until I can join her full-time in our
shop.’
‘How is that going?’ Albert asked, putting some life into his
voice for the first time that day. He was always interested in
Prahbu’s business projects.
Prahbu undulated his right hand, enjoying the attention Albert
was giving him. ‘So ... so. Rome was not built in a day.’
They all had their dreams. Prahbu’s was to own big grocery
stores and newsagent’s shops. Mike dealt in stocks and shares
and had many contacts through his synagogue. John and the
others dreamt of holiday villas in Spain or Madeira, where they
could live in retirement. Albert’s dream was to be made a chief
in his homeland, but while the others could talk about their
dreams, Albert felt shy. He was afraid Prahbu would ask, ‘Are
you sure you’re doing the right thing, going back to Africa?’
Albert knew that their images of African chiefs were gathered
from old Tarzan films and Sanders of the River, and that trying to
give his colleagues an up-to-date picture of Nigeria would be a
waste of time.
Today Albert did not indulge himself with dreams. He was too
preoccupied by Kehinde’s announcement of the night before. He
did not even tell Prahbu about the letter he had received from
home the day before. Instead, he continued the conversation they
had started.
‘You will make it, Prahbu. Your people are very hard working.’
‘So are your people, my friend,’ Prahbu said generously. He
did not indulge in the usual stories of his newspaper distribution
work. He could see that today Albert needed a listening ear, and
a pat on the back.
‘Hmm, but your people are born businessmen,’ Albert said.
‘Ha, ha, ha, what of Nigerians!’
‘You’re too kind Prahbu.’
‘Good luck, my friend.’

16
 4 Kehinde and Albert

It was a mild spring evening, crisp and windy, but not cold. It
was nearly seven and the rush-hour was over as they cruised
slowly, Albert searching the house-fronts for the clinic address.
Hugging the kerb, they approached a lone woman in a red
leather mini-skirt and a cheap fur coat. Her steps slowed as they
drew level and she bent down to look inside the car. Seeing
Kehinde, she straightened abruptly and wiggled away, a wraith¬
like worm of cigarette smoke trailing behind her.
Kehinde, hunched miserably in her seat, thought that, after
all, Albert had brought her to the level of that woman — that
prostitute. To him, they were the same, just bodies, convenient
vehicles which, when they took on an inconvenient burden, could
be emptied of it by the same means. Into Kehinde’s mind,
interrupting her thoughts, came a voice, the same voice she often
heard when she was lonely or confused. ‘Our mother died having
you. I too died so you could live. Are you now going to kill your
child before he has a chance of life?’

Taiwo: the one who preceded me into the world. There were two
of us in our mother’s womb. We had no will of our own. We
followed the rhythm of everything around us. Our food came
from mother, and in return, we passed our waste back into our
mother’s blood. Soon we started running short of the water of
life. Everything was becoming short and cramped. At length, we
started to talk to each other, sharing as best we could for survival,
becoming weaker and weaker by the day together. Nonetheless,

17
we managed to survive for months, touching and kissing, making
the best of the space available. Together we fought against the
skin that kept us captive. We wanted to burst out and escape
into the open. We did not know what lay out there in the world,
but anything, anywhere was better than where we were. We
communicated with each other by touch and by sounds. Sounds
which only we could understand. Then one day, we laid siege on
the skin wall that kept us enclosed. Frustrated, we banged and
we shouted; and we kicked and cried in our limited space.
Exhausted, I fell asleep. I felt even in sleep the cessation of the
rhythmical movements I was accustomed to. I felt around me in
the now warm thickening water for my sister, but she had
become just a lump of lifeless flesh. I clung to her, because she
had been the only living warmth I knew. I called her, but there
was no answer. I cried for her in my now lonely tomb. None
heard my cries. I hugged her, held her to myself, so tightly that
the wetness from her body started flowing into mine. As she
dried, I had more space. I grew bigger. I survived. But I did not
eat my sister, as they said I did. There was only life enough for
one of us.
Our mother, poor soul, must have gone through hell giving
birth to us. Yes, I wanted to come out first. To be the Taiwo, the
one who tasted the world first. I tried to hold back what was left
of my sister, but even her wrinkled lifeless flesh had a strong
stubborn will. Her tiny wizened head came out first. My mother
had no more energy to give birth to me, who by this time was so
big, like two babies in one. They cut her open and I, Kehinde,
the twin who follows behind, was taken out. My mother and my
sister were dead. Nobody wanted me. Luckily, Aunt Nnebogo
came to visit, and she took me away from all those people who
accused me of being a child who brought bad luck. But Aunt
Nnebogo took the risk, and it paid her. She took me away to
where she lived, in far-off Lagos, where the Yoruba people
believe that twins bring luck, and give them special names:
Taiwo and Kehinde. They say that as soon as I came into Aunt
Nnebogo’s life, her fish business flourished. She had enough
money to rent a room of her own in Macaullum Street in Ebute

18
Metta. She became independent, and was rich enough to be able
to afford the burial of her mother who died when she was quite
little.
Nobody told me that Aunt Nnebogo was not my mother, and
that was what I called her till I was eleven years old. When they
gave me akara or moyin-moyin as a toddler, I would share it into
two, part for me and part for my Taiwo — the one who came to
taste life for me. I did this even though I did not know I was a
twin, or that I had deprived my Taiwo of her life. I even talked
to her in my sleep, without/knowing who I was talking to.
Sometimes Aunt Nnebogo used to be impatient and angry over
my wanting to do everything twice. I later realized that she did
not want me to know the story of my birth. She knew people
would remember and say, ‘Was this not that baby that brought
bad luck to her mother and baby sister? Was this not the child
that deprived her brothers and sisters of the joy of having a
mother? What are you doing with such an ill-luck child?’ But
Aunt Nnebogo had no child of her own, and she wanted to
protect me. She even gave me a Christian name: Jacobina, after
Jacob, who fought and won the battle against his brother Esau
in the Bible. Aunt Nnebogo loved the Bible stories, which
reminded her of our moonlight stories. She told me that story so
many times that, for a while, I thought it was the story of my
own birth.
I think I was about five or so when we saw an iyabeji - the
name the Yorubas give to the mother of twins - dancing as those
mothers do. She came with her twins in front of the fish stall
where my Aunt sold fish. I was at the back of the stall, sitting on
a mat with my feet wide apart, enjoying the coolness of the
beaten earth. I was eating iwu-akpu, which I liked because it was
cool and filling and really tasty. I was, as usual, leaving a handful
in this comer for my chi and in that corner for my Taiwo. I was
cheating because I liked iwu-akpu a lot, so I was telling Taiwo,
‘You have this little bit, but I am going to eat this big bit because
I am very hungry.’
The iyabeji came with her onilu and started to sing the praises
of her twins, informing us that ‘the twins’ mother is saying hello

19
to you all.’ Her voice was haunting and poignant, and everybody
was drawn in:
‘Iyabeji nki yio . . .
Eru o be mio lati bi ’be ji o . . .’
She went on to sing of how she was not afraid to be the mother
of twins, to list the twins’ attributes and to pray for the good will
of all present.
I stopped eating. The onilu drummed hard, and the iyabeji
danced low, bending her knees and moving in beautiful rhythm
to the song and the drum. The haunting melody of the ibeji song
mesmerised the fish-stall holders. The twins, one in front and the
other on the mother’s back, peeped out at the people with the
wide eyes of innocence. My eyes caught theirs and held for a split
second.
Something inside me burst, like the rupturing of a boil. An old
question that had been festering for a long time was answered at
that moment.
I scrambled up, upsetting my bowl of iwu-akpu, and dashed to
Aunt Nnebogo. ‘Where is my Taiwo - the person who tasted the
world for me?’ I cried. My voice, high and hysterical, drowned
that of the iyabeji. ‘We were two, weren’t we?’ I insisted, with the
certainty of revelation.
Iyabeji stopped dancing. All eyes were diverted from her to rest
on me. The iyabeji drummer smiled and asked, ‘So the little girl
is a twin?’ Aunt Nnebogo had to nod. She was scared out of her
wits at the scene I was making and did not have time to think of
the right answer. She just nodded, like a shocked lizard after it
has fallen from a tree. I was only quiet when everybody in the
fish stalls contributed money, fish and little gifts and asked me to
carry them to the twins. I loved that, being chosen to give two
sets of gifts to the mother of twins, to give to twins like me.
When the iyabeji left, everybody started to ask where my Taiwo
was, and why it was that a replica of my lost sister had not been
made for me to carry. Mama Comfort, the stallholder next to us,
who was also from our part of Nigeria, kept asking Aunt
Nnebogo, ‘When did you have a set of twins? You know you

20
should be called by the twins’ names, otherwise they may become
bad luck. So you’re “twins’-mother” then/
My aunt shook her head at the curious women, putting her
finger to her lips. She made frantic signs to silence them in my
presence. I was not too young to be aware of this. I knew even
then that she was going to give them an explanation. But what
Mama Comfort said next rang in my mind long after: ‘I always
thought when she divided her food in two before eating that she
was giving it to her chi' Aunt Nnebogo replied in a low tone,
‘Her second and her chi are one and the same.’
When we got home from the market that day, I became ill.
People made suggestions as to the cause of my fever. But Aunt
Nnebogo was a Christian. When she had snatched me away from
the negative situation in which I was born, she had thought she
was saving me from the clutches of superstition. She did not
know that I would grow into a child who would not let her
identity die. I kept asking, ‘Where is my sister? Where is my
Taiwo?’ I knew that my second was a girl, just as nobody had to
tell me that I was born one of a set of twins.
Some people who knew had made hints in unguarded moments
about my past, because they felt my birth caused a disaster, and
those hints must have entered my subconscious. I called Aunt
Nnebogo ‘Mama’, because she was the only mother I knew. Other
people called her Mama Jacobina, and she answered to it, but I
always sensed that she did not allow the milk of her love to flow
unchecked as many mothers around me did. Most mothers gave
too much love and tried to own the beloved. But I was haunted
by my past, so that Aunt Nnebogo put me on the hem of the skirt
of her love. However, lor me to get fully well, she asked a special
ibeji carver to make me my Taiwo. They must have told her to
start calling me my real name, Kehinde, and within a few years, I
had forgotten that I had been called another name.

Kehinde was recalled to the present by Albert’s voice. Tenta¬

tively he said, ‘I’m sorry we have to do this. When we get home
to Nigeria, you can have as many babies as you like, I promise.’

21
 Kehinde flared up instantly. ‘What do you mean, have as
many babies as I like? Have you forgotten that they are tying my
tubes as well? I meant what I said last night. If I abort this child,
I want my tubes tied. I can no longer rely on you to take the
proper precautions. And I don’t want to go through this again,
ever.’
Albert threw a worried look at her, rubbing tears of anger and
frustration from her eyes. He did not care for this tube-tying
business, but Kehinde had made it a condition for the abortion.
He had had to agree. There was no way he could save for their
home-going on his income alone, to say nothing of feeding
another mouth. He consoled himself that if doctors could tie up
women’s tubes, surely they could untie them again whenever he
and Kehinde could afford another child.
‘When we get to Nigeria,’ Kehinde continued, ‘if I am really
going with you, I am going to enjoy myself. I’m not going to get
there and start carrying babies again. If I can’t have this one
here, then I’m not having any there. And I may not even go with
you. My dreams about home are confused. I haven’t a clear
vision what I’m supposed to be looking for there. So hurry up
and tell your . . . sisters whatever you like.’
Kehinde had been tempted to call his sisters a bad name, but
she dared not. The Igbo woman in her knew how far to go. She
could tell Albert what she liked, but would not malign his
relatives. Not to his face, at any rate.
Albert ignored her, attributing her peevishness to nervousness
about the operation.
‘Ah, here we are, number 71,’ he said with relief, drawing up
at the front door of the clinic.
Kehinde’s heart beat fast, like hailstones on a tin roof. She felt
she was making a momentous decision, and her legs were like
jelly, scarcely able to carry her weight. Had Albert said at that
juncture, ‘Let’s go back home darling. Our dreams should be
locked in each other’s fate, not mine and yours separate,’ she
might have loved him devotedly for the rest of her life. But he
did not. She walked like a zombie to the front door. Albert must
have rung the bell.

22
 A woman in a white uniform, wearing a strictly commercial
smile, looked them up and down.
‘Come in, Mrs Okolo. Your room is ready for you. Come on
in.’
The hallway was high and huge. The floor was beautifully
tiled and there was a big crystal chandelier hanging from the
ceiling. On the right, a wood and iron stairway curved itself
snake-like to the floor above. On the left was a table so highly
polished that it could have been made of glass. The vase of
yellow roses it held was reflected in its surface. The atmosphere
spelt money. Kehinde thought of how much they were paying.
‘Think how much it costs to raise a child these days,’ Albert
had said only the night before, and she had agreed they could
not afford another one. But they could afford this.
She was propelled into a room, clinically clean, with two single
beds, lush green carpet on the floor, and a bedside table with
crab-like legs. There was a television with video paraphernalia
against the window, so elaborately draped it looked like a stage
set. There was no one in the other bed, for which Kehinde gave
thanks.
‘I’ll be back tomorrow to take you home, around this time.
Isn’t that so, nurse?’ Albert, having come this far with her, was
in a hurry to be gone. The woman with the commercial smile
caught Albert’s eye and nodded. ‘Yes, around this time
tomorrow. It will be done first thing in the morning, but we like
our mothers . . . our patients to have a few hours rest before
leaving. So you’re quite right, Mr Okolo.’
‘I am a mother. A mother of two,’ Kehinde snapped illogically
at the poor woman.
Albert and the nurse jumped. The nurse recovered first.
‘Oh,’ her expensive smile creased the corners of her mouth,
revealing almost the complete set of pearly teeth. ‘Oh, so I am
not wrong then in calling you a mother.’
‘And this is my husband,’ Kehinde wanted to add. ‘I am not a
whore, beating the street. I am a respectable woman.’ But her
shaking body stopped her. She sat down untidily on the tidily
made bed.

23
 ‘Goodbye Mr Okoio, we’ll see you tomorrow.’
Albert bent down and gave her a moist kiss on the cheek.
Kehinde felt it was a show for the watching nurse. Kissing, after
all, was not part of their culture.
‘Goodbye, K-k, I’ll see you tomorrow.’ Albert threw a parting
glance in her direction, then he walked briskly out of the door.

I am not going to cry, stupid woman. Two children are enough.

I don’t care if my mother already had eight children when she
died having me and my twin sister, Taiwo - the one who tasted
the world for me. The one who died with Mother. I am not
paying any mind to all that. Not at all.

24
 5 Another Patient

She must have slept, which surprised her. She would have
thought that the beating of her heart would make sleep imposs¬
ible. When she opened her eyes, she was facing the wall, but was
conscious of the sound of someone sniffing.
A figure was lying on the other bed, her brown hair tumbled
all over the single pillow. She was small and looked young, much
younger than Kehinde. Kehinde propped her head on her elbow
and watched the girl’s shoulders convulsed in spasmodic sobs.
Eventually, when she could bear it no longer, she put her own
guilt and uncertainty to the back of her mind, and said, ‘Don’t
worry. It will all be over in the morning.’
The convulsions slowed, degenerating into hiccoughs and
sniffing. Kehinde lay down and tried to flip through one of the
glossy magazines on the bedside table. She watched the girl at
the same time. At last the girl turned, and Kehinde saw her face,
the face of a confused child. White people’s faces look red when
they cry, but hers was dead white and flat like pizza dough, with
red blotches like tomato puree. Without make-up, some faces are
almost too rude to be shown in public, like a nude adult going to
market.
‘I must apologise, I just can’t help myself.’ She had an
educated voice. Though she was young, there was no doubt that
she was in control as soon as she opened her mouth. She made it
clear that she had just indulged herself a little by crying. ‘With
all the money my boyfriend had to pay, at least they should have
given me a private room. But then we probably have to pay for
the superior location and the quality furniture.’

25
 ‘That’s all right.’ Kehinde, too, started to use her assistant
bank manager voice. ‘I w$s doing some soul-searching earlier
on, but must have drifted off to sleep. My nerves have been taut
the past weeks. Now that I’m here, I feel almost relaxed and at
peace. As if it’s all out of my hands.’
The girl said nothing, just looked. Kehinde did not mind doing
the talking. She wanted to talk, talking was like a prayer.
‘I have to go through with it. My husband will kill me if I
don’t. But really, inside, I’m confused. Part of me doesn’t want
any more children, another part wants to keep this one, just this
one. I think it’s because I was born one of twins I always have to
weigh things this way and that before I make a decision. Can
you understand that?’
The girl nodded. Kehinde was surprised at herself, confiding
in a strange girl, almost ten years her junior. She came from a
culture in which being older meant being wiser, commanding
respect. This girl should have been crying on her shoulder, and
instead, Kehinde herself was talking shamelessly. The girl just
sniffed.
‘My husband and I are going back home, back to Nigeria.
That’s why we don’t want the baby. We have a year or so left
here, so I need to work hard to save more money.’
The girl sat up gently. She arranged her pillow so that Kehinde
could see her more clearly. Her eyes were red rimmed, as if she’d
been crying for days. She gently pushed her brown hair away
from her face. Every gesture she made was slow and calculated.
Furrowing her brows, she peered at Kehinde, who felt more
guilty than ever. But she could not stop herself. ‘We have been
here eighteen years, you see. My husband is the first son, and
even though we’ve been here all this time, we still have to go
home. So we don’t want this child. That’s why I’m here.’
The girl lay back on the bed as if she was going to start
sobbing again. Kehinde felt like crying out, ‘Say something to
me. I don’t care if you’re white or young enough to be my
younger half-sister. Just say something to me.’ She took a good
hold of herself and asked aloud, ‘Are you all right?’

26
 The girl nodded, arranging the bed clothes over herself, and
did not cry.
The nurse’s footsteps padded on the corridor. She came in and
asked, ‘All right, ladies?’ in a sugary voice. The plastic smile was
unwavering, but she was looking tired. Kehinde could see a faint
line on her brow, and wondered how old she was. She left them
each with a nightcap.
‘Makes sleep so much easier,’ she said brightly, to no one in
particular. She was obviously used to patients not responding to
her empty, honeyed words,/Taking out something that looked
like a tiny calculator from her apron pocket, she pointed it at the
window and pressed. The curtains swished closed. Kehinde’s
mouth opened when she saw the miracle the little calculator
could perform. If her room-mate was surprised, she did not show
it. ‘Good night ladies,’ the nurse intoned, as she padded out of
the room.
Kehinde turned off her bedside lamp, pulled the sheets up to
her chin and said, ‘Good night.’ Then she added, ‘They call me
Kehinde. I don’t know your name.’
A long silence followed, broken eventually by the girl’s tight
little voice.
‘Goodnight, Kehinde. Thank you for talking to me. My name
is Leah. I want my baby badly, but I can’t afford to keep it. I
have no home, I have no job, I’ve dropped out of university, and
I’m not even sure I love David. I don’t want to trap him. That
would be unfair.’
It was Kehinde’s turn to be silent.
‘What makes me angry is this. Why am I feeling so sad about
it all?’ Leah’s voice was a cry from the heart.
Kehinde wanted to say so many things, but Leah had turned
off her light. Words were unnecessary anyhow, as the nightcap
was taking effect. God only knew what the nurse with honeyed
words had put in it. Whatever it was, it succeeded in making
Kehinde’s mouth unable to say what her heart was thinking.

27
 6 The Dream

‘It won’t be much, Mrs Okolo, just a prick and you won’t feel a
thing.’ Feeling . . . fear, clutching my heart. Swooning, noises in
my ears. Children’s voices as we play in the street, under the
eyes of the bread, groundnut and sugarcane sellers from the yard,
displaying their wares on the pavement. We are playing a game
of families. Olu is refusing to play mother, because her mother
has died, gone away, neglecting Olu and her brother Akintunde.
Each time we remember, we are silent with sorrow.
‘No, no, Malechi,’ the big girl from next door is saying. ‘Olu
has no mother, so she can play father.’
‘Why would she play father, when she’s not a boy?’ I ask
angrily.
‘Because. This is a play family, not a real one. And in real life,
she has no mother,’ Elofune, Malechi’s sister, defends Olu, and
everyone glares at me.
‘Well, what am I going to play then? Can I play mother?’
They all laugh, pointing at me. ‘Just because you have no
father, you think a family must always have a mother. But there
are many mothers in a compound, so you can have a family
without a particular mother.’
‘Yes, but some families have no father, too,’ I say in my
stubborn way, my anger rising as I remember that I still do not
know who my real mother is. ‘All right, all right,’ says Malechi,
wondering what this circular argument is all about. ‘You,
Kehinde, play mother, because you have no father and Olu, you
play father as you have no mother.’
As usual I will not let the matter rest. I want to go on arguing,

28
as if the more I argue, the more likely the enigma of my birth
will be explained to me. My mind is not on the game. Olu’s
mother died. Where is my father, did he die too? I look at the
adults, but they are talking amongst themselves. I am left with a
familiar feeling of helplessness.
The moon goes behind a cloud, and the fire flies become more
audacious. The Hausas who live down the road and buy food
from us until late at night have all bought their food. We are
tired of playing, and are no\y telling stories, but our songs are
dying in our throats. The night wind is cold, after the airless heat
of the day. Those awake enough to answer the call songs of the
stories are answering them half-heartedly. We are beginning to
fall asleep. Aunt Nnebogo calls in her low voice, ‘Kehinde, don’t
fall asleep yet. Take the unsold groundnuts inside and then go to
the backyard and pee before you go in.’
‘Yes Mama,’ I reply. I do not get up immediately because our
room is at the back of the house. To get there we have to pass
the room of the landlord and his people, and walk along a dark
corridor, with no electric light.
‘Are you coming?’ I ask sleepily.
‘Why? Are you frightened of the dark? Only witches are
frightened of the dark.’
The statement shocks me into wakefulness. Other parents drag
or carry their children inside at night. I want Aunt Nnebogo to
do the same, as if she were really my mother. I want to show
that I’m like the other children in the yard.
Inside our room, darkness wells around us like water. I feel
bold enough to ask a question under its protection. ‘Mama, is
my Papa dead like Olu’s father?’
‘Who told you that? Your father is in Sokoto with your brothers
and sisters.’
I sit up quickly on my mat. I am curious about me. ‘My
brothers and sisters? Me?’ My voice wavers. So I do have
brothers and sisters. ‘Then why don’t I see them? Why don’t I
see my Papa and brothers and sisters? Malechi and Elofunna and
the others live with their Mama and Papa, why do I just live
with my Mama alone?’

29
 Aunt Nnebogo yawns, and I hear the bed creak. She settles
herself comfortably for the night.
‘Do you want to go to Sokoto?’
‘Yes!’ I reply eagerly, with the ingratitude of an eleven-year-
old.
‘You will soon see your family, when you go to Ibusa for your
mother’s burial. Her chi must be laid to rest before your sister
gets married.’ Aunt Nnebogo’s bed stops creaking, and I know
she will answer no more questions. Children are not encouraged
to talk directly to adults. That she has allowed this little dialogue
to take place at all is just because we are alone in our room. She
would have told me about the trip to Ibusa sooner or later, but
it is the first time I am hearing of it and I am still not satisfied.
Who is my mother? This question torments me.
Sleep has left me. All my senses are alive as if it were the
beginning of a new day. But it is still dark. I make an elaborate
bed for my Taiwo. I heap together on one side all my covering
cloths, patting them loudly. I then make a hollow in the middle
and put her in it. That is the only comfortable part of the mat,
but I want my Taiwo to have it, so she can lie in comfort and
listen to all my mutterings and questions. I move about noisily
as I make all these preparations in the dark. I guess Aunt
Nnebogo is not asleep, but is lying awake thinking. I know I
have hurt her, but I so badly want to see my brothers and sisters
in Sokoto. ‘Wait until we tell Malechi tomorrow,’ I whisper to
my Taiwo. ‘Ha, ha, you who have no father, uglying up our
father. We have a father. He lives in Sokoto.’ I go on clucking to
my wooden Taiwo until quite late into the night.

I awake with a sensation of floating. It is bright daylight, and I

feel as if the light is going to blind me. It forms a tunnel of
oranges, blues and pinks, and I float through. As I go, the voice
of a solo singer drifts towards me, accompanied by the gentle
twanging of a kora. As I emerge, I see a group of women, wearing
white shift-like garments, smiling and waving palm fronds as if
in greeting. I hurry towards them, smiling and waving. Then I

30
see my father. He is as I remember him, his arms open in
welcome, urging me to come to him. Suddenly, I hear a low,
piercing cry. A woman whose face I cannot see comes towards
me. She holds her palm frond across my path to stop me. She
has with her a little girl whom I immediately recognise. My
Taiwo. ‘No,’ she says, ‘go back. I have this one.’ The woman
indicates the little girl, who does not smile. ‘Your father was
coming to you, but you sent him back. He was coming to look
after you because he feels guilty about not looking after you the
last time. But you have refused to receive him. He wants you
with him, but you have to go back. You have to learn to live
without him.’
I try to push past her to go to my father. I suddenly realise
how terribly I have missed him. I tell myself he did not deserve
to die in the way he did. I must make it up to him. On my left
the palm fronds still wave me on. The music intoxicates me,
making me giddy.
‘Help me send her back.’ The voice of the faceless woman
becomes a wail. Then the little girl smiles and waves, mouthing
a farewell. Slowly, one after the other, the women join her, until
my way is blocked, shutting me off from my father. I hear my
father’s voice, louder than the rest, wailing. I never like to hear
men cry, least of all my father, whom I remember. I cannot
remember my mother. But the woman turns and I see her face,
a familiar face, like that of my sister Ifeyinwa. She holds out her
palm-frond like a spear. ‘Your mother refuses to let you die! Go
back, my daughter. Your time is not yet.’

‘Wake up, wake up, Kehinde!’

Kehinde’s eyes fluttered open and focused on Albert’s anxious
face. Next to him was Moriammo, her face expressing concern.
She leaned forward and said soothingly, ‘Alby said he was
coming to collect you, so as your friend, I say I go come. Now I
am here. What do I find, enh? You shouting for your papa. Wake
up, my sister, make we go home!’

31
 Kehinde, her spirit still returning reluctantly from the other
world, muttered, ‘I just see my mama and papa.’
‘Your parents wey done die since the year nineteen kererem?
Wake up, now, I beg!’
‘You lost a lot of blood,’ Albert said quietly, with a tinge of
guilt. Both the women looked at him, so he was momentarily
confused. ‘Can you manage?’ he asked, to divert attention. It
was obvious he was regretting the operation.
‘Of course she can manage. Just wait outside, oga.’ Moriammo
took charge, helping Kehinde to dress. She was a little shaky.
She glanced at the other bed, but it was empty. Leah had gone.
Kehinde spoke haltingly to Moriammo. ‘The child I just
flushed away was my father’s chi, visiting me again. But I refused
to allow him to stay in my body. It was a man-child.’
Moriammo looked at Kehinde, who could see she was worried.
She was trying very hard to think of the right thing to say. Her
brow furrowed and she smacked her lips. She bent towards
Kehinde and said, ‘Don’t worry, my sister. Your father will come
again. If not to you, he fit come to Bimpe as your grandchild.
Just think of that.’
In the car, they drove in silence until they reached Moriam-
mo’s house. As she got down, she said, ‘Take care, my sister.
Rest well-o.’
As Albert started the car, Kehinde turned impulsively towards
him.
‘Albert, did they tell you the sex of the baby?’
‘Hmmmmm, it was not a baby. It was an embryo that might
have been a man-child.’
‘And a man one day,’ Kehinde added. Tactfully, Albert was
silent. The silence was so long and brittle that Kehinde knew
Albert was grieving. She wanted to find out more. ‘If you have
known it was a boy, Albert, would you have made me abort it?’
‘You just want a quarrel and I’m not in the mood for it.
What’s done is done.’
‘You didn’t answer me Albert. You thought the child was a
girl, didn’t you? But I knew it would have been a boy. My
father’s chi was coming back to be with us. He was coming as my

32
child to look after me. I even saw my Taiwo and my mother.’
Albert looked at her sharply, but instead of speaking, he turned
on the music. He had never before refused to comfort Kehinde
when she needed it. She felt like a boat adrift on a stormy night,
lashed by the winds. Albert could not help her. How could he?
She was alone, in spite of what they said about marriage being
two people in one. It could not mean the same to him that the
child she had just flushed away was her father coming back.
Albert’s imagination could not carry him that far. She glanced at
Albert as if he were a new/person, his profile clear against the
window of the car. He had nothing to offer her.

33
 7 The Party

‘Send-off party?’ Prahbu asked, tilting his head to one side, a

habit that gave his listener the impression of indifference. But
the look was deceptive. For behind his gold-rimmed glasses, his
brown eyes twinkled with merriment and mischief. He loved
going out to visit friends on the only half-day off he allowed his
wife and himself. Though he and his wife Leila were Muslims,
originally from Pakistan, they were very liberal. London Mus¬
lims, who would not say no to a drop of alcohol.
Prahbu knew perfectly well why Albert was giving the party
and wished with all his might that he could stop him. ‘You can
still change your mind. You can still tell them you want your job
back,’ he said, hopefully.
Albert’s profile against the window was a chiselled black
human image against a greying light. But his smile was slow and
wan. ‘You mean I should return my superannuation and with¬
draw my resignation, Prahbu?’ Albert was not completely devoid
of humour. ‘Our cultures in Nigeria put a lot of emphasis on
home. The Yorubas say, “On oye ki sun ta” - the heir’s head does
not sleep outside, meaning the heir must always be buried in his
father’s compound.’
Prahbu rolled his head from side to side and intoned, ‘I know,
I know. But that was a long time ago. Suppose the heir went to
war and died there, enh? All those things were very nice,
nostalgic and romantic. But the truth is that they are no longer
pragmatic. You must think pragmatically.’ Prahbu exposed the
palms of his hands as if the answer to everything unpragmatic
lay inside them.

34
 ‘But I want to go back to the way of life my father had, a life
of comparative ease for men, where mein were men and women
were women, and one was respected as somebody. Here, I am
nobody, just a storekeeper. I’m fed up with just listening to my
wife and indulging her. The only alternative is to go to the pub,
but going to stand among all those drunken whites is no solution.
No, to be at home is better. There I can have my drink on the
verandah, and people will pay attention to me, including my
wife.’
Into Albert’s memory came the image of his large, slow moving
father as he was when Albert was growing up in Lagos. On
Sundays, his father and his mates would put on crisp agbadas
which their wives had spent the greater part of the week
bleaching and starching. They would go from house to house
visiting friends, drinking palm wine, eating kolanuts and dried
fish. In this way they kept in touch with friends and relatives,
caught up with home news and indulged in a little relaxation.
‘But people always say that I am westernised,’ Albert smiled
wryly to himself. In fact, he played to perfection the role of the
Igbo family man in London. But he was far from satisfied with
its restrictions. Kehinde did not understand, but his sisters did.
Kehinde would learn when they got home how she was supposed
to behave. Here, she was full of herself, playing the role of a
white, middle-class woman, forgetting she was not only black,
but an Igbo woman, just because she worked in a bank and
earned more than he did. Many women worked in banks at
home, but did not allow it to go to their heads. Albert loved
Kehinde, in his own way, but he needed room to breathe. As
Kehinde was perfectly well aware, behind the veneer of wester¬
nisation, the traditional Igbo man was alive and strong, awaiting
an opportunity to reclaim his birthright.
Prahbu, however, though well acquainted with the privileges
of the traditional male, remained sceptical about their relevance
to men like himself and Albert. He objected, ‘I know what you
mean, but that type of life is not possible here, in a country where
a woman is Queen and where it’s beginning to look as if we’re
soon going to have a woman Prime Minister. The trouble starts

35
when women get educated, and now it’s too late to change back
again.’
‘Yes, but I want something more,’ insisted Albert.
‘Ah, ambition, ambition,’ Prahbu said knowingly, opening his
arms in a universal embrace. ‘Well, you have the means now,
with your superannuation and the money you’ll get from the sale
of your house.’
‘I’m not selling the house right away. The superannuation -
well, they’ve been very generous. I’m using part of it to ship the
car and a few things in a container, but that will be after the
send-off party. I’ll leave two weeks after the party.’
‘Isn’t your wife going with you?’
‘Oh no,’ laughed Albert. ‘That would be disastrous. We have
to go back in the order in which we came to London.’
Prahbu could not hide his curiosity. Albert was willing to
rehearse the plan for the removal of himself and his family from
London.
‘Lagos is like London, you know. It’s difficult to get accom¬
modation. When that’s settled, I have to get a job, then look for
a school for the children. My wife will stay on to sell the house.’
‘Ah,’ laughed Prahbu, ‘but your wife came to London before
your children were born, so she should go home before them.’
‘You know your trouble, Prahbu, you are too meticulous. You
and Leila will come to the party won’t you?’
‘Of course we’ll come. Is it going to be one of those Nigerian
parties where the host and hostess change their attire every hour
and then all those invited are given presents?’
Albert allowed himself to laugh, almost with abandon. ‘That’s
certainly how we do it in Lagos.’
‘Must cost a lot of money.’
‘Money is meant to be spent, Prahbu. And it’s not every day
you return to your homeland after almost eighteen years in
London.’
Apart from Prahbu, Albert invited his white colleagues, his
boss and the tea lady. They all accepted gladly and promised to
come. He noticed that the white people felt honoured to be
invited, whereas in Nigeria people feel that when they come to

36
you, they are honouring you. So the host feels gratified when his
invitations are accepted. This was so in Albert’s case, especially
as he had cultivated the habit of saying very little at work.
He actually envied Kehinde and Moriammo the spontaneity
of their relationship. They were never afraid of making mistakes
and they seemed to forgive each other very quickly. Where would
he find a man he could talk to like that?
Many of their friends and acquaintances came to the party.
Kehinde, Moriammo and Amaka, the tenant’s girlfriend, all
worked very hard. Amaka, who had only recently arrived from
Nigeria to join her boyfriend, Oseloke, was a jewel. She seemed
to be everywhere at once, opening the door for guests, fetching
drinks, or calming a little child. She would make a good wife for
Oseloke.
Albert ran around mixing drinks, seeing to the music and
accepting congratulations from friends. Many of his colleagues
did not understand why he had decided to leave a secure job and
go back, after putting in almost fifteen years’ service in the same
employment. But most of his country people living in Britain
understood, and some even viewed him with envy. The picture
of the life he would lead at home was very vivid in their
imagination: taking his ease in a large, airy white bungalow, with
white verandahs shaded by palm-fronds along drive, with easy
laughter and more friends than you could count. The country
was virtually swimming in oil, and oil meant money. Lucky
Okolos.
Kehinde did not disappoint her friends. In the course of the
evening, she changed clothes ten times, as rich men’s wives did
in Nigeria, to advertise their wealth and boost the ego of the man
of the house. Albert, who, like Kehinde, had grown up in Lagos,
loved to look expensive. He had been lavish with his superannua¬
tion money, so excited that the words simply tumbled out of his
mouth: ‘Make it the party of the year, K-k. I’m sure I’ll get a job
as soon as I get home. We may not even need to work again with
the money from the sale of the house. The standard of living is
not as high as it is here, but I shall work anyway.’
‘It seems like yesterday that we arrived here,’ Kehinde had

37
replied cautiously. ‘We had nothing but youth and enthusiasm,
and now look at us. Our shiny Jag parked outside our own house,
our children ... oh, sometimes I’m afraid that we’re rushing
things and may not be able to make it as fast in Nigeria as we
have done here.’
‘Of course we’ll make it in Nigeria. It’s our country, isn’t it?
One of the reasons I’m going ahead of you is to get us good
accommodation, as befits our new image. If we all go together, it
would mean squatting with relatives, and I can’t imagine you
liking that.’
Kehinde shook her head. She would not like that.
‘Then look your best. And don’t forget to buy little presents
for our guests, just as we do at home. As I said, I want people to
remember the party Albert Okolo gave when he was leaving
London.’
Kehinde did not let Albert down. She treated her guests to the
whole array of Nigerian traditional styles and fabrics, from
guinea boubou to aso-oke iro and buba, to the Igbo lace blouse and
George lappa, ending with the Igbo ceremonial costume of white
otu-ogwu. This consisted of a cloth wound around her body
beneath the armpits, leaving her shoulders bare. Precious coral
beads adorned her neck, hair and ears. The outfit was to
emphasise her position as first wife of the first son, and the
mother of a son herself. Kehinde revelled in the impression she
created.
Among the guests was Mary Elikwu, who, with her husband,
was a former friend of Albert and Kehinde. Mary had recently
left her husband because, she claimed, he beat her. She had
taken her six children with her. To the men in their circle, she
was a curiosity, to the women, a kind of challenge. To Kehinde
she was a fallen woman who had no sense of decorum. Kehinde
was going to ‘forget’ to invite her, but Albert had announced the
party at their local Igbo family meeting. When Mary Elikwu
approached Kehinde at the party, Kehinde became rigid. Mary,
who was a university graduate and was known to disapprove of
overdressing, started to finger the coral beads. She commented,
‘One would have thought you were just getting married.’

38
 ‘What would you have done if your husband had provided
them for you? Wouldn’t you have worn them?’ Kehinde opened
her big eyes and looked her pointedly up and down. Kehinde
thought Mary Elikwu looked ridiculous in her plain white Marks
and Spencers blouse and a no-longer fashionable George lappa.
The cheek of it. She wondered again why Albert had invited her
- a woman who refused to work at her marriage.
Mary Elikwu was surprised at Kehinde’s reaction. She had
meant to pay her a compliment, but she was learning very fast
that a woman who left her marriage would always be marginal¬
ised, even by those she and her husband had regarded as close
friends. She heard her own voice saying, ‘I’m sorry Kehinde. I
meant well, believe me. They are lovely clothes.’
‘Mrs Okolo, if you please,’ Kehinde snapped, elongating her
rather short, thick neck as far as it would go to show her coral
beads to advantage.
‘Oh, but you can call me Mary,’ Mary Elikwu persisted,
instead of going away to hide her face in a corner as Kehinde
would have preferred. ‘Professionally, I don’t even use my
husband’s name. I prefer to use Jackson.’ Mary appeared
unaware that her attempts to mollify Kehinde were only infuri¬
ating her more. Her last remark had succeeded in alienating her
completely.
‘What is the matter with this woman?’ Kehinde wondered.
‘Not wanting to be called “Mrs”, when every Nigerian woman is
dying for the title. Even professors or doctors or heads of
companies still call themselves “Professor (Mrs)” or “Dr (Mrs)”.
This woman must be crazy. Is she bigger than all of them then?
I don’t understand her.’
‘Mrs Okolo, Mrs Okolo,’ called Amaka from the kitchen.
‘Please ma, come and tell me how you want this moyin-moyin
served.’
Kehinde swept past Mary Elikwu into the kitchen, sucking her
teeth as she went. The woman must be jealous, she told herself,
feeling gratified at her own explanation. For all her qualifications,
she, Kehinde, was worth more than a woman like Mary Elikwu
who couldn’t even keep her husband.

39
 Kehinde was still in her oto-ogwu as she stood by the door,
Albert holding her hand, jus]: like a western couple. On a nearby
chair was a huge basket, containing beautiful wrapped gifts for
the guests. Kehinde dipped her free hand into the basket and
gave each person a parcel as they left. Some had pyrex plates,
others a long-playing record, or a bottle of expensive wine.
Everybody took something home, as if it were a real Nigerian
party.
The last to leave were Moriammo and her husband, Tunde,
still wearing their social faces as they said good-bye. Like many
Africans in London, over the years they had learned to tell people
exactly what they wanted to hear, and it had become second
nature. As they closed the front door, Kehinde bent down to
remove her shoes. They were expensive hand-sewn suede, but
they hurt. She was not a slim woman, and she had been standing
all evening. However, Kehinde did not mind the pain, since the
desired effect had been achieved.
Albert was delighted with himself, his family and the party.
He extended his arms and invited airily, ‘Come into my arms
Mrs Kehinde Okolo.’ He caught Kehinde and began to dance
with her, singing Bonnie Mack’s hit, ‘My sweetie, my sugar’. This
was so unexpected that Kehinde dropped the shoes she had just
taken off. ‘Are you all right, Alby? Make you control yourself-o.
The pikin dey upstairs, or you don forget am? Me sef, I for start
to pack the glasses, before I go sleep.’
‘Make you leave all that, boh. Come now, madam wife.’
Albert propelled her into their downstairs bedroom. Kehinde
was too weary to offer any resistance, worn out from wearing a
social mask, talking nonsense and being a hostess. She noticed
the lightness of Albert’s touch, his playfulness, and his
impatience. He did not pretend to satisfy her first. He was very
sure of himself, like a little boy released from school. Before she
could begin to take pleasure in it, he had finished and fallen
asleep.
Though her body was exhausted, Kehinde found herself too
keyed up to sleep. She lay in the dark and thought about the
change that was coming over Albert, remembering their early

40
days together. Unlike many Nigerian men, he had adapted easily
to the cultural dictates of England. He had come to London in
1960, and sent for Kehinde a year later, when she was eighteen
and working in a bank in Lagos. When she came to England, she
got a job in a bank again. Through in-service training, she rose
from desk cashier to assistant manager in a little over ten years.
Albert rose in his job too.
During those years they also had Joshua and Bimpe. Kehinde
had seen the way her sister Ifeyinwa lived, and she knew how
her mother had died, so wa^ not anxious for a big family. She
was quite content, and even the news of her father’s death did
not affect her for long. Similarly, news of increased violence and
repeated coups in Nigeria had little impact. They assumed they
would return eventually and build their own house in Ibusa,
their home village.
Kehinde could not pinpoint exactly when Albert’s sisters had
begun to exert an influence over their marriage. Their letters and
the newspapers seemed to be full of Nigeria’s oil boom, but as far
as Kehinde was concerned, they were doing fine in London and
had no reason to go back. They loved parties and went out
frequently in the old Jaguar, which Albert washed and polished
every Friday evening. Sitting in the passenger seat beside Albert,
with the car stereo playing Sunny Ade or Bob Marley, Kehinde
did not worry much about what else was happening in the world.
Kehinde’s thoughts came abruptly back to the present. She
was conscious of unease about Albert’s new-found confidence,
and found herself reluctantly wondering how Mary Elikwu coped
on her own. She had worked so hard for the party, soon after
agreeing to undergo the abortion and to put the house up for
sale, that she felt she deserved more consideration than Albert
was giving her. She had hoped all the concessions she had made
would bring them closer than before, but instead she felt Albert
slipping through her fingers, like melting ice. It looked as if she
was the only one in the family satisfied with their stay in England.
Albert could hardly hide his delight at the thought of going
home, and the children had been infected with his enthusiasm.
Kehinde wondered why she found it so difficult to join in.

41
 And why did he make love to her like that, as if she had no
desires to be satisfied? Especially as he would be leaving in a
matter of weeks. Fifteen years was a long time to invest in a
project and still not be sure of it. Kehinde told herself she was
being foolish to feel so insecure all of a sudden. She turned over
to sleep, resolving to take each day as it came.

42
 *

8 Albert’s Letters

The phone rang. Kehinde picked it up and listened for a moment

before erupting irritably: ‘All right, so you’re coming tomorrow?
I’m fed up with all these people nosing around. Yes, of course I
want to sell the house, but I’m sure that couple last week were
just having a day out. You should tell people that this is not a
furniture shop ... Yes, I know, but that doesn’t mean that every
Tom, Dick and Harry has the right to invade my privacy . . . All
right, I’ll show them around.’ Kehinde let the receiver fall noisily,
accompanied by the sucking of her teeth.
‘You should have let Dad sell the house before he left,’ said
Joshua, adding to her annoyance.
‘Mum can sell it too if she wants,’ Bimpe defended her.
‘Can she? People have been coming and going for months and
not buying. I bet Dad would have sold it just like that,’ Joshua
said, clicking his fingers.
‘Mum can do it too.’ Bimpe’s voice took on a dangerously low
tone. Kehinde knew that if she allowed the argument to continue,
Bimpe would soon burst into tears. The children missed their
father and so did she.
‘Stop it you two! Help get the tea, Joshua. Boil the rice so we
can have it with the fish stew in the fridge.’
‘Just because Dad has left, you don’t care who cooks the tea
any more.’
‘Don’t worry me this evening, you hear me Joshua? I thought
you liked rice. So why can’t you boil enough for all of us? It will
take the same time. What are you grumbling about? I’ll come
and warm the stew for you if that will make you feel better.’

43
 ‘In some London families, boys don’t cook rice.’ Joshua
slouched out of the kitchen, muttering to himself.
‘Aunty, aunty, I’m back*. How was your day?’ Amaka’s voice
vibrated from the hallway.
‘That woman’s twangy voice . . . shio,’ Joshua complained
loudly, not caring whether Amaka heard him or not.
Bimpe hurriedly shut him out of the kitchen and looked at her
mother. They laughed in sympathy with each other.
Kehinde went into the hallway to talk to Amaka, who had
good news. She had been accepted in a nursing school. She was
very excited. She had come to England to be with her childhood
sweetheart, and soon after, they had agreed to get married. He
would finish his advertising course and both of them would then
go home. Nigeria had even awarded him a scholarship to hasten
his success. The Oselokes’ future was bright.
Before Albert left, he had asked Oseloke, Amaka’s husband, to
help with the upkeep of the house. It was understood the
Oselokes would move out as soon as Kehinde found a buyer. Six
months later, the roof had developed a leak, which Kehinde
could not afford to have fixed. She had hoped Albert would send
money from Nigeria. According to the people she heard from,
money was flowing in Nigeria like water, as a result of the oil
boom. Kehinde believed it when she thought of the extravagance
of Festac ’77, the pan-African festival of arts and culture, held in
Lagos.
For once, Kehinde was ready to admit to envy. She knew it
would be disastrous to let people know how she felt, but all her
confidence was slipping away. A few months before, Amaka
would not have dared shout for her from the hallway. Now, not
only did she shout, but Kehinde was happy to be called to hear
her good news.
To think that she and Albert had pitied them when they first
came, protecting them from the immigration officers. Oseloke
had been an illegal immigrant, but by the time the authorities
caught up with him, he had become a student on scholarship,
with a part-time job and a social security number. When Amaka

44
came to join him, she came to join a boyfriend who was already
settled in London, and marriage made it possible for her to stay.
Like Albert, they did not want to stay longer than necessary.
They never stopped talking about Nigeria, the friendliness, the
money, the carefree attitude. Albert had been carried away on a
tide of optimism which had now reached the children too. They
talked constantly of seeing their Daddy and Aunt Selina.
Kehinde swallowed her feelings and listened to Amaka’s good-
luck story, making the expected congratulatory noises. At least
they would soon leave for Nigeria, she told herself.
Shortly after, a letter camfe from Albert. Like most of his
letters, it read like the lists of dispatches he used to make at his
former workplace in the East London docks. She was to get the
children ready; she was to make sure they had had all their
injections; she should get them a dozen pairs of socks and a
dozen pairs of knickers. The enclosed tickets were for them. He
had got them places in a nice private school, where they could
study in peace with few distractions.
Kehinde knew that this meant a boarding school, the auto¬
matic choice of the elite in Nigeria. Looking back at her life at
Mount Carmel Convent School, Kehinde decided that a few
years in a place like that would do Bimpe and Joshua good. But
she was going to miss them.
When she told the children, they were delighted. If she had
nourished a faint hope that they would protest, she was disap¬
pointed. Apart from their stay with a foster parent when they
were little, they had never travelled anywhere, and had listened
with curiosity to their friends’ accounts of holiday experiences.
Now they were promised a real adventure. In spite of herself,
Kehinde felt their reaction as a betrayal. Did they have no feeling
for her at all? She had to convince herself it would be good for
them to experience Nigerian iife.
A few days after they left, Kehinde started to become aware
again of that intrusive inner voice, the voice of her dead twin,
Taiwo. She was very much alone, with no one to confide her
anxieties in. Moriammo, with whom she could have talked things
over, had just given birth to a baby boy, and was immersed in

45
motherhood and Tunde’s devoted attention. Kehinde could not
even visit her without his. hovering presence. The birth of the
baby had altered Tunde, and Moriammo was basking in their
newly affectionate relationship. It heightened Kehinde’s sense of
her own isolation, her feeling of being marginal to everyone else’s
lives. Because of this, Taiwo’s voice was strong within her,
articulating her vaguely-acknowledged fears. ‘Why do Albert’s
letters say nothing? What is he hiding? Why does Ifeyinwa
suddenly never write any more?’ It was a year now since he had
left. The dream she had had at the hospital came back to her,
and Taiwo’s voice: ‘See, our father was coming to protect you
from this, but you killed him. Do you think your Alby can live
alone all this time? Who do you imagine is giving him the
attention he needs to survive?’ Kehinde sometimes felt she was
on the verge of madness. To dispel the voice, she would burst
into a hymn, ‘Sweet sacrament of peace’, singing it loudly, over
and over again. But when she stopped, the voice would be there.
‘Why don’t you go to Nigeria and find out what is happening,
before it’s too late? Have you forgotten that in Nigeria it’s
considered manly for men to be unfaithful? Even if he didn’t
want women they would come to him.’
‘But I have to sell the house first. And why do I have to justify
myself to you? Why don’t you go away and stay dead!’
‘Aunty, aunty are you all right?’ came Amaka’s solicitous
voice.
Kehinde laughed apologetically. ‘Don’t mind me. I think I’m
beginning to miss my family. Now I talk to myself about the sale
of the house.’
‘Ah, aunty. Your family is not just the children and Mr Okolo.
What of us, aren’t we your family too? You can talk to me, to us
if you like. It’s not good to talk to yourself.’ Amaka looked like
the nurse she had become.
‘It’s not quite like that. But never mind, you wouldn’t
understand.’
Kehinde began secretly to make plans to go. She knew that to
leave a house of that size half empty would be wasteful and
foolish. She settled Amaka and her husband in the largest room

46
upstairs and advertised for a tenant for the two smaller rooms.
She accepted the first response that came.
The new tenant, Michael Gibson, worked at the local com¬
munity centre. He was well-spoken and polite, and though he
was black, was from the Caribbean. She liked his gentleness but
told herself that he would not stay long. A single black man in a
good job was too precious a commodity to be overlooked. There
must be a catch somewhere, but as long as he paid his rent on
time, Kehinde was not going to be curious. Somewhere at the
back of her mind she had pratyed for a female tenant, and had
hesitated at first, especially as the man was not a Nigerian.
Within a few days of his moving in, she did not understand why
she had harboured this fear in the first place. Was it because
people - her people - would say: ‘Look, she’s taken a new tenant
into her house and the tenant is a man and a foreigner’? She and
Albert had never had much to do with their fellow black people
who were not Nigerians. Anyway, she reasoned, as Oseloke and
Amaka were there too, the arrangement was decent enough. No
one would be able to accuse her of working and living for herself
alone. She was going to buy more western luxuries she knew she
would need to establish herself as the been-to madam of the
house - essentials like a washing machine, a fridge, a television
and a video recorder. As for a music centre, she would buy the
biggest and loudest she could afford.
But suppose, just suppose after all this, Albert had acquired a
girlfriend or been unfaithful? Her mischievous chi, in the voice of
Taiwo, had been hinting as much. How would she take it?
Albert was not like that, she told herself. She knew him
through and through. He was different, he had principles, and
the major one of these was to keep his family happy. No, Albert
was not the type to break apart his family, or to make her
unhappy. The voice of Taiwo was simply being mischievous.
Moreover, Nigeria was her country too. She could not have
changed that much! Which Nigerian girlfriend would be able to
stand the presence of a rich, been-to madam? They wouldn’t
dare compete with her! And as for Albert’s letters, he had never
been much of a letter writer, even when he was courting her.

47
 First she had to sell the house, but that too was proving slow
and stressful. The ‘For Sale’ sign at the front of the house flapped
about in the wind reminding her of her failure.
The sound of the front door being gently closed woke her from
her daydreaming. It was Michael Gibson. He had a habit of
saying by way of greeting, ‘It’s only me,’ as he walked into the
kitchen.
‘Good evening, Mrs Okolo.’
‘Good evening, Mr Gibson. Had a nice day?’
‘Mustn’t grumble.’
To judge by his expressions, Michael Gibson had been in
Britain a long time. Like the Okolos, he was a fairly well educated
black person in a lower middle-class job. Kehinde sometimes
wondered what his story was, why an attractive black man of
over thirty was living alone, and a black man with a good job
besides. Many black men could not stand routine for long, and
they reacted more violently to the inevitable racism than women.
This man, on the contrary, was calm and considerate, as he
would need to be to keep his job as a community worker.
Like the Oselokes, Michael Gibson promised to move as soon
as Kehinde got a buyer, and she accordingly reduced the rent.
He was allowed to use the kitchen, but he never did. He made
his tea and coffee in his room and ate out, even on Sundays.
Black men know how to waste money, Kehinde thought.
‘You know, Mrs Okolo, the weather was kind today.’
Kehinde had not realised he was still standing there in the
hallway, wading through the free advertising papers shoved
through the doors of most London homes. He must have been
watching her. She infused some life into her voice and answered
cheerfully. ‘Yes, the sun really shone today. I felt hot, for once.’
Michael Gibson laughed politely. ‘You had a good day then?’
‘Yes, Mr Gibson, thank you.’
This short conversation snapped her out of her gloom. Michael
Gibson made his way thoughtfully upstairs and Kehinde went
into the front room to see if she could have a chat with
Moriammo over the telephone. The kitchen would then be vacant
for Mr Gibson, just in case he wanted to use it, but he did not.

48
With Moriammo, Kehinde was luckier. Tunde was not at home,
so they talked for two hours, and she felt lighter. The telephone
bill was her business, after all.
Weeks later, letters came from Joshua and Bimpe. They were
in a private school, and were enjoying themselves. In Joshua’s
school, they were building their own toilets, and each class had a
piece of land for farming, so the school did not have to buy eggs
and vegetables. Their father had been to see them the previous
Saturday. Bimpe observed: ‘There are so many aunties here,
some even live in our house. F like it, but you must come soon.
Even if you can’t sell the house, just come and see Dad and your
relations. Your sister Aunty Ifi is lovely.’
A few days later, a letter from Albert followed. ‘The streets of
Lagos are like Petticoat Lane on a Sunday,’ he said. ‘Social life
is great. My new job entails my travelling to the north, places
like Kano, Maiduguri and Kaduna. I cannot send money from
here because, after all K, you are in a good job, and should be
able to pay the bills from your income. Are the Oselokes no
longer there? K, you just have to learn to manage better. Take
care, Alby.’

49
 9 Moriammo 3s Visit

‘It’s only me.’

‘Who be dat, K?’ Moriammo asked.
‘My new tenant,’ Kehinde replied, kicking her friend’s foot.
‘Ouch! I no know say you done get a new one. This one na
man, K!’
‘I no tell you the other night for telephone? You no dey listen.
Shush now, I beg, he dey for house! . . . Mr Gibson, this is my
friend Moriammo. We used to work together in the bank in
Crouch End.’
Michael Gibson removed his hat and said with a slight bow,
‘Good evening madam.’ At the same time he turned to Kehinde
and asked, ‘How are you today, Mrs Okolo?’
‘I’m fine. Had a nice day?’
‘Mustn’t grumble.’
Moriammo’s face was a picture. She was studying Gibson’s
well laundered clothes, close cropped hair and very clean hands.
She arched her brows, signifying: ‘I’d be worried about what
people will say if I were you.’
‘You’re not me,’ Kehinde said. ‘The Oselokes dey here, or you
don forget?’
‘I no say nothing, my sister. Only his hands too clean for a
man. You know say we don dey used to rough hard-working
African men’s hands. With hands so smooth he go fit do the ting
properly?’
‘Honestly, Moriammo, you are a shame to good Muslim
womanhood!’
They both laughed.

50
 They can’t win can they? When they are dirty, we say they
are dirty. When they are clean we complain in case they outdo
us. Maybe that’s why some of them are now turning white and
not getting married,’ Kehinde observed.
‘You mean dis nice man here no get wife yet? Oh, ho, ho, what
you have here-o, Kehinde? I no trust men wey perfume dem
body, you know.’
‘What are you talking about, Moriammo? Allah dey! I never
tink of dat. I see, I see. No wonder.’
‘Oh no, I no dey suggest anyting. I was just about to say . . .’
‘Make you no say,’ Kehinde emphasised seriously, opening the
palms of her hands in front of Moriammo’s face to keep her
quiet. Instead, Kehinde served the friend plantain and chicken.
Being alone, they ate without attention to decorum, smacking
their lips like children eating stolen food. There was no one there
to tell them not to eat in the front room.
‘I don’t like the tone of Alby’s letters. He seems to be settling
. . . you know, very well without me. He writes, but does not say
much.’
Sebi ‘I warned you’ ruins friendship, Moriammo thought.
Instead of talking, she filled her mouth with juicy plantain. She
studied Kehinde’s face to see how she would take it, as Kehinde
was no longer someone she would tell only what she wanted to
hear. Their friendship had been through too much for that.
‘Then why you no go Lagos, go join Alby? I tell you say, the
girls there dey craze for any man wey just return from England!’
‘But Nigeria na country where dem dey paper-qualification
mad. All this in-service training and experience wey I dey get
here no go mean nothing, you know,’ Kehinde explained
despairingly.
‘Eno be dat bad, I tell you. You fit get job in another Barclays
bank. E go just be like a transfer to you - from one Barclays bank
to another.’
‘Where you de all the time, Moriammo? We no get Barclays
any more. Na Union bank now. Nigeria don boycott Barclays
because of that trouble for South Africa.’
‘Haba! All this trouble sef!’ Moriammo chewed thoughtfully.

51
‘But I sure say you go get another job. And if not, stay home and
play the big Madam and chop life. Plenty oyinbo women dey do
am all the time. Alby get good job. And you go don save your
marriage. Na dat one important most you know. Woman wey no
get husband na embarrassment for everybody. Well, sebi you
know dat already?’
Kehinde did not want to be an embarrassment to anybody.
When she went home, it would be to save her marriage. Yet,
though the voice of her Taiwo was urging her to go, her rational
self was saying that there was no need to panic. She knew her
Alby. One year in Nigeria could not have changed him that
much.
Kehinde imagined how it would feel to be completely depend¬
ent on Albert, a situation that would be quite strange to her.
How could she expect Albert to take care of all her financial
needs, just because she was married to him? And with all his
sisters and relations watching? It was too un-African. For an
Igbo woman, her capacity for work is her greatest asset. If she
was not seen to be productive, she could imagine a situation in
which Albert might be persuaded to discard her, but he would
never give in to such pressure.
‘What situation you dey mumble about? Abi, you don begin
talk to your second now in old age? Dem say twins sabi talk to
demselves plenty, plenty time.’
Kehinde laughed lightly to cover her embarrassment. ‘No, I
just dey say we never depend on our husbands financially. At
least my Mama never did.’
‘How you know? Your Mama die when you be small pikin. Go
home, go relax. Be a been-to Madam. Put your feet up. Be a
white woman. Make you enjoy the sunshine. There go be plenty
of servants too. So what’s your trouble, enh?’
‘So wetin you tink say I be? I no be Igbo woman?’
‘I know who you be. Igbo woman who no go happy until she
dey work and work and carry the burden of the whole world. All
that work, work dey give us power?’
Kehinde regarded her friend with respect. Moriammo had
more depth than she realised. It was Moriammo who was now

52
embarrassed. The two women, though such close friends, hid
their underbellies. They laughed, high ringing laughter that
lacked conviction. Moriammo quickly took refuge in empty
banter: ‘The world is turning upside down. I feel am in my
bones.’
‘No, na full circle the world de turn. After all, they say e dey
go round and round. Now most oyinbo women I know done dey
work, like we do.’
‘Na true-o. You know K, I no like chicken wey no get pepper.
Not enough pepper for this your'chicken. Chicken without pepper
give you heartburn.’ Moriammo was determined to go back to
mundane things.
‘Where you read that?’
‘Where I read am? Na from Encyclopaedia Worldcanica.’
‘Oh my God Moriammo. You are murdering the English
language.’
‘I didn’t ask them to come to Lagos and force am down my
throat. I beg bring some pepper. Make I no throw up.’
Kehinde went into the kitchen and came back with a jar of
good Ghana pepper sauce, which she plonked on the floor where
they were eating, their legs spread wide.
With Taiwo’s mischievous spirit in her, Kehinde put on one of
Albert’s ‘naughty’ videos. They screamed with laughter and
woke Olumide, Moriammo’s baby, who was tucked away warmly
in the corner of the couch. He had been so good that they had
almost forgotten him, but he began to make a fuss as if to make
up for lost time. Moriammo wiped the pepper off her hand with
kitchen paper and picked him up.
‘I’ll go and warm his bottle. That baby makes so much palava,
enh?’
‘We go soon go home though. He don dey so good today. Just
slept through all that nonsense we been dey watch. But those
people dey craze, bah! Olumide na good boy. E no go tell him
papa.’
‘If Olumide tell am, e go get convulsion.’
‘Na only convulsion him go get? The shock fit kill am.’

53
Mischief was dancing in Moriammo’s eyes as she picked up her
baby.
Outside, it was not dark" but it was nearing evening. The two
women looked in every direction, before turning to stare at each
other. Where was the baby’s pram? It had been left just outside,
in the porch.
‘Yeh, K, wey the baby pram?’ Moriammo found her tongue.
Kehinde handed her the baby’s blanket which she had been
clutching to her chest as if for comfort. She ran down the street,
stifling the urge to shout. She was in England, and in England
you suffer in silence. No pram, only closed doors and parked
cars, and a few skeletal trees. One or two people passed, not
looking at them, but there was no pram.
Kehinde returned to where Moriammo was standing by the
door, holding the baby. Voices were raised, Amaka’s above the
others. Oseloke and Michael Gibson had also emerged, and they
were all talking angrily. The expensive blue pram had vanished
into thin air.
‘I can’t believe this, I just can’t.’ Kehinde looked at Mor¬
iammo, who stared back at her, still clutching Olumide to her
chest. Her eyes were red, and her lips were chalky from dryness.
Neither of them underestimated the scale of the disaster, or what
Tunde’s reaction would be.
Moriammo had two girls, aged eleven and nine. When
Kehinde told her that morning at the Wimpy that she was
pregnant, she too had decided to try her luck. She had coerced
Tunde, who was a lazy and reluctant lover. Moriammo had
never seen or heard of a man like that. If he had been white, and
could have looked after himself properly, he would not have
bothered with marriage at all. But his mother would not hear of
such an abomination. Somebody had you so you must give birth
to somebody else, the world goes round that way.
Moriammo persisted. She forced herself on him. She threat¬
ened not to cook for him. But she only succeeded when she
threatened to write to her people telling them that her husband
was impotent. Potency is an essential attribute of the Nigerian
man, and Tunde would do anything to establish his virility and

54
avoid the humiliation of his wife going about saying ‘he no fit do
nothing for bed.’ That she wanted another child, he knew, but
what if the child was another girl. What would he do? How could
a man live sanely in a house full of women? But it was better to
give in and risk having a girl-child than face Moriammo’s taunts.
He gave her what she wanted in an absent-minded way. Mor-
iammo paid him no mind as long as she became pregnant. Her
everyday life was so full of other activities, that it hardly bothered
her that their marriage was only a convenience. Over the years
she had become accustomed to sleeping soundly at night, and
was even grateful that he did not make demands on her. In spite
of Tunde’s poor performance, she became pregnant almost at
once. Then Kehinde and her husband decided they were going
to abort their child. Before she was able to gather her thoughts
and advise her friend to think again, they had already done it,
and all she could do was comfort Kehinde, riddled with guilt.
Being a Muslim, she was surprised at them, because Alby and
Kehinde seemed so close, touching and joking openly, no matter
who was watching. Moriammo had thought that because Albert
was a Christian, he could be relied on to treat Kehinde with
respect.
To say that Tunde was beside himself with joy the day baby
Olumide was born would be an understatement. He was wild.
He telephoned all their friends, both in England and Nigeria,
and started calling himself‘Tunde and Sons Ltd’. Presents came
from everywhere. The day the child was named, they invited as
many people as if it were a wedding, and rented a suite at the
London Park Hotel for the reception. The baby’s picture was in
all the Nigerian papers in London: Olumide - ‘my saviour, my
standard bearer, my warrior is here’. Nothing was too good for
him. Moriammo was to take a whole year off to look after him,
so he would not be exposed to the dangers of child minders.
Tunde never gave Moriammo money for housekeeping. He
contributed ten pounds a week for meat, except the weeks when
he would kill four or five of the rabbits they bred in their
backyard. But for his son Olumide, he bought the most expensive

55
pram in their local Mothercare shop. Moriammo quailed at what
he would do and say when he heard it was gone.
‘I think we’d better call the police,’ Gibson suggested.
‘Yes, do that, but I must go home now,’ Moriammo said
anxiously.
‘What type of neighbourhood is this?’ Amaka’s voice rang out.
‘They steal anything.’ Kehinde’s voice was apologetic.
‘Why did you not put it inside the corridor? Those big prams
cost a fortune these days,’ Michael Gibson sympathised.
‘I’m going to be on the look out for it,’ Kehinde promised.
Moriammo, cradling her baby in her arms, went home in a
mini cab, which Gibson had managed to call in spite of the
chaos. It was a short distance, but Gibson insisted on Moriammo
going by car. ‘It’s getting dark and you’re upset,’ he persuaded
her.
Moriammo was so distressed that without thinking she told
Tunde all that happened. She had known he would be angry,
but if she could have anticipated the form his rage would take,
she would have kept quiet and replaced the pram with her own
money. But she was in shock, and she wanted to tell Tunde
about it. Since Olumide’s birth, they had achieved a kind of
closeness which had not been in their marriage before. As a
result, she had caught herself more than once confiding in Tunde
things she would formerly have kept to herself. She knew this
was taking a risk as Tunde, coming from a Muslim family, could
conceivably take other wives, and what would happen to her
secrets then? Besides, it would not have been easy to conceal the
loss of the pram, as Tunde, seeing her getting out of the cab,
rushed to open the door in consternation.
The result was that he banned her from visiting Kehinde, with
a series of unanswerable questions. What were they doing that
they forgot his child’s pram? What was Moriammo, a good
Muslim wife, doing at all, with a woman who had sent all her
family away so she could have a good time? Any man could go
to her now, had Moriammo thought of that? What would
Olumide think of her when he grew up?
Moriammo was too confused and shocked to stand up for her

56
friend. Tunde’s words were too coruscating for her to attempt to
intervene, as he vomited his pent-up envy of the Okolos. He
spoke with contempt of the inadequacies of men like Albert, who
leave their wives at the mercy of all-comers in London, who take
their wives to clinics to abort their babies because of money.
Why did he go back to Nigeria when they both had good jobs? It
was because of greed and the love of women. It was obvious Alby
must have another woman by now, and had no further use for
Kehinde. No doubt he was trying to leave his wife discreetly
since he had never been able to stand up to her. All that hand¬
holding in public was for show. And meanwhile Moriammo, the
mother of Tunde’s heir and a respectable Muslim woman, had
allowed her to be seen in such a compromising situation . . .
‘Tunde, Tunde! Why don’t you stop and take a breath,’
Moriammo at last summoned enough self-respect to object. ‘It’s
only a pram after all.’
‘Did your father know what a pram is?’ Tunde spat back.
Moriammo was silent. She was too hurt to pursue the argu¬
ment, and Olumide needed her attention. Tunde, meanwhile,
continued to pour a stream of vituperation on the worthless
Okolos.

57
 10 Departure

Everybody was surprised at Kehinde’s sudden decision to go

back to Lagos after her initial ambivalence. She now adopted the
position that Albert could come back and sell the house himself.
She was no longer going to stay in London, laying herself open
to anyone who cared to ugly her name, simply because she was
not under a man’s protection.
Look at Moriammo, her friend! She had suddenly become too
busy to answer the telephone. When Kehinde called at the house
in person, it was Tunde who opened the door, informing her that
Moriammo had gone to see an aunt — when Kehinde had never
heard of an aunt before. Nevertheless, she started trying to
explain the loss of the pram, but Tunde swept her aside with a
condescending wave. Under his gaze she felt small and humili¬
ated, but for her friend, Moriammo’s, sake, she did not react.
She did, however, feel the injustice. She had not asked the thief
to come and tow the pram away, so why was she being punished?
She realised how far towards the hem of existence she had
been pushed when she invited a handful of friends to celebrate
her birthday. Several did not even bother to telephone their
apologies, to say nothing of coming. Amaka, her husband,
Michael Gibson and a few others she saw frequently were the
only ones to honour her invitation. It prompted Michael Gibson
to remark with concern, ‘And the lady with the pram, she
couldn’t come to your party?’
‘It was not a party,’ snapped Kehinde, ‘just a small get-
together.’ She was too hurt to do anything but hiss ‘And I didn’t
invite her anyway.’ Gibson withdrew, wondering what the differ-

58
ence was between a get-together and a party. He could not know
that Kehinde s mind had gone back to the lavish farewell party
they had thrown for Albert’s departure: the food, the clothes, the
music ... It seemed to have happened centuries ago, but it was
barely two years. She was amazed at how short people’s memor¬
ies were. She had been a generous hostess to their friends, but
where were those friends now?
It seemed that without Albert, she was a half-person. Unable
to cope with the nagging silence, she plunged into depression,
which was accentuated when Amaka, of all people, took it upon
herself to pity her. ‘You look awful today, are you all right,
Mummy?’ In Nigeria, calling a slightly older woman Mummy
was a term of endearment, showing that the person so addressed
was as dear as one’s own mother, but here in London, it rattled
Kehinde. Why had Amaka just started calling her that? It was
out of place in an environment where anything connected with
getting old was taboo. She could not say, ‘Amaka, please don’t
call me Mummy. I’m not old enough to be your mother.’ She
would sound pathetic and ridiculous. Kehinde even imagined
what Amaka and her husband would say about her. ‘I called
Kehinde “Mummy” today, and she said, “I am not your
mother.”’ Laughter, and Oseloke’s response, ‘Boh, she is getting
old. She perhaps no realize dat.’
No, she would not let her insecurity show. She would hold her
head up, like an Igbo woman, one with the spirits of two women
in her.
A week later, she bumped into Moriammo. Perhaps it was her
imagination, but Moriammo behaved like a child caught stealing
a piece of meat from her mother’s cooking pot. Kehinde chased
her, calling after her: ‘Olumide’s mother, Moriammo! Why now?
What have I done?’ She caught up with her and held her hand,
noticing that Moriammo looked a little dishevelled. Well,
Kehinde could understand, she was still at home looking after
Olumide. And Tunde did not approve of women dressing up just
to go to the market to buy meat and okro. Kehinde recalled his
joke: ‘Okro and meat no mind the way you look!’ Olumide must
have brought them closer again, as boy babies were wont to do.

59
At last, Moriammo was becoming the good Muslim wife Tunde
had always wanted her to be. Who was she to intrude into their
harmony?
Kehinde felt again that she was sitting at the hem of life,
looking in and not belonging, but for old time’s sake, she was
going to find out why. This was not Amaka, a woman too young
to challenge. ‘Moriammo, long time no see. You no even come
my birthday party. Why now, friend?’
‘But I sent card ke, abi, you no get am?’
‘Card? Who wan’ card. If I wan’ card, I go buy for myself.
Plenty, plenty cards de for inside shops. Na you I wan’, not
cards. Wetin I do you, friend?’
Tears, unbidden, streamed down Moriammo’s face. They were
in the middle of the pavement with shoppers scurrying around
them. A butcher, in front of whose shop they were standing,
came out in his blood-stained apron to ask, ‘Can you move on
please? You’re blocking my shop window, see?’
Between the butcher’s shop and the sub-post office kept by an
Asian family there was a little alley way, and without a word
they moved into it. Neither of them was in any mood to argue
with the butcher, whose arms had already been akimbo, ready
for a fight.
In the relative privacy of their alley, Moriammo’s tongue was
freed. She rattled out most of the unflattering things Tunde had
said the night the pram was stolen, not having the presence of
mind to censor anything.
Kehinde was dumbstruck. So, all those years, Tunde had only
been tolerating Albert and herself. But why? They were no better
off, or at the most only slightly. So why the bitterness? Kehinde
had lost track of Moriammo’s monologue when she heard her
say, ‘I’ll give you a call soon. I must go.’ She scurried off and
disappeared into the market crowd.
‘Thank God she didn’t say she was sorry, that would have
killed me. Moriammo,’ Kehinde mourned aloud, ‘how long have
I known you? Almost twenty years, during which we hurt and
forgave each other more than the proverbial forty-nine times
nine.’

60
 Another fifty years would not erase the shock she felt that
damp Saturday morning in Stratford street market. The world
was suddenly much more complicated than it had seemed
hitherto. She was now a fallen woman, like the street walker she
had condemned when she was covered in furs and purring like a
spoilt cat in Albert’s Jaguar. Wondering what that woman’s
story was, she had forgotten what she originally went out to buy.
Her shoes felt heavy. Was it Albert’s fault, or hers, that she
found herself in this position? She had not committed a crime, so
why was she being cast as tfye guilty party? She had not deserted
her husband, he had just gone home ahead of her, to start
building their new life in Nigeria. She was a part of that life, and
would soon be reunited with Albert.
She stretched her hand out many times before she eventually
had the courage to phone Mary Elikwu. She had no idea what
she was going to talk to her about. Was she going to ask her what
it meant to be rejected? She began to understand how widows
feel, not only at the loss of their husbands but also their friends.
As the phone rang, Kehinde began to feel unsure of herself,
remembering the way she had treated Mary Elikwu at the party.
She was about to replace the receiver when a child picked up the
telephone, announcing breathlessly that Mummy had gone to
demonstrate for free milk.
‘Free milk? What free milk?’
There was a struggle over the line. An older child took the
receiver and spoke politely: ‘Sorry, Madam. Mother is a member
of our local One Parent Family Group and the Prime Minister is
cutting our free milk. All the parents are meeting to plan a
campaign. Who shall I say called, Aunty?’
‘Just say Kehinde Okolo called.’ As she put down the receiver,
she was conscious of relief that Mary had not been there.
The following Monday, Kehinde gave in her notice at work.
Her few white women colleagues were aghast, as Kehinde was
good at her job, and seemed happy, too. She had long learnt not
to be too sensitive to their cynical innuendos. She had thought,
when Moriammo went home to have her baby, that she would
be lonely, but she had not been. She had simply started spending

61
her lunch hour with the two computer operators, who usually
brought sandwiches from home. These two now tried to point
out to her that jobs like theirs were hard to come by. ‘There are
men who can’t wait to step into our shoes, with all the unemploy¬
ment,’ Belinda said. But Kehinde had made her decision.
Her colleagues chose one lunch hour to give her a parting gift
and to wish her farewell. Her immediate boss, Arthur, tried to
tease her about her reasons for leaving. ‘K must have been
longing for her old man. You miss him don’t you?’ Even though
Kehinde had worked with him for over ten years, Arthur never
called her by her full name, making light of his failure to
pronounce it correctly. Now she could see that he was poking fun
at her. ‘You’re probably going home to have a baby, like your
friend,’ he continued.
‘I’m going back to my country. What’s wrong with that? I
never intended to settle here permanently,’ Kehinde countered,
suppressing the knowledge that, apart from her immediate
family, she had been away too long for her absence to matter to
anyone. Arthur merely arched his brows and shrugged, a gesture
which did little to hide his indifference. Kehinde was presented
with a gold-plated carriage clock and a card which everybody
had signed. She had already been replaced by a keen young
white man, who was obviously popular with the female
employees. She wondered momentarily how Moriammo would
cope without her, on her return from maternity leave.
When Kehinde tried to telephone Albert to tell him what she
had done, she found his line was out of order. Kehinde had
forgotten one did not take communications for granted in
Nigeria. She left a message instead with one of his cousins, and
Albert rang back the following day. He was so angry he could
barely speak, accusing Kehinde of being mad to contemplate
resigning. ‘I’ve already resigned,’ Kehinde shouted back down
the echoing line. He could at least speak to her politely, consid¬
ering he was calling from a relative’s sitting-room. This enraged
Albert even more, that she should think they had anything to
conceal from Egbueze and his wife. She had not even learned
how to talk of relations and yet she was coming home. She should

62
go back to her job, try again to sell the house, and wait until he
sent for her. ‘Don’t you miss me at all, Albert?’ she almost
whimpered, and instantly felt like killing herself for such self-
indulgence. ‘You have to prepare properly for your departure,’
Albert said with finality.
‘I don’t want to prepare properly,’ Kehinde was close to tears.
‘I want us to be together. I want to see the children. I miss you
all. It’s two years since you left, have you forgotten?’
Whatever Albert said was lost as the phone went dead, and
Kehinde found herself staring blankly at the mouthpiece.

63
 11 Arrival

Kehinde waited impatiently at the airport at Heathrow. You

could always tell the Nigeria Airways check-in counter, as it was
the noisiest and the most chaotic in the terminal. There was, in
fact, a passenger queue, but only those who had no personal
contacts behind the desk stayed on it. Why queue if you could
use influence to go through first? After two hours of standing still
while people came from behind and were accepted, Kehinde was
becoming jittery. It was common knowledge that Nigeria Air¬
ways planes were usually overbooked. The woman behind her
told her that it was the third successive day she had tried to get
on a flight, even though she already had a boarding pass. ‘But
you’ve paid,’ Kehinde cried.
‘You think they don’t know that? I have no money to bribe
anybody, that’s why I can’t get on. If I spend everything here,
what will I do when I get to Nigeria?’
Kehinde’s eyes were as red as palm kernels. She had to get on
that plane. Going back home with all her luggage and incurring
the expense of another taxi was not worth thinking about.
‘We have to go and see them.’ Amaka, who had come with her
husband to see her off, cut across her thoughts.
‘But why, when we came on time? We were here three hours
before take off. After that expensive ride, I have no money left
with which to see anybody.’
‘Yes, but it seems we’re in Nigeria already. The British officials
won’t interfere, even with all the noise. They let us do it our
way,’ commented Oseloke. ‘So our way it is.’ He ripped his rain
coat off and threw it at his wife, rolled up his shirt sleeves, gave

64
them a grin, and forced his way to the front, where he was
swallowed by the hysterical mob.
Kehinde and Amaka smiled knowingly at each other. ‘He has
to make a drama out of everything,’ said Amaka, as her husband
came puffing back. Unceremoniously, he hauled Kehinde’s big¬
gest bag onto his head, shouting, ‘Out of my way! Out of my
way!’ Kehinde, confounded, followed in the wake he was carving
through the crowd. Oseloke dropped the bags on the weighing
machine, and turned round. Kehinde and Amaka were right
behind him, along with the woman who had been talking to
them. With the air of a little lad whose favourite football team
had just scored the winning goal, he snatched the tickets from
the hands of the bemused women, and pushed them under the
nose of the tired looking man at the counter. The air around
them buzzed with the noise of other passengers shouting foul.
Oseloke pretended not to hear. He kept pushing the tickets at
the man until he too protested, ‘All right, all right, I can see
them.’
It was then the man looked up. It was Tunde, Moriammo’s
husband. Kehinde stared into his eyes. She had completely
forgotten that Tunde worked as a counter clerk for Nigeria
Airways.
Tunde recovered first. ‘So you dey go home now, enh Mrs
Okolo? That good-o. You no even tell your friend, but I go tell
her, sha. You for tell me before, I for done check you in long
time.’
As he spoke, he lugged the rest of Kehinde’s bags onto the
machine. He pretended not to notice that they weighed over
thirty kilos instead of the stipulated twenty. As he did not even
ask for his hand to be oiled, the watching passengers must have
concluded that Kehinde was a good friend of his. And, indeed,
Tunde was very affable, seemingly relieved to see Kehinde going
home to her husband. ‘I’ll see you later, to give you a message
for my friend,’ he called, as Kehinde and her companions moved
away from the crowded counter. The woman who had checked
in along with Kehinde knelt on the terminal floor and thanked
Oseloke again and again.

65
 When, much later, Kehinde saw Tunde looking for her to give
her the message for Albert, she hid in the ladies’ toilet. ‘What do
you want to talk to me about?’ she wondered. ‘Or do you want
to gloat that you have succeeded in putting a wedge between
Moriammo and me, by using baby Olumide to reawaken her
duty as a Muslim woman? I am sure you’ll be surprised by
Moriammo’s reaction when she learns that I left without telling
her. Our friendship is deeper than you can ever imagine, Tunde.’
Kehinde hid behind a door in the ladies until Tunde left the
departure lounge. She hoped that the plane would leave on time,
but there was the usual engine trouble, and her anxiety mounted
the longer they had to wait. She knew her sister Ifeyinwa and
Albert would be waiting for her at the airport in Lagos. One
tiresome announcement after another told them it would only
take another hour. The hour seemed to extend itself indefinitely.
Knowing there was nothing she could do about the situation,
Kehinde slept. At 9.30 the following morning, eleven hours
behind schedule, they departed.
The journey was uneventful, but by the time they landed in
Lagos, relatives who had been waiting all day had gone home.
At least they had arrived in daylight.
In fact, Albert was waiting, and despite his disapproval over
the telephone, he seemed glad to see her. He looked more
imposing than the London Albert, in flowing white lace agbada
and matching skull cap. His skin was darker and glossier, and he
exuded a new confidence. Women knew the country did this to
their men. There was no doubt about it, Albert was thoroughly
at home.
A note discreetly pressed into the palm of one of the men
jostling each other to take possession of Kehinde’s bags, and the
young tough was transformed into the picture of servility and
respect. Kehinde, impressed in spite of herself, allowed Albert to
take over. It was a long time since she had had the luxury of
being looked after. She had arrived keyed up and combative,
ready to justify herself, but slipped effortlessly back into her old
submissive role. Besides, there was something about Albert’s new
confidence which excited admiration, made him more attractive.

66
 Their old Jaguar did not look old at all compared to the other
cars on the Lagos road. Though Albert was a careful driver,
Kehinde could detect strange sounds that had not been there
before, as old bones creak under the still taut skin that holds
them together.
When they were under way, Kehinde felt comfortable enough
to ask after the children.
‘They’re fine. I saw them last Saturday and told them Mama
is coming home, and they’re waiting for you.’ Knowing this
would please her, Albert gave Kehinde a quick grin, revealing
momentarily the old Albert. He had never been an openly
demonstrative person, but in the last two years he had acquired
a new layer of self-control and detachment.
‘Something wrong?’ Kehinde asked.
‘No, nothing. Why you ask?’
‘I don’t know. I just feel . . .’
Albert did not help her out, concentrating on the traffic.
Kehinde was impressed by what oil had done for Lagos. Beautiful
wide roads, elegant individually designed houses, soaring fly¬
overs. It was almost like a developed country. Kehinde filled her
lungs with hot tropical air and felt elated.
Perhaps Albert had been angry with her because he felt
neglected, even though he had taken the decision that he would
go back to Lagos ahead of her. She was to sell the house, and
buy more things they would need in Lagos. Albert needed time
to find accommodation for all of them. Maybe he had forgotten,
and that was why he was sulking. Men! Sometimes they behave
just like children. After all, their going home was his idea in the
first place, urged on by his sisters.
She tried to bring the smile back to his face by asking, ‘Aunt
Selina and Aunt Mary, do they write you often?’
Albert took his eyes off the road and studied her, as if she were
someone he had just met. Kehinde was not sure if the sigh that
escaped him was of boredom or pity. He turned his attention
once more to the road and replied as if he were addressing the
streets that were unfolding before their eyes, ‘Their generation
don’t like writing letters much. They are here in the south,

67
visiting. We all came to the airport yesterday, but your plane did
not arrive . .
‘You mean they are all at home, in our house! I mean the
bungalow you rented?’ Kehinde asked, aghast.
‘They are in the south to welcome you and to visit the children
at their school. Where else do you want them to be?’
Kehinde had harboured the dream of their being alone
together for a few days, now that the children were at school. She
knew now that she had to nerve herself for a different scenario.
Staying in the same house with Albert’s sisters was more than
she had bargained for.
Suddenly, without warning, they were plunged into a mael¬
strom of fumes, car horns, careering big yellow buses, minibuses
packed to capacity and people: the heart of Lagos, Lagos Island-
Eko. Kehinde, unaccustomed to the noise and chaos, was start¬
led, but Albert picked his way adroitly through narrow side
roads, cluttered with abandoned cars. They turned at last into a
small but freshly tarred road, lined with colourful bungalows.
This street was cleaner, though the smell of rotting rubbish
coming from the open gutters was suffocating. Albert stopped
finally in front of a neat bungalow painted pale blue and white.
Two wide pieces of plank had been nailed together to form a
bridge over the gutter which smelt so bad that Kehinde wanted
to throw up.
A girl ran out to meet them. ‘Welcome, Madam, welcome,
sah,’ she greeted, as she pulled the bags out of the boot. Kehinde
was manoeuvring herself out of the car when her attention was
diverted to the main door of the house. She was dumbstruck at
the sight in front of her. A very beautiful, sophisticated, young,
pregnant woman, with a baby on her left hip, stood in the
doorway, wearing the same white lace material as Albert. Her
hair, drawn back and plaited in the latest upside-down-basket
style, made her face look narrower, so that her swollen belly was
like a badge of womanhood in contrast to her leanness. She
scrutinised Kehinde insolently, smiling in a mild and unenthu-
siastic way. She did not attempt to come and help with the
unpacking. Kehinde took it all in, like a film in slow motion.

68
 ‘Grace! Grace, make you careful with those cases,’ Albert said
sharply, appearing unaware of the drama, about to be enacted.
‘Yes sah!’ the encumbered Grace called over her shoulder, as
she staggered across the wooden bridge with Kehinde’s case on
her head.
Just then, Kehinde was distracted by the arrival of Ifeyinwa,
shouting for joy and almost dancing her welcome. A couple of
her numerous children followed in her wake, and between the
three of them, they almost lifted her bodily from the ground. She
found herself for the first time crying tears of joy, mixed with
relief at receiving a genuine welcome. By now, almost half the
street had gathered to watch and to welcome her. People she had
never met were asking her how England was.
Ifeyinwa took control. She ushered her sister inside the large
and fashionably decorated living room, tastefully enchanced by
the furniture Kehinde had sent home in a separate container
after Albert had left London. A part of their old life was there in
that room and Kehinde felt a surge of reassurance at the
familiarity of it.
Ifeyinwa, who used to be a quiet women, was talking inces¬
santly. She was thinner than Kehinde remembered, certainly
compared with Kehinde’s plumpness. She exuded anxiety, tying
and retying her top lappa in agitation. She seemed bent on
protecting her, even from people who came in to say she was
welcome.
Where was Albert, who should be showing her around, taking
her to their room? Instead, she felt Ifeyinwa pulling her. ‘We’re
coming,’ she told a neighbour who wanted to know if Kehinde
had, by sheer accident, met her sons who were studying some¬
where in the East End of London. ‘I have to take her to her
room. You can ask her later. After all, you’re neighbours now,’
Ifeyinwa explained. She pulled Kehinde more determinedly, so
she had no choice but to follow.
Ifeyinwa led her to her room. It was clean, simply and neatly
furnished with one of the three single beds she had bought in
London. Where was the king size bed on which she and Albert
had spent a fortune in Harrods? Albert had said in his letter that

69
everything had arrived in good condition. She had never had a
separate room from her husband all their married life.
‘Little Mother, Ifi, call Albert for me. Where is he?’ Kehinde
besought her sister.
Ifeyinwa opened her eyes in horror. ‘Sh . . . sh . . . sh, not so
loud! Don’t call your husband by his name here-o. We hear you
do it over there in the land of white people. There, people don’t
have respect for anybody. People call each other by the name
their parents gave them, however big the person. We don’t do it
here-o. Please Kehinde, don’t-o.’
Kehinde heard herself laughing mirthlessly. ‘What are you
talking about? I said I wanted Albert. Where is he?’ She made
her way towards the door, but Ifeyinwa restrained her.
‘Where are you going? Come back in, just come back. You will
see Joshua’s father later. Just come first.’ Her eyes were red and
her voice was agitated. ‘Where do you think you are? This is
Nigeria, you know.’
‘I know that, that’s what everybody says. “This is Nigeria, this
is Nigeria,” as if the country were not part of this world.’
‘Sit down, baby sister. Do sit down. You left home a very long
time ago. Here, men move together, you know. We women stick
together too.’
‘Educate me, please, have I not just got married to Albert and
you are now going to tell me what marriage is all about. Where
is he, anyway?’
‘He knows I’m here and won’t barge in like that. He’s a
cultured man. You must stop calling him by his given name. His
sisters are in the front room and so are many of his friends and
neighbours to welcome you. You are not going out there shouting
his given name as if he is your houseboy; as if you circumcised
him. What a cheek! What do you want him for anyway? He’ll
see you bye and bye. Just get dressed, get ready to go and see
those who have been waiting to greet you.’
Kehinde looked around her once more. ‘This is not our room,
surely?’
‘Our room? This is your room. I chose it for you. Next to
Joshua’s father’s own, this is the best one, even better than Rike’s

70
own. She has to share hers with her maid and her baby, and she
is next to the room kept for your husband’s sisters, who can be
very noisy during their visits. You’re lucky. Joshua’s father
allowed me a free hand. He is cultured, that husband of yours.’
‘You talk about my husband as if he’s a stranger to me. We
married seventeen years ago and I should be telling you about
him.’
‘That’s one of the things you must learn. Stop calling him
“my” husband. You must learn to say “our”. He is Rike’s
husband too, you know. Yop saw her, that shameless one with a
pregnancy in her belly and a baby on her hips. Honestly, “these
their acadas” just jump on any been-to man, so that they can
claim their husbands studied overseas . . .’ She trailed on, flailing
those annoying arms, and not even standing still. She stopped
for breath suddenly, gasping.
Kehinde made as if to stand up, but she pulled her down
again. ‘Sit down and calm yourself.’
‘I am sitting down. I am calm. You are the one who has been
walking up and down like . . . like . . . oBTfi, I don’t know like
what. Are you trying to tell me that Albert’s got another wife,
and that he is the father of the baby that woman was carrying?’
Ifeyinwa nodded, mutely, tears rolling down her face. ‘Her
name is Rike. She actually pushed herself on Joshua’s father.
When I heard she’d had a baby boy, I knew Albert would marry
her. Few men would say no to such an educated woman once
she’d had a man-child for them. His sisters would not have
allowed it, and you yourself wouldn’t let Joshua’s father throw
away a man-child, would you? Then, before we could bat an
eyelid, she was carrying another one. But I thank your chi, that
has made you into such a strong woman, that at least you are
the mother of Joshua and Bimpe. This one, with all her bottom
power and all her acada, cannot take that from you. This is
nothing that has not been seen or heard of before. It happens all
the time. My husband has two other wives and we all live in two
rooms. At least here you have a whole house, and Albert is in a
good job. That one is a big teacher at the university.’
Kehinde was kneading one of the pillows she’d taken absent-

71
mindedly from the bed. She stared at her sister. She could now
see why the two of them had been left alone — so that Ifeyinwa
could prevent her from going out and making a fool of herself.
Her eyes were red, but there were no tears. Her voice, when she
eventually found it, was calm, but came from a distance. ‘So,
Albert married her because she had a baby boy for him, enh?’
The past rolled itself out like a film in Kehinde’s mind. Albert
had insisted they could not keep the baby because they could not
afford it, and yet it too had been a man-child. Was that what her
dead parents were trying to warn her in the dream she had had
in the hospital? But as she looked at her sister, she knew she
could not share this pain with her. Kehinde knew her reaction
would be to tell her that God was punishing her for committing
such an abomination. Possibly Albert was counting on that too.
Meanwhile, Ifeyinwa was crying for both of them. She looked at
her sister again and their eyes met. Kehinde tried to imagine the
anguish and helplessness she must have endured these last
months, not knowing how to break the news to her. Something
inside her advised caution, to act coolly and thank God and her
culture for her sister’s support.
A loud knock coupled with loud laughter at the door told them
that their time alone together was over and the play-acting was
to begin. A big woman burst in, a typical successful Nigerian
businesswoman, known locally as ‘tick madam’. Not waiting to
be invited, she entered with a breezy confidence that indicated
unmistakably that the house was hers. She was Aunt Selina, the
eldest of the Okolo family, whom Kehinde remembered from her
engagement to Albert as a thin woman who had just lost her
husband, and had been left with two children of her husband’s
by another woman to look after. She had no child of her own.
Her other relatives, Aunt Mary and the other brother Nicholas,
had stood by her, while she quickly sold off all her husband’s
property and went to stay in the north, away from the harassment
of her in-laws. The money had helped to educate Nicholas and
paid her passage when Albert sent for her, and her bride price.
One could never say to such a woman, ‘Why don’t you wait until
I say come in?’ She was now known as Mama Kaduna and was

72
the mother of them all. Kehinde had thought at one time that
when they returned to Nigeria, they would be above all that, and
people like Mama Kaduna and Aunt Mary would be kept in
their places. Now she knew she had been wrong. They were
stronger than she was.
She held Kehinde in a bear hug. ‘Let me look at you. Let’s
just look at you. Olisa, thank you for bringing them all home.
Look at that tiny girl that a rat would eat and still want some
more. Look at her. Has she not grown into a mature woman?
Hold your head up! Your chin must always be up. Or don’t you
know who you are? You are the senior wife of a successful
Nigerian man, the first wife of the first son of our father, Okolo.
Olisa, give him peace where he is now, making merry with his
age-mates. Our dead father loved beautiful people, and you are
beautiful now, my daughter. So cool and round.’ As she spoke,
she shot Ifeyinwa a knowing look, as if to emphasise her
deficiencies. Ifeyinwa was even thinner than when she was
young, not fashionably so, but worn down by poverty. Ignoring
the malice, Ifeyinwa merely responded, ‘Yes Ma, you’re right.’
Mama Kaduna turned again to Kehinde for a concluding
appraisal: ‘Ah London suited you, but here will suit you even
better,’ she said, as she swept into the sitting room. She called
back over her shoulder, ‘There are people here wanting to greet
you, don’t keep them waiting.’
When Mama Kaduma was out of earshot, Kehinde asked
breathlessly, ‘Do Joshua and Bimpe know?’
‘Of course they know. I told Bimpe not to mention it to you in
her letters. She is full of understanding, that girl of ours. I told
her it would probably shock you, and that it is very unwise for
people living alone to suffer such shocks. It is better to break it
to you this way, don’t you think? I have noticed that recently,
she has accepted Rike too, and understands why Albert had to
marry her. She knew her father was lonely, and besides, Rike has
been a real little mother to them. She visits them most Saturdays
and makes sure they have everything they need. Let’s face it,
she’s been helping you to look after your family, since you could
not have been in two places at once.’

73
 ‘But why didn’t Albert give me even a hint that this was the
way of life he wanted?’
‘What rubbish you talk. Men don’t say such things. It’s like
asking why a man did not tell his wife before taking a mistress.
But he must have left hints, you must have seen it in his
behaviour. You were probably too sure of your position to notice,
and too busy giving him orders. Why do you think he was not
keen on your returning immediately?’
‘That was my fault. I wasn’t quite sure I wanted to come back
just then, and of course there was the house to be sold . . .’
‘Ah, you see what I mean. You forgot it was Lagos he was
returning to. There are many ways of catching a fish, and Rike
used the cleverest. She met Albert when he was low, with neither
job nor accommodation, and presented herself as a ministering
angel, even taking him to her church. She became so enmeshed
in his life that when the children returned, Joshua thought she
was one of their aunties. And when he found out, he soon became
reconciled to it.’
‘But what did he say to his father?’
‘To his father? What could he say? This is Nigeria; you don’t
talk to your father anyhow.’
‘Oh my God, why have I been so blind? How can Albert have
changed so fast?’
‘I tell you, Rike is a clever African woman, in spite of her book
knowledge. But don’t worry, you’ll soon get used to it, and then
you’ll be wondering why you were worried in the first place.
Albert is a good, hard working man. Just relax and enjoy your
life.’
Kehinde was too overwhelmed by her sister’s news to count
how many faces she saw that night, of old friends she had
forgotten, people who had been children when she left and were
now grown men and women, with families of their own. Her only
emotion was one of consternation at how much had changed, but
she viewed it all with detachment. That first night reminded her
of her first visit to Ibusa, long, long ago, when she was a child.
She felt as lost now as she had felt then. Even the way people

74
talked had changed, showing a whole range of jokes and
expressions which meant nothing whatever to her.
On the faces of some of the women, however, she could clearly
read a combination of helplessness and sympathy. To the one or
two who expressed themselves verbally, Ifeyinwa replied: ‘But
now Joshua has a brother, to back him in a fight. Ogochukwu
will always be there to support him from the rear,’ and all agreed
that there was nothing as heartrending as a single male defending
his father’s compound. Though nobody said it directly, the
consensus obviously was that Kehinde should take things as she
found them.
She caught sight of Albert once or twice, at the centre of
proceedings, ordering drinks, seeing to the music, and accepting
compliments on behalf of his senior wife. He was remote and
distant, as though tradition had put a wedge between them, just
as it had apparently between him and Joshua, or Joshua would
have protested. He must have learned quickly that here a father
was to be respected. Kehinde’s heart went out to her children for
the adjustments they had had to make.
It was a long time before Kehinde was allowed to leave the
party, and she was exhausted. She fell at once into a deep sleep,
visited by fragments of the past, as if, in her depleted state, her
spirit was seeking solace in its own beginnings.

75
 12 Origins

It was just before the rainy season, when we had the long school
holidays. Since I didn’t have to go to school, I used to go to
market with Aunt Nnebogo instead. I had got up early to go and
have my bath, when Olu, one of the landlord’s children, opened
the door of the yard to allow a pair of strangers to enter.
‘These visitors are for your Mama, and they have a car!’ she
hissed at me excitedly. We left the visitors by the door of our
room, and she and I ran outside to see the car. It was big and
black, and it sat on the ground like a duck sheltering chicks
under its wings. We ran around it, fingering its protruberances
admiringly. We had never seen a car that close before. Suddenly
I remembered I was wrapped only in a towel, and I dashed back
into the yard before Mama could catch me.
Aunt Nnebogo was standing talking to the two strange men
and I stopped in my tracks. Not knowing what else to say, I
burst out, ‘I am Kehinde.’ The older of the men laughed and
said, ‘We know who you are. Hurry up and have your bath, we
must get to Ibusa today, and we must leave before it gets too
hot.’ He obviously noticed the expression on my face, as he went
on to explain: ‘Your father sent us a message from Sokoto, asking
us to take you home. Your sister wants to see you before she gets
married.’ Turning to Mama, he said, ‘Her age-mates will teach
her what’s expected. She’s a war baby, isn’t she?’
I did not know what an age-mate was, but I knew when I was
born: 20 August 1943, and I told him so.
‘Oh, not yet twelve? You coast girls look so big, or is it your

76
Aunty’s care? Your age group is'the year day turned into
midnight.’
Mama cut us short. ‘Kehinde, hurry now, go and bath,’ she
commanded. ‘There is a long journey ahead of you.’ While I
bathed, she packed my things into a shuku, while my school books
went into a raffia bag. I didn’t stop to wonder at this, nor did I
notice my aunt’s sadness. I was too excited at the thought of
meeting my father, and brothers and sisters, and getting some
answers to my questions.
By the door, Mama hhgged me and said, ‘Take care of
yourself. Greet your father for me.’ It was then I noticed she had
tears in her eyes, but I was already climbing into the back seat
of the car, swollen with pride that Olu was watching me
enviously. The older man got into the driving seat and said good¬
bye to Mama, promising to bring her a girl when he returned
from the village. Once again, I did not stop to question why
Mama needed another girl to live with her, when she had me. I
was mesmerised by the interior of the car, its smell and the feel
of the upholstery. I waved to Olu like a queen as we manoeuvred
our way out of the street and onto the highway.
In no time, it seemed, the houses and streets had given way to
countryside. The thick, green vegetation, which was all I could
see from the car window, became monotonous, and I must have
fallen asleep. I woke when we reached the outskirts of Benin, a
blur of dusty-rooved houses waiting to be washed by the rain.
The older man, who said he was my uncle, bought me a packet
of plantain chips, which I was unable to eat. I was still holding
them when we arrived in Ibusa nearly two hours later.
There was a big house, painted yellow, with people rushing
out from all directions. They snatched my basket and raffia bag
from the men who had brought me, thanking the one who said
he was my uncle. He smiled at me, and said good-bye. Then he
drove away.
In the sea of faces, that of one young girl stood out. She was
slimmer and older than I was, otherwise I might have thought
she was my twin — my living Taiwo. She stepped forward and

77
hugged me, saying, ‘My baby sister, I could pick you out even in
a crowded market. Welcome. I am your big sister, Ifeyinwa.
‘You haven’t seen her before, then?’ asked an old lady, who
was smiling at me and holding my wooden Taiwo. Her face was
crisscrossed with many smiling wrinkles.
‘Never. They sent her away when she was born. Then papa
was transferred to Sokoto, and we never saw her again.’
The old woman smiled, as if all the tiny fine wrinkles on her
face were saying ‘Don’t cry, don’t cry,’ to my sister. Aloud she
said, ‘But she is alive and well. Look at her, how plump. Look at
her skin, how smooth and shiny. Look at her eyes, clear enough
to stare at the stars. Wipe your eyes, my daughter. There’s
nothing like having a sister of one’s own to lend balance to life.
When you live in your husband’s house, you will soon stop
growing, and she will catch up with you. Then you will be
women and sisters, and your friendship will be sweeter than
honey.’
Involuntarily, my body shook. One thing was very clear,
Mama Nnebogo was not my mother, but where my mother was
I did not know. Ifeyinwa, my sister, led me into the house to a
room where a huge dark man was sitting on a leather chair,
drinking beer with another man. This man was equally dark but
wiry, with tobacco-stained teeth. The huge man bellowed, ‘Come
here and say hello to your father. Is it really you, my daughter?
Children grow so fast.’ He turned to the other man and intro¬
duced me.
‘This is Elege’s last surviving baby. The other one went with
the mother.’
‘So, you have not seen her for a long time?’
‘No, Sokoto is too far. I was transferred after her birth. Come,
come and greet your father,’ he addressed me again.
‘Are you my real father?’ I asked, wondering why I had not
been allowed to stay with the rest of my family.
They laughed, and my father’s friend exclaimed, ‘Children
from the coast! They answer questions with question.’
I found myself sitting on my father’s lap, while he introduced
many other children, both older and younger, as my brothers

78
and sisters. Finally, he introduced me to a tall, pale woman, so
pale she looked like a woman of mixed blood. She had cool green
eyes that did not smile. When my father talked to her, she looked
over the heads of the men sitting. ‘This is your mother now,’
Father said.
‘How?’ I cried. ‘How many mothers do I have?’
They laughed again, but the man sitting by my father sensed
my confusion and the fact that I did not like their laughing at
me. He said, ‘Onuorah, explain to her. Children in Lagos learn
only from books, you know. That is why it is important to bring
them home once in a while so that they can learn from life as
well.’
Father nodded, and began: ‘That lady is your mother because
she is my wife. Your own mother died when you were born.’
He stopped talking when he saw the shock in my eyes. Yet I
was not too shocked, for somehow I had always linked my
mother with my Taiwo, who was dead. I lost interest in the rest
of the story of my life. I had longed for this mysterious woman,
but now that I knew that she was no more, I suddenly wanted to
be with the woman I had thought was my mother for so long. I
wondered when they would take me back to her.
My father spoke again: ‘In our culture, few people are raised
by their real parents. Your real mother carries you for nine
months, but think of those who carry all our troubles, who feed
us, who comfort us as we grow up. Those women are our mothers
too. The lady who has looked after you from birth did it because
she felt you were her child. She is my younger sister, yet she is
your mother too. And that lady there,’ pointing to the old lady
with all the smiling lines on her face, ‘is our big mother, because
she is my older sister. Ifeyinwa is your sister, but you can even
call her your little mother.’
‘But the educated people call their little mothers “seesita”!’
laughed our big mother, who was supervising one of my innumer¬
able brothers as he pounded yam.
One of the men who were now drinking with father, laughed
and said, ‘Mother, I didn’t know you knew Grammar.’
‘I’m not deaf. I can hear when people speak English words

79
like “I culudu”, “goo’mony”, “seesita”, “buloder” and more.’
Everybody laughed again at big mother’s jokes about the English
language. My brother Mark, who was fifteen and could contrib¬
ute to the adults’ discussion because, Ifeyinwa told me, he was
at King’s College, added: ‘And by English standard, we are not
Kehinde’s real brothers and sisters because our mothers are
different even though we have the same father.’
The men murmured and one of them exclaimed, ‘Have you
ever heard such rubbish? Children of the same father calling
each other “half”. No wonder the white people’s country is a
place of everybody for himself.’ They all laughed again. I had
never heard so much laughter. And I was still confused. I did
not see why Aunt Nnebogo should have taken me away from my
brothers and sisters, whether they were half or full. I would have
liked to have grown up among them, familiar and close as they
were. I had to watch what I said because I did not want them to
laugh at me, but I wanted to protest, to say that when I grow
up, I am going to be like the white people. I will look after my
own only, since for over eleven years I did not know of my
family’s existence. But Ifeyinwa caught my eye and shook her
head. So I smiled instead, and joined in the laughter. My big
mother saw my face and remarked, ‘Doesn’t our daughter have
the same look as Onuorah?’ For the first time, my father’s
beautiful wife, the one with green eyes and pale skin, turned from
the soup she was stirring on the open fire and looked at me. She
did not smile and she did not speak.
Ifeyinwa and I quickly became very close. We shared a room
with other cousins and sisters, and I slept next to her on the
large mattress on the floor. It was more comfortable than the
mat I slept on in Lagos at Aunty Nnebogo’s place. Ifeyinwa
showed me the kind of love and closeness I had never before
experienced. ‘Why didn’t they let me stay with you all this time?’
I asked her one night. In a low voice, so as not to wake the
others, she said: ‘They believed you ate your sister in our
mother’s tummy. The doctors told our mother to take something
to purge you out, because if not she would die, but she said she
wanted you to taste life. Since you carried your chi and that of

80
Taiwo, letting you die would mean killing two people. When she
died giving birth to you, she gave you her chi also. Everybody
was frightened of looking after such a child. That sad one with
snake eyes refused to have you, in case you brought bad luck to
her children. But Aunt Nnebogo took you, and from what we
heard, you brought her good luck instead of bad. But recently
she wrote that you kept asking for your mother, and that you did
not accept her any more. If they had told you the truth at the
very beginning, you would have known that you had no real
mother and would have taken her as the mother you lost. But
they kept it a secret and of course you became curious. I think
now they plan to send you to a boarding school. Lucky girl! I am
not as clever as you are because I had to do a great deal of
housework to help the green-eyed one and her innumerable
babies. The good thing is that my husband’s work is in Lagos,
and your school is just outside Lagos, so during holidays, you
can come and stay with me or with Aunty Nnebogo. But the
family house in Sokoto! Pooh, it’s like a zoo. Everybody having
children all the time. You wouldn’t like to stay there.’
‘You don’t like our father’s wife very much, do you sister
Ifeyinwa?’
‘How can you like a woman who never smiles, simply because
she is beautiful and has many children? Don’t worry, after your
schooling, in just a few years time, you’ll get a husband who
loves you, and then you’ll start your own family. You will marry
well because of the education father is preparing for you.’
That night, I cried for the mother I did not know. Ifeyinwa
knew who I was crying for, and held me tightly in the dark,
crying too. Then we went to sleep.
My sister Ifeyinwa was dark and slim. She already had tiny
breasts like my big friend Malechi in Macaullum Street. I wanted
breasts too. Sometimes I would tie lemons in my school dress,
pretending, but would quickly let them roll down when I knew
that someone was staring at me.
We girls had to go to the stream every morning, and one day,
I asked Ifeyinwa how long it would be before I had my own

81
breasts. My sister answered all my questions patiently. She only
became impatient if I refused to do what she said.
‘When you grow older,’ she said, counting with her fingers.
‘Within a year or two, you’ll start having breasts and then you
will bleed. And then you’ll be ready for marriage.’
‘When will all that be?’
‘In a few years time, when the time comes.’
‘Why will I bleed?’
‘You will bleed so you can have children, but you must not
announce it to everybody, because it is your secret. And you
must keep yourself clean.’
‘Why does the blood smell?’
‘Oh oooo, Ojugol You are going to crowd me out of this world
with so many questions.’
A few weeks later we all wore white cloth and went to the
market to celebrate our mother’s life. I had ehulu in my hair, and
around my neck and wrists. Ifeyinwa, being the adah, our
mother’s eldest daughter, danced with each group in turn, my
brothers and myself trailing behind her. My mother was
acknowledged to be a woman with a life worth celebrating, a
mother of seven boys and two girls. My father made sure that
each of us had professional praise singers. A group of dancers
from Ifeyinwa’s new family performed so many acrobatic feats
that sometimes I forgot I was one of the mourners, and should
be stepping lightly to the music made by my praise singers,
instead of staring at them.
Big mother taught me how to shake the black horse tail I was
carrying, and to take two steps forward and one backward, while
answering, ‘Eh, eh, onmu, onmu’ to the praises of my name. The
singers called: ‘Who has the chi of three great women in her?’
and I responded, ‘Onmu, it is me.’ ‘Who came as two seeds in
one?’ ‘Onmu, eh, eh, eh.’ I was fascinated by the men with
powerful arms beating the drums, which were carried by younger
men. As they drummed, we raised our black horse tails in the air
and stepped backwards and forwards. Our hands went up and
down with the rhythm of the drums.
In the marketplace a circle was formed for us to dance.

82
Ifeyinwa and I, our mother’s only daughters, danced first. My
sister’s body was like rubber, coiling and uncoiling as if it were
boneless, while her arms, with two heavy horse tails in her hands,
rose and fell as she danced. When the boys danced, they stamped
heavily, raising dust and jumping, pointing their horse tails into
the air as if they were going to shoot the heavens. We girls were
encouraged to carry ours in a more graceful way.
After the dancing, we took a huge cow as a gift to my mother’s
people, to thank them for giving us our mother. They gave us
little gifts of yams and koladuts, and advised us that if we felt
badly treated in our father’s house, we could always come back
to our mother’s compound. More women were introduced to us
as mothers again, but by this point I was distracted by the
acrobatic dancers and not listening very much. My sister and my
big brother, who was going to university that year, however,
were listening attentively.
Two weeks later, Ifeyinwa’s husband’s people came to take
her away. She left at night, all of us singing her praises and
carrying hurricane lamps to light her to her new home. Ifeyinwa
cried throughout the ceremony, in which our father prayed for
her happiness.
After she left, I stayed another four days, but it was no longer
fun, and I missed Ifeyinwa. On the fourth day, they put me on a
bus that was taking some students to the same convent school to
which I was going. I did not miss my father. He had so many
people to love that I felt insignificant.
My brothers helped me to take my few possessions to the bus
garage. I never knew my brothers very well, as I did not grow up
with them, and I felt they were like gods, only to be spoken to on
rare and important occasions. Our big mother came with us, and
was full of advice and prayers. She said I should write to her
often, but I am ashamed to say I never wrote, because she could
not read, which meant that anything I said to her would be
common knowledge.
In the convent outside Lagos I made new friends, who became
more important to me than my family. Our people do not write
letters much, preferring to see you face to face. Since I did not

83
hear from my family in Sokoto nor the one in Ibusa, my new life
crowded them out.
But my sister Ifi kept coming, trying to make up for the time
we had lost as children. I could tell that her life was not easy.
We both cried the day she came to tell me that Aunt Nnebogo
had died. I told our Reverend Father, and the sisters at the
convent encouraged me to mourn for her like my real mother. I
wished I could have seen her before she died, but she left Lagos
for Kaduna soon after I left her house. Maybe she missed me,
but I had no way of knowing. We said a mass for her soul. After
that, my life became wound around my books, getting qualified
and leaving the convent to get married.
Albert came one day to see a neighbour’s daughter, and we
discovered that we were both from Ibusa. He was still at Eko
Boys High School. Our friendship developed as my sister Ifey-
inwa became more and more distant with the births of her
babies. When she told me her husband had married another
woman, I felt as if I wanted to erase them all from my mind.
Albert’s attitude was that polygamy was degrading for women,
which he based on his own experience with his father’s two
wives. I therefore thought we were of the same mind on the
matter.
I went to visit Ifeyinwa once during the Easter holidays, and
what I saw of the way they lived put me off large families and
polygamy for ever. After the near clinical cleanliness of the
convent, I found even a few days there chaotic and lacking in
privacy. I returned to school before anybody else, and the nuns
laughed. After that, I would have lost touch with my past, except
that Ifi kept coming, and was not offended at my shunning her
way of life.
When it became clear that Albert was coming to England, he
asked me to marry him, and I happily agreed. I thought we
would escape for ever the way of life our parents had, and Ifi
kept reminding me, ‘Did I not tell you that you would marry
well?’

84
 13 School Visit

It was the third day since Kehinde had arrived from London,
and she still had not been alone in the same room with Albert,
who was always surrounded by friends and relatives. Frequently
she thought she caught him trying to steal a glance at her, his
eyes red-rimmed and yearning, but by the time he had finished
with the relatives, she was already in bed.
On the third night, Kehinde woke to feel his hands moving
around her body. She had rehearsed many things to say when
Albert finally came to her, but she had not bargained for the
unexpectedness. Instead of the cool detachment she had planned,
she asked abruptly, ‘What do you want with me, Alby?’
He was taken aback, and answered in a low voice, ‘You must
realise this is Nigeria. Things are different here.’ ‘So I see. You
don’t need me now. I wish to God you’d had the guts to tell me
all this before I resigned my job in England.’
‘Did I not try to stop you, and did you listen?’
Kehinde got up, pushed Albert away from her and put on the
light, grateful that for once the electricity had not been cut off.
The single room was illuminated by a lone light bulb dangling
from a thin cable wire, with a sickly blue shade made of
transparent paper. Kehinde suspected, despite Ifeyinwa’s pro¬
testations, that the room had been used by Joshua and Bimpe,
and had been hurriedly prepared for her. She was supposed to
be grateful even for that. ‘Why have you been avoiding me,
Alby?’ she asked.
‘Avoiding you? Don’t be ridiculous. Don’t you see how busy
life is here? Tomorrow is Saturday, and we will go and see

85
Joshua and Bimpe in their school.’ Kehinde noticed that Albert
was already standing up, aijd had not protested at her putting
on the light. Moriammo’s warning was ringing in her mind:
‘Nigeria na man’s country. Dem get plenty, plenty women wey
dey chase after dem, sha.’ Albert was still talking. ‘Next week,
we’ll start looking for a job for you. Every educated woman
works here.’
‘I’ve always worked, so what’s new?’
‘It is different here. Here it is a must for women.’
‘I know that. This is Africa, where women do all the work. I
am not going to depend on you. I am going to work to keep
myself.’
‘I know you’re angry. But look back, Kehinde. My father had
two wives, yours had three, so what sin did I commit that is so
abominable?’ Albert’s voice grated.
‘Did they marry in church? We had a church wedding, or have
you forgotten? All those promises, don’t they mean anything to
you?’
‘Everbody does that for immigration purposes, and anyway,
Rike became pregnant.’ His voice was rising as he allowed
himself to be provoked. Now Kehinde was really interested. She
wanted to know how within twenty-four months he could have
fathered a son and have another on the way, how he could
actually take another wife into the house he knew she would
come to.
‘So she became pregnant and you of course have never made a
woman pregnant before. Congratulations, man-child’s father!’
‘You don’t understand. That child Ogochukwu was bom
under a lucky star. A woli told me about him before he was born.
As soon as I accepted his mother and allowed her to become my
wife, I got this well-paying job. The woli told me that the child
will bring so much luck to all of us that we won’t know what
came over us.’ He came nearer to Kehinde, who moved towards
the window, facing Albert squarely, as she listened to his story
as if it were a midnight fable. ‘I ... I remember that man-child
we lost. Well, I did not wish the same to happen again. My
sisters have seen Rike with me. And Kehinde, she’s not bad, you

86
know. She’s very respectful, and will regard you as her mother,
you’ll see. You said you did not wish to go through the pain of
another pregnancy. Well, she’s young. She’s keeping a good job
at the university while coping with the births of her babies
Kehinde did not believe what she was hearing. ‘This was not
what we planned. We couldn’t keep the baby because we had no
money. Oply a few months later, a prophet convinces you you
are going to have a messiah. Oh Albert, what happened to you
. . .’ She stopped herself before she could weaken. She could tell
that the prophet must have been from Rike’s church. In England,
Albert only went to church to get Joshua and Bimpe into a
Catholic school. The Albert she knew was gone. If Rike was a
member of a charismatic church, and if Albert had joined it, she
knew she would be treading on very slippery ground. In no time
at all, they would start seeing visions about her having bad
feelings towards Rike, and they would be right. For a moment
she felt she would be crushed by the enormity of what she faced.
But she was still the mother of Joshua and Bimpe, and she must
not allow herself to sink.
Kehinde was not quite sure when a troubled sleep overcame
her, but she stayed awake for a long time after Albert left.
Presently she heard the noises of morning coming from all the
rooms. Rike in her rich cultured voice was telling her maid off.
Her child was crying. Kehinde got up reluctantly, her body stiff.
She had a feeling of wanting to die. This was supposed to be her
family, and it was getting on perfectly well without her. Nobody
had bothered to call her. They must have heard the argument
with Albert during the night. He had tried to lower his voice, but
she had been hurting so much that she had not cared who was
listening. There was no privacy here. She smiled wryly. ‘The
family will be going to see our children tomorrow. You’d better
come, they have been expecting you,’ Albert had said when
leaving her room. 'My children now “our” children,’ thought
Kehinde, eyeing the presents she had brought for them. Their
needs were now catered for by Rike and Mama Kaduna. But
Kehinde determined she would go; after all, they were her
children, they could not have changed that much. She dressed

87
and went to join the rest of the household. Parcels of food were
being stacked in the boot of the car, as if they were preparing to
visit a refugee camp.
Kehinde made to sit in the front seat of the Jaguar, as she had
done in London, daring Rike to challenge her right to sit next to
Albert. Instead, Mama Kaduna’s boisterous laughter halted her.
She knew from the tone of the laughter that something was
wrong. It was playful yet full of chagrin. She looked at the people
standing around, but they simply looked away, or stared at the
dusty road.
‘My wife, I am coming too,’ said Mama Kaduna, in a
dangerously low voice. Kehinde was too new to hear the warning.
‘Oh yes, Ma, I know,’ she said as she sat down. Albert’s face was
impassive, but Mama Kaduna let forth a torrent of scorn and
abuse.
‘I say, I am coming with you. What is wrong with you? Do
you think I came all the way from Kaduna just to welcome you?
I came to see how the children are doing. So, who do you think
you are? Don’t you see your mate, Rike? Don’t you see her sitting
at the back with her maid and baby. When we, the relatives of
the head of the family are here, we take the place of honour by
our Albert. When you visit your brother’s houses, the same
honour will be accorded you. So, go to the back and let us move
on.’
Kehinde almost died of shame. She saw that even the maid,
Grace, was covering her mouth in an attempt not to laugh. Only
young brides with poor training made such mistakes. Kehinde
collected herself and forced herself to apologise. ‘Yes, sorry,
Aunty Selina. Been away too long. No offence.’ Albert pretended
not to hear, and Mama Kaduna did not bother to accept the
apology. Kehinde squeezed into the back of the car with Rike,
her baby and the maid. Albert put a Nigerian hit on the stereo,
but Mama Kaduna talked above the music. Once or twice,
Albert caught Kehinde’s eye in the mirror, but looked away
quickly, so the others would not notice. Kehinde knew that in his
heart of hearts he was not enjoying all this.
Albert had wanted to come back to Nigeria of his youth, but

88
that Nigeria no longer existed, where people like his father had
been happy to work as washermen, boat cleaners or wood
carriers, and the women of the family did not go to school. That
Nigeria was a nostalgic dream. He wondered what Kehinde
would do now, for he was not blind to her difficulties. He
consoled himself that she would soon settle down once she had a
job.
‘Our husband drives so carefully,’ Rike, who did not miss a
thing, said casually.
Our husband? oh yes, our husband. Albert was now ‘our
husband’, or ‘Joshua’s father’, as Ifeyinwa had pointed out the
day of her arrival. Kehinde saw that he was trying to do three
things at the same time - listen to the car radio, follow his sister’s
flow of words, and steer safely in the thick Lagos traffic.
Kehinde was lost in reminiscence. She saw herself in her fur
coat, her crossed legs, not bothering to talk to Alby, listening to
the music as he stole furtive glances at her to see if she was in the
mood to talk. She would pretend not to see him, and he would
glance again and maybe give a dry cough. Then she would say,
‘What is it Alby?’ They say that women talk a lot, but many
years with Albert had taught her that she reached him more by
being silent, and she had perfected this art, letting him talk while
she half-listened.
Here women were supposed to stick together and a wife to give
her husband room enough to be a man. This was not new to her
so why was she finding it so difficult to accept? She felt she was
being cheated, undervalued. She looked at Albert’s young wife, a
much more educated woman, bowing down to tradition. But
through it, she had acquired a home and a big extended family
for her children to belong to. In spite of her doctorate, she had
got herself hooked to a man eighteen years her senior, with a wife
and two children in England. Kehinde knew she did not stand a
chance against Rike, with her Lagos sophistication. They were
not playing by the same rules.
‘I always like this part of Lagos. It has less traffic and the
houses are so beautiful and well kept. Don’t you think the streets

89
look beautiful, enh Mummy?’ asked Rike. Kehinde, absorbed in
her thoughts, did not hear. .
‘Kehinde, daughter of Nwabueze, are you still here with us?’
came the explosive and impatient voice of Mama Kaduna. ‘Your
mate is talking to you.’
Kehinde woke up and again apologised. ‘I beg-ooo, my mind
just dey wander about. I am sorry, what were you saying?’
Everybody laughed, but Rike did not repeat the question. It
looked as if everybody was bent on exposing her. She shrugged
her shoulders, turned her attention to the landscape and did not
bother about those around her.
Mama Kaduna went on with her running commentary, from
exactly where she had left off. Albert decided to drown his sister’s
voice by whistling softly to the music, but she did not mind if
people were listening to her or not. She went on talking.
The car made a sharp turn onto a pebble covered road, edged
by thick bushes and trees. At the end of the road, squatting right
in the middle like an elephant urinating, stood the school, a huge
ornate monstrosity. A flagpole on the roof proudly carried the
green and white national flag. In front of the house, cars of all
shapes and in different stages of disintegration were parked,
while families, with members of all ages — from great grand¬
parents to babies - were coming and going, dressed as if for
Christmas.
‘This is the school,’ Albert announced.
The school caretaker knew Mama Kaduna and welcomed her
effusively, asking how she was, how her journey from the land of
the Hausa people was, and hoping and praying to Allah that the
family she left at home were all well. Mama Kaduna was asking
the same questions of the man. At length, Grace, who knew from
long practice when the greeting was waning, dashed to the car
boot and brought the silver coated bowl which was packed with
food stuffs, from kolanuts to chunks of meat, from fried snails to
akara. Perched on top of this was a special parcel wrapped in
newspaper. Mama Kaduna took this parcel and gave it to the
caretaker. The man bowed as much as his short legs allowed
him, but bowed an inch deeper when he saw Albert getting

90
leisurely out of the car. He put the parcel inside his shirt and ran
ahead to usher the visitors into the house. They were shown to a
cool room, with comfortable chairs arranged along the white¬
washed walls. Through a door onto the compound, Kehinde
could see bright little bungalows around an open field, with
young people in starched white uniforms dashing to and fro.
From the front, one would never have guessed that the compound
was so large, with open verandas edged with palms and banana
trees. Kehinde was happy to find her children in such an
environment. Her happiness increased when Joshua and Bimpe
appeared, tall, healthy and behaving like respectful Nigerian
children. At least for them, the move had been a good one. If
they seemed a little restrained towards her, she put it down to
the presence of so many adults, and looked forward to seeing
them alone. They were easy and familiar with Rike and affection¬
ate with her baby. Kehinde was both relieved that they had
adjusted with apparently so little trauma, and confirmed in her
opinion that there was no place for her in the family. The circle
had closed in her absence, and she did not have the strength to
fight her way back in.

91
 14 Letter to Moriammo

Dear Moriammo,
I just have to write you this letter with the hope that it
meets you and your family in good health. What is Olumide
doing now? Playing for Manchester United? We are all right
here, but there are plenty of stories, so rich and varied that if
a prophet had told them to me months ago, I would have
advised him to go an look for another profession.
The day I was leaving, I saw Tunde at the airport. He said
he was surprised to see me. Our husbands, can’t they pretend?
But he didn’t act well enough, and I could see the relief on his
face when he realised that I was going home to be with Albert
at last.
Why do our husbands feel threatened when a woman shows
signs of independence by wanting to live alone for a while?
Because that was the way I saw it. Remember the day you
brought Olumide to ‘my house’? I now call it my house,
because that is exactly what it’s going to be: my house, not our
house. Anyway, you remember that day? How relaxed we
were, like school girls. We didn’t mind that the plantain we
fried was half burned because we were talking. I even put on
that naughty video and we watched it, just like men. I didn’t
see anything wrong with all that, or did you? It was harmless
fun. After all, we earned more than our husbands, and we
were in better jobs. So I didn’t understand your reason for
feeling guilty and agreeing with Tunde in shunning me. I
thought our friendship had gone beyond that, and we were
more like sisters. Sometimes, I even used to mistake you for

92
my Taiwo, who left a vacuum which was only filled when I
met you, nineteen years ago when we were both nervous young
girls preparing to go to Britain to join our future husbands.
Remember how frightened you were because you had never
met Tunde before? Your parents had told you he came from a
very good family, and you were carrying his photograph.
Remember how we asked those horrible cooks on the ship to
tell us how old the photograph was, and they said it was taken
fifty years ago? We both cried, thinking that you were going to
join an old man. I promised that I would look after you if you
didn’t like Tunde. Remember how we slept on the same bunk,
clutching each other? You were very frightened because you
were a virgin and you didn’t know whether the first night was
going to be as painful as other women had said. I assured you
that it was not going to be too bad, because Albert and I had
done it lots of times in his bachelor’s room in Tappa Street.
What a rebel when we found that Tunde was as skinny as
Albert. And from what you told me later, the pain on the first
night was happy pain, because he was loving, and he had had
a lot of experience.
It was unfortunate about the pram. We could have afforded
to buy Olumide ten prams if he wanted, but just because
Tunde bought it, he made so much palava over it. Don’t tell
me he didn’t, I could guess from the little you told me. And
after that you started behaving strangely.
Things are happening here which, as I said earlier, I would
never have believed could happen. Albert - oh, I forgot, I’m
not allowed to call him that-o, because I didn’t give the name
to him. (He didn’t give me the name Kehinde, yet he is free to
shout my name even in the open marketplace.) I have to say
‘Joshua’s father’ or ‘our father’ or ‘our husband’. He didn’t
come to my room until three days after my arrival, when he
came in the middle of the night, and half-heartedly made as if
to demand his marital rights. Of course, I refused, as I think
he expected. He only came to my room to do his duty, not to
be intimate or loving. He left all that in England.
My sister, Ifeyinwa, told me not to behave badly. She told

93
me to lower my voice and accept his apologies, whenever he
gave them. She talked a lot of inanities, my sister. She’s
frightened for me. You’d like her, but looking at her, you’d
think marriage was a prison. She looks about as healthy as a
two-day old chick caught in the rain. And as for apologies,
from Albert? He didn’t make any. Why should he? After all,
he did not commit a crime against humanity, all he did was
marry Rike and have a baby boy, with another on the way,
without my knowing anything about it. Yes, Moriammo, he
has another wife. She is a lecturer. She had a PhD. She has a
maid. She has a Peugeot. She has a son twelve months old.
And I am sure the one she’s carrying will be another son. You
know my husband - our husband — cannot sit down and read
a book to save his life, but now he is married to a young
woman with a doctorate degree in literature!
I have been for several interviews, but as we suspected, they
want younger people. When they are liberal enough to employ
a woman, they want a younger one, with certificates. Unless I
condescend to be a secretary, and even for that, I am not
qualified. So stay with your job. Experience? No one talks of
experience here. You must produce certificates or perish.
This is making my life unbearable. Albert travels a great
deal. His work takes him to the north where he stays for weeks
on end. When he returns, there is a kind of celebration. His
sisters descend, and all the relatives present themselves, while
his little wife makes shakara - having her bath, scenting herself,
carrying on. When Albert is away, she concentrates all her
energy on her university work. Honestly, Moriammo, Albert
has humiliated me, and the worst is, that I have to depend on
him financially. He gave me the first housekeeping money in
over eighteen years of marriage, and I had to take it. When I
refused to kneel to take it, his sisters levied a fine of one cock.
Paying the fine took half the housekeeping. It is a man’s world
here. No wonder so many of them like to come home, despite
their successes abroad. Honestly, if not for the children, I
would have come back long ago. But now, I have no money
for the fare back.

94
 Can you locate Mary Elikwu for me? I tried to reach her
before I left. She had been on my conscience since the night of
Albert’s party. She has foresight, going to college and having
herself educated, after so many children. Raising children is
no longer enough. The saving grace for us women is the big
‘E’ of education. This girl, Rike, doesn’t even have to live with
us because her education has made her independent, yet she is
content to be an African wife in an Igbo culture. How come
we in England did not see all this? I think perhaps Mary
Elikwu did. Do reply soon. Your friend,
Kehinde Okolo.

When Kehinde posted this letter, she felt lighter, as if she had
confessed. It was a hot day as usual, and the humidity was high
for that time of day. Lagos people liked to walk slowly, dragging
their feet, but this afternoon, they had more reason for doing so.
Even the wind was too lazy to lift the dust from the roadside.
People looked drugged with heat. Kehinde noticed a group of
onlookers forming a knot on the other side of the road, but could
not see what they were looking at. There was no need to hurry
home so she crossed the road to see what was going on. Two men
had decided to take the frustrations of life out on each other. The
story was that man number one had wanted to buy a paper. He
had held out twenty Naira so that the paper boy would give him
change, but man number two was quicker. He snatched the
twenty Naira and made a run for it, but he did not go very far.
People standing around were suddenly galvanised out of their
boredom and chased him. They must have been disappointed to
have caught him so soon, but he had little energy for a long race.
He and man number one now got into a fist fight. His story was
that he had left university three months before, but could not
find a job, while here was a man flashing twenty Naira for a
newspaper, when he had had no food for four whole days. He
asked the onlookers to judge the case. Everybody had an opinion.
Some blamed the government for making young people go
through the travails of western education, only to tell them at the

95
end that there was no market for what they had struggled for.
Others said that was not. an excuse to steal. The older people
wanted to know what man number one expected, if he flashed
twenty Naira so ostentatiously in a place like Mile 2, where
jobless people congregate to shelter from the noonday sun. The
unanimous agreement was that they should share the twenty
Naira into two. Man number two was reluctant, and was
appealing to the man whose money it was to let him have it, and
God would bless him for it. There was a hush as the crowd
listened to this plea. The man had a sweet voice, and he spoke
eloquently. Kehinde knew that he had won. All this was happen¬
ing not too far away from the police station. An officer with a
kwashiokor-like protruding belly sat astride a chair, his
unsheathed truncheon idle at his side. He yawned and looked
the other way, provoking laughter.
Kehinde shook her head and smiled. She had not travelled
extensively, and the only place she could compare Lagos with
was London. She could not imagine a scene like this happening
there. No, this could only happen here, in Nigeria. She wiped the
sweat that poured from under her gele and drifted away. Sud¬
denly, the heat made her remember that this was October,
autumn in England. The wind would be blowing, leaves brown¬
ing and falling. In a few weeks, the cherry tree in her back garden
would be naked of leaves, its dark branches twisted like old
bones. On a day like this, after the Friday shopping, her feet
would be stretched in front of her gas fire, while she watched her
favourite serials on television until she was tired and until her
eyes ached. Autumn in England.
Her eyes misted. She thought of Christmas shopping, which
always used to annoy her, and longed for a brisk walk to Harrods,
or Marks and Spencers, or Selfridges, just looking and buying
little. She even felt nostalgia for the wet stinking body-smell of
the underground.
She took hold of herself. Surely it was foolish to pine for a
country where she would always be made to feel unwelcome. But
then her homecoming had been nothing like the way she had
dreamed of it. She now knew how naive she had been, trusting

96
Albert implicitly. She had thought that Ifeyinwa’s life could
never be hers. The Africa of her dreams had been one of parties
and endless celebrations, in which she, too, would enjoy the
status and respect of a been-to. Instead, she found herself once
more relegated to the margins.

97
 15 Decision

Days followed nights which were hot and clammy, and in which
Kehinde found it difficult to sleep, tossing on her sweat-soaked
bed and waiting for morning, hoping that the new day would
bring something different. It was difficult to describe her feelings,
even to herself. She was waiting for something, but what that
something was, she could not say.
Albert had gone north, so the house was quiet, with the
exception of Grace, Rike’s maid. When Rike was at the univer¬
sity, the rise and fall of Grace’s voice would fill the house from
the backyard, singing to the babies in her care, or laughing and
flirting with the house boys from the other yard.
Kehinde could not summon the energy to interfere. Grace’s
behaviour was simply a reflection of her employers’ attitude
towards Kehinde, and indicated the low esteem in which she was
held in the household. She was the senior wife, the been-to
madam, but she did not work and she had no influence with
Albert. The servants saw this, and treated her with barely
concealed insolence.
Kehinde considered the day ahead, alone in the house with
the servants, the only one without anything to do. She remem¬
bered Moriammo saying a long time ago, ‘Just sit at home and
play the white been-to madam.’ She thought of the white women
who came to Africa with their husbands, with nothing to do but
entertain themselves, and wondered how they tolerated it. She
was restless for something to happen.
‘Grace . . . Grace,’ she called. The laughter stopped, but there
was no response. Kehinde could have fetched her own bath

98
water, but that would have been an admission of her lack of
status in the house. She had to hold onto a shred of dignity.
Exerting herself, she called authoritatively: ‘Grace! Grace! abi
you deaf?’
‘Yes ma, I dey come.’ Grace knocked at the door, wiping her
hands on her house lappa, in an elaborate display of having been
interrupted at work.
‘Good morning ma. You slept well?’ Grace asked, panting as
if she had been running to obey Kehinde’s summons.
‘Thank you. Make you carry water for my bath.’
‘Yes ma, thank you ma. After bath, you wan’ make I get
breakfast?’
‘No, thank you. But you for wash those clothes there. Make
you spread am for ground under cashew tree. The sun dey fade
the colours, quick, quick.’
‘Yes ma.’
Fully dressed, Kehinde sauntered to the front room. There,
resting on the coffee table, was a cheap envelope addressed to
her. Angrily she tore it open to find it was the result of a job
interview she had had three months before. The post had been
filled and they wished her luck somewhere else, but did not tell
her where. She was supposed to be grateful they even bothered
to tell her of her failure to secure the job.
Kehinde bit her lower lip until it almost bled. She wished she
had spelt out her desperation more clearly to Moriammo. She
longed to return to London, but was too proud to admit it, even
to herself. Nonetheless, she trusted Moriammo to read between
the lines.
It was much later, as the enervating heat had at last begun to
subside towards evening, that Rike knocked at her door.
‘Mummy, are you resting?’ she called. ‘Sorry to disturb, but
there is someone in the sitting-room with a message for you.’
Kehinde’s heart missed a beat, but she controlled herself.
‘Thank you, my daughter. How was your day?’ she asked, in a
voice so casual, it sounded unreal.
‘It was good, thank you for asking, Mummy.’
Kehinde tied her lappa more securely and came out of her

99
room. She touched Ogochukwu on the cheek and remarked,
‘Why are you holding him.. Where is Grace?’
‘We have run out of gas, and Grace has gone to buy a new
cylinder.’
‘Oh, this business of buying gas by the bottle . . .’
Rike, who had no idea how else they would buy gas, shrugged
and followed Kehinde into the sitting-room. She was not going
to leave her alone with the visitor. The bearer of the message was
a young woman who worked as a hostess with Nigeria Airways.
She and Kehinde had met once before, through Moriammo.
Knowing Rike’s plan, Kehinde invited the woman into her room.
The young woman followed her. She was a Nigerian brought
up in a polygamous family, so there was no need to explain. She
knew the necessity of hiding from the rest of the family, especially
from a younger wife.
‘I have a letter for you, madam,’ she said conspiratorially,
looking over her shoulder. Kehinde fingered the large white
envelope and knew it contained more than a letter. She smiled.
The young woman smiled too. ‘You don’t want me to give you
anything to eat?’
‘Thank you, but no, ma. We ought to have been in Lagos since
last night, but you know how it is with our planes.’
Kehinde nodded. ‘I know how it is with us. But no matter.
This is Nigeria . . .’
Laughingly, they chorused, ‘Please bear with us.’
Kehinde tore the letter open as soon as the girl had left.
Moriammo had sent her the fare. She quickly skimmed the letter,
which referred only briefly to the money. ‘This is a long loan,
payable when able. Don’t forget that we both worked in a bank
for over ten years, and interest always goes with loans! But also,
don’t let fear of what people will say stop you from doing what
your chi wants.
The house is still there and so are your tenants, though the
house is going downhill. The kitchen ceiling collapsed after a
recent storm, but your Caribbean man promised to repair it. The
last time I saw him at the shopping centre, he asked of you. I
think he likes you, now that you are far away. Our men are the

100
same - they value what is beyond their reach. I am beginning to
like him too, now that I know him better.
The honeymoon with Tunde over the birth of his heir,
Olumide, is long over. I have secured him his immortality, so I
don’t need to be humoured any more. Also, Olumide is beginning
to cost us a packet in nursery fees. But you know me, live and let
live. I am not moaning or anything like that. In fact, I worry for
Tunde, how someone can be so stingy, even to himself. He won’t
miss a day’s work so as not to lose that stupid commission they
give him at Nigeria Airways. /
It’s lucky that Alby decided to go polygamous in Nigeria and
not here in London. It would have been much worse for you
here. Please come back as soon as you want to. By the way, the
interest I mentioned earlier is a joke, just in case Nigeria has
made you lose your sense of humour. You keep the money. It’s a
way of saying I am sorry for being such a wet blanket.
That your Mrs Elikwu is in the news lately. She has just
published a children’s book of myths and legends, and she is a
spokesperson for the ‘Milk for our babies’ campaign. I don’t
think you need have her on your conscience. She must know by
now, what we women are like. When we are married, we feel we
have an advantage over a woman who is living by herself, even if
the latter is a million times happier. I’m sure she’ll understand.
God bless you, my sister, and write soon.’
Kehinde read the letter again and again, and each time she
smiled at the end of it. Moriammo must have copied the letter
many times, as Kehinde had never met anyone with Moriammo’s
education who was so lazy about writing English. Moriammo
said she had never met a language with so many rules that could
be broken. In the case of this letter, she must have spent hours
getting it right. Kehinde felt deeply gratified by Moriammo’s
gestures of friendship. For the first time, a way out of her
situation had presented itself. She looked at her watch. There
was still time to go to Ikorodu Grammar and see Bimpe and
Joshua.
Outside the house, she looked back, and saw Rike peeping

101
from behind the net curtains. Kehinde smiled. It reminded her
of her London neighbours.
The school caretaker met her reluctantly, protesting that five
o’clock was not the visiting hour and the students were busy
doing their homework. Kehinde’s plea that it was urgent failed
to move him, but a folded note discreetly slipped into his palm,
as she had seen Albert do at the airport, transformed him in an
instant. He bowed several times, thanking her repeatedly, before
he disappeared to fetch the children.
Less than five minutes later, Joshua and Bimpe rushed expect¬
antly into the reception area.
‘Heh, special mum, what’s the matter?’ Bimpe cried.
As they embraced, she assured them that everything was fine
and asked about their health and their studies. They in turn told
her they were getting on well. Then there was a short silence.
The children knew Kehinde had not come there on a non-visiting
day just to inquire about their health. Kehinde said suddenly,
‘Look, I don’t want to keep you from your work, but I want you
to know that I am going back to London.’
The children stared at her and Bimpe’s face fell.
‘You quarrelled with Dad?’ she wanted to know.
‘No, no, nothing like that. He is still in the north. I just want
to go back, get a job, and look after the house. Aunty Moriammo
says it is falling apart . . .’
‘Shouldn’t Dad be doing that?’Joshua asked.
‘He has a good job here and a new family . . .’ Kehinde
tentatively explained. Bimpe burst into tears.
‘But you’re the backbone of the family, Ma. Why do you want
to run away?’
‘Bimpe, you can come any time you like, you know that,’
Kehinde hastened to reassure her.
‘What of Dad, can he come too, or are you going to divorce
him because of Rike?’
Kehinde was taken aback by Bimpe’s insight, but all she said
was, ‘No, Bimpe, it’s not quite like that. I have to go for my own
sanity. Moriammo has sent me the money for the fare, and I’ll
be leaving soon. I want you to take care of each other, and I’ll

102
write to you.’ Kehinde could see the caretaker hovering by the
door, so she embraced them quickly and slipped away.
It was not so easy to slip away from Ifeyinwa.
‘I knew it! I felt it!’ Ifeyinwa cried. ‘To London, to do what?
England your country now, abi?
‘No, England no be my country, but I wan go back sha. See
me here, I ,no get job, I no get nothing. Just siddon for home, dey
wait for Albert. And when he return self, na im junior wife he
wan see, not be me. I wan go back.’
‘But you know our parents’ tory. For years our Mama dey
carry palm-kernel to market for Asaba. When she don sell finish,
she use the money pay our Papa school fees. When Papa done
school finish, he return for Lagos come get job for railway. By
that time, Mama no look fresh any more for Papa to introduce to
his friends. Then Papa marry that other one. Mama don dey
think say she go make our Papa love her if she born more pikin.
But our Papa just shun her. But she self she no fit think of
leaving us her children and running away!
And I tell you one thing else. Na you be the trouble that finish
her. Na you wey eat up your sister for Mama belle.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Ifeyinwa. You did Biology at school. How
could I have eaten my sister? And why is my birth the first thing
everyone refers to whenever I try to do something for myself?’
‘I know you hurt because Albert don marry another wife. Over
there for London, no be one man, one wife? But our way different.
How come the day you marry, our parents say to you, “Make
you look after this man, like your child, so he can help you raise
your children”? Na so it be. You no feel for nobody. What of
your children?’
‘Joshua and Bimpe? Sebi, you are here? Albert’s sisters and
even Rike all love them. They are enjoying the attention. I have
spoken to them already, so they know. When I get there, I’ll see
if I can get qualified for something, and bring them over.’
‘Then make you get belle before you go, so you go get another
child.’
Tears came to Kehinde’s eyes. She said in a strangled voice, ‘I
don’t want any more children. I have tied my tubes.’

103
 Ifeyinwa opened her eyes wide and swallowed hard. Then she
crossed herself. The shock of what Kehinde had said left her
speechless. For once in her life, Ifeyinwa could find no words
with which to answer her sister.

104
 16 Return to London

Ifeyinwa was sobbing as if her heart would break. ‘How will I

ever hold up my head again? Now, everybody will say to Albert,
“Did we not warn you about her? Did we not warn you about
her family? They are no good.” Look around you Kehinde, do
you see any of our brothers or their wives come to see you off?
They are not here because you’ve shamed us all. They pretend
not to know you are leaving today. I sent my son Amechi to tell
them all. . .’ Ifeyinwa’s sobs were almost uncontrollable.
‘Little mother, Ifi, we’ve been through all this several times
before. I was a fool not to have seen this side of Albert before,
but now that I’ve seen it, I can’t take it.’
‘Just listen to you, as if we are savages . . .’
‘No, Ifeyinwa, you know I don’t mean that. I had never lived
in a polygamous family before, except when I came to visit you,
and I was already estranged from you before I left Nigeria. I
knew only Aunty Nnebogo and then the convent. Albert was
raised in a polygamous family and so were you. I don’t want us
to go through all this again now. Joshua and Bimpe understand.
Try to look at things through my eyes. I promise to help you
financially whenever I can. Being without Albert in London
means I will be free to decide what to do with my money.’
‘Father should not have allowed them to take you away. They
should have told you the story of your birth right from the start.
They should have raised you with the rest of us.’
Kehinde felt tired. She suddenly longed to get away to the
peace of her own home. As soon as her luggage had been checked
in, she said good-bye to Ifeyinwa and headed for the departure

105
lounge, to avoid any more tears. No sooner had she settled herself
on the dark-grey metal bench to wait for her flight, than a tap on
her shoulder made her turn her head. ‘Oh, Ifeyinwa, how did
you manage to wrangle you way in here?’ she exclaimed. ‘This is
meant for passengers only.’
‘We still dey for Nigeria, abi you don forget? A small dash goes
a long way here.’ She sighed. ‘I wish I could go with you.’
‘Eh, what’s happening here? Outside that partition you were
reminding me of my duty and responsibility. Now you wan’ come
with me?’
‘I know what I said. But you are a twin, and you must do
what your chi tells you. Twins are difficult to predict.’
‘Is that what you slipped through the partition to tell me?’
Ifeyinwa nodded. Then she added as an afterthought, ‘I’ve
heard that Albert’s got a sweetheart in the north. I think Rike
suspects.’
There was a long silence before Kehinde responded. ‘Poor
Albert, how will he cope with all his responsibilities?’ She picked
up one of Ifeyinwa’s hands and held it in both of hers. ‘Thank
you for telling me, but why did you try to persuade me to stay if
you knew this?’
Ifeyinwa shrugged her thin shoulders. ‘At least no one can go
about blaming me for not trying to keep you here. In terms of
tradition, I have done my sisterly duty. Now let us talk down-to-
earth.’ Ifeyinwa asked in a voice harsh with rebellion, ‘Tell me,
little sister, when you get there, are you going to take another
man?’
Kehinde feigned shock. ‘After you’ve told me that the man
who took me to the altar is about to take a third wife?’ A
mischievous grin lit Ifeyinwa’s pinched face. For the first time,
Kehinde glimpsed the spirit trapped behind the veneer of
tradition.
‘Go on, will you?’ she persisted.
‘You told me the other day that I was still young. I’m not
going to sew myself up with a needle, or lock myself up with a
padlock. From what I can gather, that particular freedom is one
of the joys of polygamy.’

106
 ‘And Albert’s other wife?’ Ifeyinwa asked, now smiling
broadly. Again, Kehinde regretted not having had the oppor¬
tunity to get to know her sister properly.
‘Well, Rike will be responsible for the well-being of Joshua and
Bimpe during the holidays.’
‘You’re learning fast. I’ll have a few surprises of my own for
her after you’ve gone.’
‘What surprises?’
‘Ah, you keep your secrets and I’ll keep mine. But rest assured,
Albert is not going to gain a-Naira from that house in England.’
Kehinde wished she could take her sister with her. She could
see that Ifeyinwa was going to miss her. She was now a
grandmother and was expected to behave like one, but she could
pass for thirty-five, and the body she had used all these years in
nurturing and caring still yearned for comfort. Kehinde hugged
her and whispered, ‘Now sis, no more tears. I will send for you
when I can afford it, at least for a short visit.’ Ifeyinwa hugged
her back. ‘I know you will, and I shall certainly come. So see you
in London.’
At Heathrow, to Kehinde’s surprise, even the immigration
officers were welcoming. Generally, anyone coming from Nigeria
was routinely sniffed for drugs by specially trained dogs, and
subjected to all sorts of questioning at the immigration counter,
but Kehinde was waved through.
Outside, though it was cold, the sun was shining, and she felt
a surge of elation. She got out of the taxi in front of the house in
Leyton, and was surprised that nothing had changed in the
twelve months she had been away. She did not know what
changes she had been expecting but it looked as if things had
stood still. Only a few hours before, still in Nigeria, she had
thought the whole world was collapsing. Now she noticed that
the trees the council had planted along the street were just
beginning to bud. In a few days, they would burst into bloom,
and it would be spring.
Kehinde dipped her hand into her coat pocket and brought
out the front door key. When it fitted, she was surprised.
Inside the narrow hallway, the smell of the London terrace

107
house welcomed her like a lost child. Before she could suppress
it, a voice inside her sang out, ‘Home, sweet home!’ Taiwo, who
had not spoken to her since she had gone to Nigeria, was back.
Kehinde rebuked the voice: ‘This is not my home. Nigeria is my
home.’ As she said it, she knew she was deceiving herself, and
Taiwo would not let her get away with it. ‘We make our own
choices as we go along,’ came the voice. ‘This is yours. There’s
nothing to be ashamed of in that.’
‘Yes, but,’ Kehinde found herself arguing, ‘this is a country
where people think if you talk to your chi that you’re talking to
yourself, and if you talk to yourself, you must be mad.’ A cold
draught blew round her ankles, and she realised she had not yet
closed the door. The For Sale sign flapped forlornly in the wind.
Something propelled her back outside, and with unexpected
strength she wrenched it from the ground. ‘This house is not for
sale,’ she declared. ‘This house is mine.’

108
 17 Ifeyinwa

Whenever Ifeyinwa saw people off at the airport, which merci¬

fully was not often, her grief was not just for the departure, but
arose from an irrepressible fear of permanent loss. She was,
therefore, all the more relieved to hear from Kehinde of her safe
arrival. From lively, noisy, colourful Lagos, Ifeyinwa could only
picture Kehinde in London as cold and lonely. She felt deep
regret that she had not stayed, especially as she had appeared to
want to when she arrived. Had she not brought most of the
furniture from their London house back to Lagos? Had she not
resigned her job? Ifeyinwa had hoped that now, at last, she
would be able to enjoy her sister, but she had been thwarted. In
a life of deprivation, she felt passionately that this was one
privilege to which she should have been entitled.
Nor was it just the emotional bond which meant so much to
her. Ifeyinwa and her children lived at a level of poverty that
even Kehinde’s small contributions, filched from Albert’s house¬
keeping, alleviated. For days, she walked around frozen, sucking
her teeth whenever anyone crossed her path. Her brain, however,
was extremely active, working out how she could best take
revenge on Albert and Rike, to whom she attributed responsi¬
bility for driving Kehinde away.
Ifeyinwa, for years accustomed to accepting what life threw at
her, baulked at the loss of her sister for the third time. As a child,
she had pined for her dead mother’s only other girl-child.
Growing up among brothers, at the mercy of her step-mother,
she had woven a fantasy around her missing sister every bit as
poignantly felt as Kehinde’s for her Taiwo. As a young wife, she

109
had stolen away from her domestic duties, leaving her children
with the maid, to visit Keljinde in school, taking her small gifts
she could not afford. Even Kehinde’s obvious distaste for her
family set-up and the increasing reserve she maintained, did not
deter her.
When Kehinde left for England to marry Albert, Ifeyinwa felt
it as a bereavement. For twenty-odd years she had mourned her
sister’s absence, punctuated only by Christmas cards with the
briefest of messages, occasional snapshots of the children, and
once, just once, a twenty pound note, which she had used to buy
school books for her children. Then the news had come, Albert
was returning. Next came Joshua and Bimpe, whom she had
never seen. Ifeyinwa was ready to take them to her heart as her
own children, but Rike intervened. She had watched her insin¬
uate herself into Albert’s household, playing on his loneliness,
soothing his vanity, helping out with his motherless children. She
had watched, and said nothing, as Rike’s belly grew and Albert
fell prey to the alluring visions of the prophets and married her.
When Kehinde announced her own arrival, Ifeyinwa made
certain she was there, to welcome and warn and comfort her.
Her allegiance never faltered, no matter how much Albert’s
sisters attempted to humiliate her, or Rike smirked. As long as
she had Kehinde there in Lagos, Ifeyinwa felt she had some
compensation for her own joyless life, someone to whom she
could talk freely without fear of exposure. Now she was gone,
and vengeance was the only thing left. If she could not bring her
sister back, she would make Rike’s stay in Albert’s house like
sitting bare bottom on a chair smeared with red hot pepper, like
having a piece of bone lodged in the throat, unable to swallow or
to spit it out. She would ugly her life. Was Kehinde not the only
sister she had?
In the intense heat of the afternoon, Ifeyinwa left one of her
children, Nwalor, to mind her stall of oranges and bananas.
Nwalor could peel oranges without cutting into the flesh or
cutting her fingers. She dressed for visiting and left the house.
Her reception from Rike was warm and welcoming, and so
loud it could almost have been sincere. She gave Ifeyinwa a large

110
glass of expensive imported juice, which Ifeyinwa accepted
gratefully, smacking her lips to show her appreciation. All the
while she watched Rike, the contented wife of a been-to man,
and her resolve never wavered.
‘I’ve heard from your mate . . . your Mummy,’ Ifeyinwa
began, using the endearment Lagos women used towards each
other.
‘Eh, so she arrived there safely!’ responded Rike, innocently.
‘Thanks be to the Almighty. I prayed and fasted for her to reach
with no mishap.’
Beneath her calm demeanour, something terrible was boiling
inside Ifeyinwa. She wanted to say, ‘You mean, you gave thanks
for her departure,’ but resisted. She did not want to be called a
witch for voicing her spite. Instead, she spoke as innocently as
Rike: ‘Indeed, your prayers must have worked wonders! My
sister had no problems on her journey, even at their immigration
check point, where they say the white officers pounce on Nigerian
women and ask them to undo their hair. God listened to your
prayers, thank you, my daughter.’ Before Rike was able to
respond in kind, Ifeyinwa asked casually, ‘But you did not come
to the airport?’
‘Aunty Ifi, my Mummy did not tell me. I learned of her
departure from Grace, you know, my house-girl. And of course
the neighbours confirmed her story. She did not even tell our
husband. Mummy must have been very angry to take such a
drastic step.’ Rike’s head was bent to one side, a picture of
theatrical sorrow. Had Ifeyinwa’s mission not been so important,
she would have burst out laughing. She had seen such scenes
played out many times in her own household, where she was an
old hand at the game of sharing her husband with another
woman. Compared to her, Rike was a novice.
She sighed deeply and looked around the tastefully furnished
living-room, noting a piece of decorative mat here and a beautiful
glass vase there, brought from England by her sister to decorate
her home. Her eyes came to rest on the woman in front of her, a
delicate young woman with her feet in a pair of dainty white
sandals. She looked away, to hide her burning hatred and anger.

Ill
She was too experienced to lay all the blame on Rike, when Rike
was only operating in comformity with the system which pepe-
trated this kind of injustice. One woman worked hard to buy all
these things and ship them across the ocean for the enjoyment of
her family, and at the end of it, what happened? Another,
opportunist, ‘oyokoyo’ woman, who had had no part in the dream,
who did not know the trouble she had taken, was now enjoying
it all. To Ifeyinwa, Rike was a whited sepulchre, and Albert was
Judas Iscariot. She remembered her mother’s life story and swore
inwardly that it would not be repeated in Kehinde.
Ifeyinwa’s feelings were so intense, she had to lower her eyes
to prevent Rike from reading her expression. Though Rike was
younger, Ifeyinwa did not underestimate her powers. The sect
she belonged to, the Cherubim and Seraphim, watched and
studied others as a form of ritual. They spent so much time
praying for their sins, and concentrating on their enemies, real
or imagined, that Ifeyinwa knew for certain that Rike was not
taken in by her expressions of good will. She knew perfectly well
that Ifeyinwa had no reason to love her, and was simply
pretending to be oblivious. It was a struggle for dominance, in
which Rike’s weapon was her assumption of innocence. But
Ifeyinwa, too, could prevaricate. Right now, she was playing a
simple-minded, older woman. She had worn a mask for eighteen
years and nobody but Kehinde had seen behind it. If only
Kehinde had stayed, together they would have ousted this
interloper. Rike was a fledgling, with all her spurious religious
backing. But Kehinde’s chi had made her give up, and Ifeyinwa
was left to fight alone. She sat up now and looked at Rike
directly, gathering herself for the attack.
Ifeyinwa had spent long enough in school to speak the Queen’s
English when the occasion demanded. She drawled, ‘Never mind,
daughter, your Mummy did the right thing. I know my sister.
She could have put up with you as a second wife, but to learn
that a third is on the way, and that third is one quite uneducated
and a Muslim . . . well her only qualification is that she is very
beautiful. You know, the northern Fulani type of beauty, which
we short-legged southerners can never compete with. For my

112
sister, that was the last straw. She wasn’t going to lower herself
to the level of sharing her husband with a child like that - sixteen
or so. Hm! Our men, they poke any hole. Pity you couldn’t cut
off Albert’s thing and keep it in the south, whenever he travels.’
She laughed mirthlessly at her own crude joke.
Ifeyinwa stopped to catch her breath and to watch the effect of
her words on the listener. The secure big-madam smile that had
been playing on Rike’s lips had disappeared, and her lips had
become thin and stretched. Her eyes had grown larger as her
body shrank deeper into Kehinde’s chair. But Ifeyinwa had not
quite finished. ‘Anyway,’ she ran on, mercilessly, ‘Albert can
always run back to London, whenever he gets bored here. You
know our men.’
‘Who will run to London? You mean, Our Father? Well, he
won’t find the time. What of his job? And the fares to London
are going up and up.’ Rike, like a corpse temporarily infused
with life, spoke in a strange, harsh voice. Ifeyinwa was taken
aback, seeing for the first time what Rike would look like in a few
years time. One good thing about youth and beauty is that they
do not last very long. In no time at all, the young woman sitting
before her would no doubt be as thin, disappointed and hurt as
she was.
‘Naira is falling in the world market. Trips to London are soon
going to be only for the very rich.’ Rike was clutching at straws,
her brow concertinaed like that of an old woman.
‘Albert is not poor, surely. He has a house in London,
remember? Not just a house, a home really. All these things you
see around you are from there. It took my sister and Albert over
sixteen years to build that home!’ Ifeyinwa was talking with her
whole body, holding her waist as if to squeeze more horrible
words from inside her. Squaring her thin shoulders, she
exclaimed, ‘Really, so Naira is falling down! Hm, hei, terrible for
Nigeria. But as for Albert, mark my words, he will still go and
meet his sweetheart. When they cause enough wahala in one
place, they move to another. It’s easy for them, they don’t drag
children with them. Our men!’
Ifeyinwa rose majestically. She gave Rike one long animal

113
stare, like a predator assessing its victim. Rike was transfixed by
its naked malignancy. When Ifeyinwa spoke, it was with her
usual vagueness. ‘I don’t want to delay you. I must go now. I
left Nwalor to mind the stall.’ She was out of the house before
Rike could move or speak. Her eyes shone with triumph as she
hurried home, saying to herself: ‘God forgive me, but people -
man or woman — should not reap where they did not sow. I leave
the other one to you, Lord.’
Ifeyinwa did not do what she had done lightly. It was a last
resort, the duty of a big sister, once the mother was dead. She
had done enough work for one afternoon, enough to keep Rike’s
mother and her wolis busy for a while. The wolis would eat at
Rike’s expense for a few days, their prayer, ‘Give us this day, our
daily bread,’ answered.
Nwalor had decided that selling an orange for ten kobo was
too slow, so she had been selling them for less. Ifeyinwa had
made a loss, but for once it did not matter. She had gained
something sweeter than money - the satisfaction of exerting her
power in her sister’s interests. She smiled at Nwalor, who -
having expected a scolding - ran away happily to play with her
friends.

114
 18 The Woli’s Vision

Rike woke from her trance to find her life in ruins. She called
absentmindedly to Grace to give her a head-tie, and prepared to
go to the praying-ground. It was an instinctive reaction, and she
drove there without thinking. Everything she saw was unfocused
- the sticks of sugarcane, the orange-sellers by the gutter on the
left side of the road. It was nearing evening, and the heat of the
sun was less intense.
The car left the tarred road and crunched into a pebbly
footpath, leading to a huge open space surounding a tiny white-
walled church building with a dusty galvanised roof. The open
space was partly enclosed by white-painted walls. Worshippers
often preferred to pray outside, under the umbrella trees and
hibiscus bushes. The open space was almost like the interior of a
church itself.
Rike had not been aware how fast she had driven, as though
pursued by demons. She could see clearly Kehinde and Albert
making love, Albert never returning to her. Her anxious and
over-active imagination conjured up images of innumerable
relatives and friends who had left for England and America,
promising to be back in a couple of years. Two decades later,
despite complaints about racism, unemployment, dignity robbed,
they would still be there. If Albert should go again, Rike knew
he would fall into the same trap. If he gave up his job just to go
and sell his house, well, jobs for the uncertificated were becoming
few and far between in Nigeria. Here, job applicants had to be
young, loaded with certificates and not necessarily experienced.
A knot of praying people and a few wolis looked up at the roar

115
of the car. Luckily her mother, Mama Abeni, was there, sitting
on a low stool under the biggest and oldest umbrella tree,
favoured by the wolis because it gave the most shade. She got up
from her stool, her hands outstretched as though in benediction.
One or two wolis who were padding barefoot from one hut to the
other looked up and continued their slow walk. Rike was not the
type to drive up to this holy place raising so much dust for
nothing. Something must be wrong. They did not appear
interested, however, but watched with the comers of their eyes,
wondering at the reason for her agitation. As Rike got out of the
car, her mother moved closer, hands still raised, and the other
worshippers stood back.
‘Mind how you walk, daughter,’ Mama Abeni greeted in a
controlled voice.
‘Thank God for a lovely evening, Mothers and Fathers.’ Rike
acknowledged all present in her greeting.
‘The baby, Ogochukwu, is he all right?’
‘And his second?’
‘Your husband?’
‘Nothing wrong with him?’
‘His job, going on well?’
‘Your job, going on well?’
‘The one with no name you’re carrying, kicking well?’
As Rike nodded in answer to all these questions, with her
mother intoning, ‘Lord be praised’ at each nod, her hither-to
crushing load became lighter. Through their greetings, the
worshippers were pointing out worse calamities. After the last
question, she even found it difficult to start talking about her
worries. The women noted her hesitation and burst out singing,
‘Count your blessings, name them one by one.’ By the end of the
song, a circle of people holding hands surrounded her. Rike
confessed that the heavy load she had been carrying seemed to
have evaporated, but she began to tell them nonetheless.
‘A woman came to me a short while ago. Not just an ordinary
woman, my mate’s sister. She came purposely to make me
unhappy. She told many lies, but behind the lies were some of
my fears. She said my husband would leave me and go back to

116
my mate, his first wife, in England. That my husband is
intending to marry another woman, this time from the north. He
meets many beautiful girls on his travels. I am afraid . . .’ Once
she had started, Rike poured out her soul. Where would she go
with three children? How could she pay for the big house they
rented and maintain a house-girl? Soon the children would be
needing money to pay their school fees. Her voice rose and fell,
and they allowed her to talk herself out. Time was nothing. Each
person fixed their eyes on the ground, and she talked with
confidence. The wolis were sworn to secrecy, and Rike knew she
could trust them. She was one of their favourite daughters. This
particular Christian community had prayed for and comforted
her through school. When she had invited Albert, whom she had
met by sheer accident, to their Harvest Thanksgiving a few years
ago, the community immediately knew her desires, by watching
and noting the way she stole glances at him. It was easy to
encourage her to talk about him. When they learned he had a
wife abroad and was looking for a job, they invited him for a
special prayer session, during which they saw a vision for him.
They said he would get a special job that God had kept for him.
They said he would marry a new wife, and the child borne by
this new wife would be his saviour. It was easy for Albert, a
been-to with a shiny Jaguar and Rike, a successful graduate, to
slide into serious friendship. The relationship represented the
kind of freedom Albert had longed for in England, but could not
get. Rike was a typical Lagos girlfriend, who did not ask any
questions. She was happy to have a man approved by her church,
and not just an ordinary man, but a polished one who spoke with
a sophistication that at first used to take her breath away. She
had never been attracted to those loud-mouthed Lagos boasters.
Albert was cool, and very dark with teeth that shone, and he
knew how to dress. After their night-long celebration on his
getting a new job, she told him a few weeks later that she was
pregnant. They had a traditional wedding which was blessed by
Rike’s church. Albert’s sisters, Mama Kaduna and Aunt Mary
were oveijoyed, and when Rike gave birth to baby Ogochukwu,
Albert became a convert to the church. He began to enjoy a life-

117
style he could only have dreamt of in England. They had two
cars, two servants, lovely weather and an easy and active social
life. Rike went to the praying place several times a week and
hung on every word that came out of the mouths of the wolis.
Albert was busy travelling, but he felt Rike and her mother,
Mama Abeni, were praying enough for the two of them.
Then Kehinde had decided to return. The wolis told Rike not
to worry, that such women were always too arrogant to share
their husbands and would soon leave. When Rike realised that
Kehinde was indeed leaving, Mama Abeni and her women
friends fasted for days until her departure. They did this without
the knowledge of the male wolis.
By the time Rike had reached the end of her story, the wolis
encircling her were like a barricade against evil. There were
seven of them, to symbolise the seven days of God’s creation.
They hailed God in seven different languages at the same time,
calling God His seven different names. They begged him to come
down and listen to the plea of His handmaiden, Rike. Sweat
poured from their faces, and the robes that had before hung
loosely were now wet and clinging to their bodies. Rike cried
until she was tired of crying, but the wolis went on wailing to
God. Rike’s knees started to hurt from kneeling on the sand, so
she decided to sit down, especially as she was several months
pregnant. The women suddenly started to leap, and after seven
leaps, one of them shouted, ‘They . . . they . . . should tell . . .
tell . . . that man - Albert - that . . . that ... if he ever sets foot
in England again . . . again ... he will die the death.’ Everybody
gasped. Rike fell to her knees again. She did not want Albert to
die. The prophetess continued, ‘The calamity would come from
his first woman. The woman, Albert’s first wife had two spirits
working in her. We don’t know if she was one of a twin or not,
but there are two forces inside her. She is destined to live very
long, having two lives in one. Such people are like fire. Anybody
who crosses their path is licked out of existence.’ Finally, the
warning came: Rike and Albert should beware and not interfere
with her hold on the house in England. A loud and haunted wail

118
followed this announcement. A male woli took up the refrain as
the others groaned.
‘Did we not foretell that Albert would get a job? Did we not
tell him that he would get a new wife and then a child who would
one day bring him good luck in all his undertakings? If he should
leave the Christian life God has thus prepared for him, he would
lose the glory. God would turn His back on him, and he would
not see His face. That woman is evil. When she was a child they
took her to an evil place to placate her second spirit, and now
the two of them work together, hand-in-hand, in this world.
Albert needs our prayers, and a long fast, otherwise I foresee
calamities. You have to call him, quick, quick. The calamity is
just around the corner. Tell him to come here . . .’
‘He is still away on tour, Father. He will be back in a week or
two. He is still in the north,’ said Rike tremulously.
Mama Abeni, her mother, stretched out a hand and helped
her daughter up. ‘We will keep our minds on him, so he will
return safely. But as soon as he returns, tell him to come here.
He needs our prayers.’
‘Go on being a good and obedient wife, my daughter, the kind
of wife Sarah was to Abraham, quiet, full of good works, and
God-fearing. God will reward you and the fruit of your womb,’
concluded the eldest woli.
The male wolis’ ‘amens’ were short and crisp, then they walked
briskly back into the church. The women sat around Rike,
exhausted and empty. In a low voice, Rike’s mother told her she
should bring a white goat, without spot, twelve cans of milk,
seven loaves of bread and a basket of assorted fruits.
‘The wolis are going into a period of fasting for you. They will
need the food after the fast,’ explained a young female woli sitting
on the ground. She was making drawings on the sand, as if
calculating what it was going to cost. Rike was not at all
concerned at the expense, so grateful was she for the lessening of
her burden.

119
 19 Starting Again

Dear Special Mother, ^

I hope you are well. We are trying to live and like it here,
and we are all physically okay.
You know, don’t you, Mother, that Dad has lost his job? It
happened suddenly. One minute, he had a job, the next he
was sacked. I knew then that I would have to be a day girl.
Dad did not ask me to leave the dormitory, but I knew it
would be much cheaper for him. He thanked me very much
for making the gesture. Rike drives me to school most morn¬
ings, because our school is not too far from the university.
Joshua is staying in the boarding house. He did not volun¬
teer to be a day student and nobody is expecting him to do so.
You know, mum, how much is expected of boys here. He
works so hard at his studies, you just can’t believe it’s the
same Joshua. He’s working for his ‘O’ Levels and if he goes
through, he will have to take his pre-university JAMB exam¬
ination. I still don’t understand the system very well. So many
exams to take. People are neurotic about certificates here. I
suppose it’s because if you don’t have a good education, you
perish. I would like to pass my exams but I don’t particularly
like school here anymore. It’s always study, study, study.
Young people don’t live here, they just work, and when I
return from school, the amount of house work I am expected
to do, Ma, it’s incredible. My friends say I feel this way
because I was born in England and can easily go back to
London. Maybe they’re right. But Nigeria is great too. I like
the clothes, the weather, the music, but you need a lot of

120
money to enjoy all this. If your Dad is not working and the
only income coming in is from his second wife, then life is no
joke. Most of my friends still think that England is the gate¬
way to Heaven, and I think they are right sometimes.
Why can’t they provide more paying jobs here so that people
like Dad who don’t particularly like it in Europe can stay?
Because here is nice also. Daddy’s health is bad. I worry about
him all the time. I think the cause of his ill health is because
he’s unhappy about being jobless. He’s written so many
applications, and been promised so many jobs, but none have
materialised. And all these promises cost a lot of money.
Daddy has to tip everybody connected with the job, from the
management to the top executive, only that here they call it
‘oiling the palms’ or crudely speaking, just old fashioned bribe.
Now Dad has given up looking for work. He just sits around
reading old newspapers. I don’t know what he is searching for.
Mum, I must tell you about Dad’s wife, Rike. She is not bad,
you know. I think she loves Daddy. She takes him to her
church. They really do great dancing in that church. They
came to the house the other day and said special prayers for
Dad to get a job. They said he would get a new job when God
forgave him. I wish God would forgive him soon, because I
suspect that Rike’s income is not nearly enough. I have heard
them arguing about money when they didn’t know I was
listening.
Mum, when are you going to send for Joshua and me?
Please don’t abandon us here. I know it was painful for you,
what Dad did. Joshua and I were shocked at first, but we soon
learnt that it is very common here. And Rike is not bad at
all. She prays for all of us all the time. And we are family,
Mum.
I suggested to Dad to come and stay there in London with
you for a while, but he didn’t want to discuss it. Are you going
to be nasty to him if he comes? Why don’t you write and invite
him, at least to see a doctor? You used to be such good friends,
you and Dad. Mum, please don’t be too hard. I love all the
members of my family. I have many mothers, but you will

121
 always come first, not just because you carried me for nine
months before I was born, but because you are a special
person.
Food is becoming more and more expensive. It would be
nice if you could help us out, at least Joshua and me, so we
too could help others. Your sister, Aunty Ifeyinwa, cooks
good food and invites Joshua and me to eat in her house.
She won’t let us bring Ogochukwu with us. She’s not sorry for
Dad at all, she says he deserves what he gets. How can any
person deserve not to get a job? She is nice, but I don’t like it
when she talks that way. But we can’t afford to do without her
food.
Do you still see Aunty Moriammo? Give her my love. One
day, I will thank her specially for sending you the fare. You
would not have been able to afford to go otherwise. Her son
Olumide must be big now. I can’t wait to see him.
Oh, I almost forgot - congratulations! I can’t believe that in
such a short time, a little over three years, you could get a
degree! I know you said you were determined to be a university
graduate, but honestly Mum, I didn’t think you could achieve
it. Many congratulations, Mum.
And thank you for the pocket money you sent us through
the air hostess. I have given Aunty Ifeyinwa her share. Mama
Kaduna and Aunt Mary send their regards.
I give you a thousand kisses.
Goodbye Special Mum and take care,
Bimpe

‘Why is thy countenance sad?’ Duro asked. They were in a small

dark service room of the hotel where they worked, La Duchess.
‘It’s sad because I’m confused. I had a letter from Bimpe this
morning.’ Duro’s face beamed, and she took the marking pencil
from her mouth. ‘Eh, God’s child!’ she cried, ‘Bimpe, with the
deep feelings. Did she say that they are all well?’
‘Yes, she said everybody’s okay.’
‘No rumble-belly, no headache, no rheumatism?’

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 Kehinde laughed. ‘You never take life seriously, do you
Duro?’
‘Nope. The day I go die, I wan party for seven days non stop,
with plenty, plenty music, for day and night.’
‘Not in this cold London, you won’t. Duro, I beg, shut the
door.’
The room became closer still, but by shutting the door, they
avoided the guests who had a way of surprising them. The hotel
passage had muted lights and a deep grey carpet, a complete
contrast to the tiny room in which they worked. Huge carpet
sweepers leaned heavily against piles of linen, toilet rolls and
bales of towels, which blocked the tiny windows. In summer,
their side of the building caught the sun directly, and they
sweltered.
‘She wants to come back to London. Not just herself, but
Joshua too.’
‘So, that surprises you? Sebi they can read? Even the children
can see the writing on the wall. The military government is
messing up again. Festac carnival is now over. Yamutul Every¬
body is running back to London to do gburu. It’s always “monkey
dey work, baboon dey chop.” When we don do all the work, we
go give it back to the west again in loan repayments. And then
we sit back and blame them.’
‘But this new military government promised to improve on the
old one after the coup. I don’t understand why we keep inviting
tief to come, time and time again. Now our children no even wan
stay there.’
‘Hmm . . . Kehinde, don’t you know that if the money is right,
we will sell ourselves to the devil? I don’t waste time deceiving
myself, I’m beginning to give up hope for our country. If the
place is well run, will we be here working as hotel room cleaners?
You with all your sociology degree and me with my so many
diplomas?’
‘Yes,’ Kehinde agreed, ‘you see all those women cleaning the
underground, they are qualified as we are, but they do it because
the pay is enough to live on. In Nigeria, with the exception of the
corrupt politicians, very few honest people can make a living

123
from their profession. All that is not doing anything for our
dignity, I know, but that is how it is. The children want to earn
good money. Life here will be easier for them than it has been for
us. After all, they were born here. But I thought they would have
stayed a little longer.’
‘Stayed a little longer, doing what?’ Duro asked, laughing.
‘You could not take the daily stress in Lagos yourself. I think
you wandered too far into the market, like the child in the fable.
We are condemned to spend the best part of our lives serving the
so-called Mother Country, pouring fresh African blood into her
tired veins to keep her going. It’s nice to keep thinking we can
get out and go back one day and live happily ever after, but I’ve
seen better qualified people killing themselves to come here and
do even these menial jobs we are complaining about. You want
your children to be really free? Well, they are free to make this
choice. Many of their mates at home would love to have such
opportunity.’
‘Duro, is that really the way you see it?’
‘Is there any other way? Maybe in the future things may
change. Maybe there’ll be fewer corrupt leaders in our part of
the world, but until then, our best brains will always run away
to work for the white man.’
Kehinde sighed. ‘If only I fit get better job to save for their
fares.’
‘Why don’t you take the evening job going on this floor as
well, just for a month or two?’
They stopped talking. Their ears had been trained to listen for
quiet steps on the thick carpet, and they knew them quite well.
It was their supervisor, Mr Butterworth, approaching. Kehinde
started to count the folded sheets frantically, making much noise
about it. Chubby Mr Butterworth opened the door,
unannounced.
‘Number twenty-eight is checking out, and the new guests are
at the airport. Kehinde, you’d better go and do the suite first.
He’ s an Arab. I think he’s bringing his family as well.’
‘Excuse me, sir,’ broke in Kehinde, ‘I would like to do a few
extra hours in the evenings.’

124
 ‘You mean the day shift’s not enough for you? I really don’t
know where you girls get all your energy from. Don’t you have
any social life at all?’ Nobody answered him. He twisted his head
to ease the hotel tie, which was apparently making him
uncomfortable. He looked closely at the two black faces staring
at him, and shrugged. ‘Mind you,’ he added, ‘the evening shift is
lighter, because there are usually no beds to be made. Yes, you
can look after this floor in the evenings.’
‘Oh, thank you, thank you very much. This,’ continued
Kehinde, windmilling her arms like her sister Ifeyinwa, ‘is our
social life.’
‘You mean money is at the root of it?’
‘Oh Mr Butterworth, tell us what evil doesn’t have money at
its root?’ joked Duro.
‘Ah, this is not for evil purposes-o, my friend,’ declared
Kehinde. ‘The money I get here is life itself to me and my
family.’
Duro laughed, displaying her white teeth. ‘As for me, when I
started, my pay was the icing on the cake, now it’s the cake, or
rather, bread.’
Mr Butterworth viewed them both with embarrassment, but
at least he had agreed to the extra work. He padded out, leaving
Kehinde to prepare the suite for the sheik and his family.
‘See, jobs are easy to get here,’ Duro commented.
‘I wrote seventy-two applications to banks, begging to be
considered for the kind ofjob I was doing before I left for Nigeria.
That was before I got a degree, too,’ lamented Kehinde.
‘You got that job a long time ago, and you were stupid to
leave. You can’t get such jobs now. You never know, with your
degree you may even be regarded as being over-qualified. An
educated black person in a responsible job is too much of a
threat. White people don’t feel comfortable in their presence.’
‘How do you know?’
Duro shrugged. ‘I just keep my eyes open.’
‘Anyway, we’re not here for politics or philosophy. You are a
black woman, so like a good black woman, go and clean suite
twenty-eight for an Arab sheik, as you have been ordered by

125
your white boss. At least you’re preparing the suite for a non¬
white person.’
‘Ah, but the oil money makes people colour-blind, my sister,’
Kehinde said over her shoulder as she left the room.

126
 20 Just Another Black Woman

There was no answer when Kehinde knocked at the door. As

there was no ‘Do not disturb’ sign on the door, she went into
suite twenty-eight to turn the beds ready for the night. Humming
tunelessly, she touched the quilted counterpane. Something
moved. Jumping back, she cried, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry! I thought
there was no one in. I just wanted to turn the bedcover, but I’ll
come back.’
‘Oh, that’s all right,’ came the low, rich voice of the Arab
guest. His modulated accent was similar to that of an educated
Hausa in Nigeria. He was wearing a long robe with a white
headdress, as if he had dressed to go out, before deciding to take
a little rest.
‘I am sorry. I can come back,’ repeated Kehinde.
‘Oh, no, go on with your job,’ said the Arab, climbing out of
bed.
Kehinde did not like people watching her while she worked.
But she did her best to ignore him. She flicked the bedcover here
and there, drew the curtains, and peeped into the marble
bathroom. Her hand was already on the doorknob, when she
heard the rich voice again.
‘You speak English very well.’
Kehinde wanted to say, ‘So do you’, but remembered where
she was. The hotel itself was fifty per cent Arab-owned. As Mrs
Okolo with her husband beside her, she would have been rude to
the Arab, however rich he was, but now she was a woman alone,
making beds for rich Arabs in an over-decorated hotel.
‘Thank you. I have a degree in sociology,’ Kehinde said stiffly,

127
not knowing what to expect from the announcement. The fact of
the degree made her feel she was entitled to hold her head up,
despite being a cleaner. Shfe at last felt equal to Albert’s second
wife, Rike, which was perhaps why she had embarked on the
degree course in the first place. She looked squarely at the rich
Arab. His eyebrows were slightly raised, with something like
amusement on his lips. Kehinde hated him for his arrogance.
She felt helpless and exposed, standing at the door, waiting to be
allowed to leave.
The Arab took his time before he spoke again, then he said:
‘My wives will be here in a few days. We are Muslims. I can tell
you are a Nigerian, and most Nigerians are Muslims. I would
like you to teach them English.’ He said this in the voice of
someone accustomed to buying his way.
‘Keep your cool,’ Kehinde told herself. Her education and
background had never brought her face-to-face with an Arab
before, though she had grown up in a neighbourhood with many
Muslims when she lived with her Aunty in Macuallum Street.
They had sold meat and hides, prayed several times a day and
given alms to beggars. The Ebute Metta Muslims carried water
in kettles with them, so they could wash and pray wherever they
were, and they chewed kolanuts. They had not prepared her for
this man in his silk robe, speaking in a low voice she found
difficult to understand. His movements were so languid that
Kehinde felt impelled to do something crude and violent. She
attributed the impulse to her Taiwo, who never allowed her to
accept humiliation. She wished she could refuse, if only to show
this indolent man that she did not have to do as he said. Kehinde
was sure that in his country he had an Egyptian or a Nigerian
servant to open and close his lips for him whenever he wanted to
utter a syllable.
But she could not afford to refuse. She badly needed money to
send to Bimpe and Joshua, because their father had decided, in
his middle years, to become a polygamist. Yes, she would teach
the Arab’s wives or concubines or mistresses, or whoever he
cared to bring. She wanted to ask how long they would be staying

128
in this opulent suite, which was practically an apartment on its
own.
‘Yes, I will teach them English,’ she said, with a counterfeited
smile.
‘Check them up this time tomorrow, Mrs . . .?’
‘Kehinde!’ ‘Mrs’ was not called for here. She waited for the
sheikh to tell her his name, but he had already lost interest,
distracted by a magazine on the coffee table. Kehinde looked
round for a split second to make sure everything was done that
she had come to do, when the low voice spoke again: ‘Change
the television channel, please.’
Kehinde looked pointedly at the remote control on the coffee
table, and again restrained herself. She adjusted the television to
the required channel and dashed almost blindly out of the suite
before she was given another humiliating task.
Kehinde felt so low, she wanted to cry. Allah Baba! Albert had
reduced her. Where were the dignity and pride in herself she had
been taught at school? She was glad she had told the sheikh she
was a graduate, even if it was only in sociology, a discipline
which qualifies you for nothing. She did not allow the tears of
frustration that were beginning to form in her eyes to fall onto
her cheeks. Instead, she wiped her eyes vigorously, recalling
Bimpe’s letter: ‘When are you sending for us mum?’ Pride and
self-pity would not send them money for the fare. Such emotions
were luxuries she could no longer afford.
For some reason, she did not tell her new friend and co-worker,
Duro, nor did she telephone Moriammo. She and Moriammo
had become closer since the death of Tunde in a car accident a
few months earlier. Moriammo was finding it difficult to cope
since Tunde’s demise. She complained that the house felt empty
without Tunde, and took tenants in on the top floor, while she
and the family kept the ground floor. Then she complained to
Kehinde, ‘I can’t stand them. Why should husband and wife be
dancing to records at eight o’clock in the evening as if dem dey
throw party? After all, we all were married before, so what is
their shakara for, enh? When I don fully recover, I am going to
pick up my life and study for a degree, the way you did.’ Twelve

129
months later, she still had not started the degree. She did not
even bother to go back to her old job after the funeral. ‘After all,
I no have no mortgage to pay any more,’ she said. Kehinde did
not feel it was appropriate to confide in Moriammo about the
sheikh, so she kept it to herself.
In the event, only one of the sheikh’s women arrived, and she
could not have been more than fifteen. The sheikh was old
enough to be her father. Kehinde could tell from her tired eyes
and her sometimes awkward movements that this was a young
girl being obliged to cope with frequent sexual demands. Kehinde
was instructed to call her ‘princess’, while she was to address
Kehinde by her first name.
‘The others will be joining us in a few days,’ the sheikh said,
off-handedly. Kehinde was aware that he was watching the first
lesson she gave the princess closely, even though he barely
opened his eyes throughout. He reclined on the sofa and
appeared to be asleep, but Kehinde knew he was listening.
She taught the princess how to say ‘good morning’ and
‘goodbye’ and how and when to say ‘thank you’. Then she
brought different objects and taught her their names, warming
to the young girl’s responsiveness. The hour passed surprisingly
quickly, and Kehinde gathered her things and prepared to leave,
with the princess waving goodbye, like the child she was. She
was arrested at the door by the sheikh’s languid voice. ‘Wait, a
labourer is worthy of his hire.’
‘Labourer? Who me?’ Kehinde thought.
The sheikh, without looking at her, took out an expensive
leather wallet from his robe. Standing there with hooded eye¬
lids, he flicked a handful of notes from a bundle of new bank
notes, and put them on the table. Ignoring Kehinde, he turned
and started to speak to his wife. Kehinde knew she was dismissed.
The princess waved again and Kehinde left the room.
When she was in the hallway, she counted the bank notes in
her hand and whistled softly. ‘Not bad, not bad at all. What I
earn in one hour teaching English is more than what I get for
nine hours as a hotel chambermaid.’
The days that followed, she and the princess were left alone.

130
Kehinde used children’s television programmes as a teaching
aid, which provided them both with entertainment. As time
passed, Kehinde noticed the other wives had still not arrived.
One afternoon, the sheikh remained in his reclining position,
reading a magazine, after Kehinde’s arrival, though as usual he
did not acknowledge her greetings or show any signs that he
noticed her.
Fatima &nd Kehinde went on with their lesson. They were in
one of the other rooms, and Kehinde’s back was turned to the
door when Fatima suddenly looked up, her face registering fear
and surprise. The sheikh started talking to Kehinde in English.
‘Your husband, what does he think of his wife working in a
hotel?’
Kehinde turned so quickly that the counters she was using to
teach Fatima fell off her knees.
‘Many people work in hotels, so he does not. . .’
‘Have you any husband at all?’
Kehinde stood up, holding her plump self as erect as she could.
‘Of course I have a husband. He is in Nigeria at the moment,
and I am doing this job to save enough money to bring my
children over here.’
‘Ah, children, children! That’s what they all say.’
Then he turned to Fatima, and said something in Arabic.
Whatever he said frightened Fatima so much that she hurried
into the other room, covering her mouth to prevent her from
crying out. In her haste, she trod on her black veil, and as it fell
it revealed masses of beautiful auburn hair almost to her waist.
As abruptly as he had switched to Fatima, the sheikh turned
to Kehinde and gestured with one hand: ‘Take your clothes off!
I want to see what a naked black woman looks like.’
Kehinde opened and closed her mouth, like a fish gasping for
air.
‘I don’t want to sleep with you. I just want to see what you
look like. I will pay you,’ he drawled.
Sweat trickled from Kehinde’s scalp down inside her dress.
She was shaking like a leaf. She remembered the woman she had
seen on the street when Albert was driving her to the clinic. How

131
long ago was that? She had called the woman a whore, but to
fifteen-year old Fatima in the other room, she must have seemed
like that woman. Fatima was the sheikh’s young, innocent wife,
bred for complete submission, but Kehinde was a black woman,
cleaning hotel rooms.
‘I say take your clothes off,’ repeated the sheikh impatiently.
‘I am not asking to sleep with you . . .’
Kehinde wanted to ask why he thought she would oblige, but
then she remembered the international hotels in Lagos, where
girls as young as fourteen swarmed around any foreigner, avid
for foreign currency, and the hotel owners encouraged them in
their trade, which brought in business. She picked up her coat
from behind the door and walked quietly out of the suite. The
sheikh might want to see what a black woman’s body looked like,
but that body was not going to be hers. She was aware that the
man was speaking, but she ignored him, walking slowly down
the padded corridor, past innumerable doors. She felt polluted
and unable to go home. She needed the brisk, clean spring air in
her lungs after the hot-house atmosphere of the sheikh’s suite.
Her feet led her out of the hotel, and she found herself on a bus
going to Harley Street. She remembered that this was the street
where she had passed judgement on another woman not so long
ago. Now she wondered why the woman had been walking down
Harley Street if she were a whore as Kehinde had called her. It
had never been a red light district. Had she been looking for
help? Was Kehinde’s experience with the sheikh God’s way of
reminding her how women judge and condemn each other? She
took the underground at Great Portland Street and arrived
thoughtfully back at her house in Leyton.
At home, she took a bath, scrubbing herself so vigorously with
her Nigerian fibre sponge that she felt raw all over. In bed, she
tossed this way and that, wondering who to be angry with. With
God, for creating her a woman? With men like the sheikh and
Albert, who felt women should just acquiesce in any ridiculous
plan they made? With other women, who in their ignorance pass
judgement on their sisters? Whose fault was it?
Near morning, she fell into a fitful sleep, from which she was

132
woken by a hesitant knock. It was the Caribbean tenant. ‘Good
morning, Mrs Okolo. You’re sleeping late, or aren’t you going to
work today?’ he asked, poking his head in.
‘I’m a little tired, I’m just taking a day off,’ she lied. Then she
remembered her manners and said, ‘But thank you, Mr Gibson,
for checking on me.’
‘It’s no problem at all. Have a nice rest then,’ he said, and
departed.
Kehinde telephoned Duro to say she thought she was overdo-
ing it, working day and evening. She said she needed a break,
and asked her to apologise to Mr Butterworth on her behalf.
Duro was puzzled. She and Kehinde were not close enough for
her to ask directly, ‘But what’s the matter with you? One minute
you want to do extra work, the next you announce you’re doing
too much.’
Kehinde was grateful that Duro did not ask for an explanation.
They had been in England long enough to acquire some of the
native reticence about personal matters. Even when Kehinde
phoned the office a few days later, to say that she would not be
coming back, Duro did not ask what was wrong. Privacy was not
without its advantages, reflected Kehinde, especially as she could
not put words to what was going on in her head. Even Taiwo’s
voice did not intervene to help her. It was as if Kehinde was
being forced to sort things out herself.
Cleaning jobs were not difficult to find, and Kehinde found
another at her local Marks and Spencers. She was too old for
their managerial training scheme. The young woman at the job
centre where Kehinde registered listened sympathetically to her
story, reminding her of Leah, the girl she had shared a room
with at the clinic. Like Leah, Melissa was a good listener and
much younger than she was. When their eyes met, Melissa’s
were moist. She gave her particulars of some part-time vacancies
being advertised by the DHSS.
‘This one is a part-time job, I know, but you do need a social
science degree to qualify for it. Or you could go on with your
cleaning and when you’ve saved enough to bring your children
over, you could apply for better jobs,’ she suggested. There was

133
a pause, during which they both pondered the absurdity of her
advice. Melissa went on to explain: ‘I went to Berlin last year,
and the cleaners in my hotfil were Turkish women who had come
to Berlin to make money. Some of them were professionals too,
who planned to go back to their country when they could afford
to practise their profession.’
‘It’s the same in my country,’ said Kehinde. ‘Pay is low and
many people are over-qualified, so many of us came to the
industrial world to make a living. My children love life in Nigeria,
but they too would rather come here to work, and maybe go back
when they’re older. I too hope to go back some day. Meanwhile,
I want to earn enough to give me the option of going or staying.
It will partly depend on my children.’
‘Let’s face it, children belong to our husbands in a different,
more distant way than they do to us. Our sense of responsibility
is more immediate and closer.’
‘Has education helped us at all?’ Kehinde asked, despairingly.
‘Oh yes, education is helping. If you hadn’t got a degree, you
wouldn’t have been considered for this three-day a week job.
There won’t be much male competition there. Most men and
younger people want full-time work. But it’s not demeaning
work. And you can be sure you won’t be asked to take your
clothes off.’
As Kehinde walked out of the office, she wished Melissa had
not uttered that last sentence. She felt her experience with the
sheikh was too humiliating to joke about. That was why she had
not rushed to pour her heart out to Duro when it had happened.
Though Melissa had been sympathetic, Kehinde felt her hurt
had been trivialised.
For some days afterwards, Kehinde sank into the depths of
depression. Michael Gibson kept asking her why she was not
going back to work, but she could not tell him that she was busy
taking stock of her life, reassessing her value. One afternoon she
responded irritably to his enquiry. ‘You sound like my gaoler,
Mr Gibson.’
He laughed, his teeth gleaming. Kehinde looked at him, and

134
saw a black man of middle height, slightly fleshier than Albert,
dressed in khaki coloured work clothes.
‘My name is Michael,’ was all he said. ‘I’ve told you that
several times.’
Kehinde knew his name was Michael but for a long time she
had listlessly thought of him simply as the Caribbean man who
lived upstairs.
‘Going to work, no matter what it is, is better than sitting at
home. Troubles multiply when you sit at home, you know,’ he
said gently.
‘I’ve been promised a job at the DHSS,’ Kehinde suddenly
confided.
Michael Gibson sat down on a chair at the kitchen table. ‘Now
that’s good,’ he encouraged her. ‘It’s good and dependable work,
the civil service. When are you starting? They tend to be very
slow in making appointments.’
‘I know,’ Kehinde replied. ‘I’m keeping on my Marks and
Spencers job until the civil service is ready for me . . . I’ll make
you a cup of tea, Mr Gibson.’
‘Thank you Mrs Okolo, but I really don’t like tea much. I
drink too much of it at work already. How about going out to eat
Indian or Chinese?’
Kehinde looked at him closely, her mind working fast. She had
stopped protesting that all her thoughts were hers alone, and
started accepting Taiwo’s voice as a permanent part of her
consciousness. Ifeyinwa had said that she was the most uncon¬
ventional woman she had ever met, walking out of her marriage
simply because her husband had taken another wife. She argued
that if every woman left for such a trivial reason, there would be
few marriages left, but Ifeyinwa had not travelled out of the
country of their birth. She didn’t know what it was like to be
taken by her husband to a doctor to abort an ‘unwanted’ baby.
Nor would Ifeyinwa understand how she could go out to eat
Indian or Chinese with a man who was not her husband or even
Nigerian.
‘I’ve never really eaten out much,’ said Kehinde.
‘Really, why is that?’ he asked.

135
 ‘We always entertain at home, invite people round, cook and
talk.’
‘Then this will be a rfew experience,’ Gibson said with a
chuckle.
They went, and Kehinde enjoyed herself. Apart from takeaway
fish and chips and the Wimpy lunches of her bank days, she had
not explored this aspect of London life at all. She had seen many
dressed-up people going to eat in the hotel dining-room where
she worked, but for some reason she had thought that sort of
thing was for other people. She was learning. When she thanked
Mr Gibson, who had insisted all evening on her calling him
Michael, she stretched out her hand to be shaken.
He smiled his slow smile and said, ‘Good night, Mrs Okolo.’
‘Kehinde,’ she said, a little embarrassed.
‘I was waiting for that,’ he said in his musical voice. Michael,
like many Africans abroad, reverted to his own way of speaking
when he felt comfortable enough.
Kehinde avoided Gibson for some time, her mind full of
questions. Why was he not married? What would people say
about her going out with a Caribbean man over five years her
junior? Should she allow the acquaintance to grow into friend¬
ship? Taiwo answered her in characteristic fashion. ‘So what if
he is five years your junior? So what if your children notice the
relationship when they return? After all, are you hurting
anybody?’

136
 21 The Rebel

‘Why doesn’t Mr Gibson move out of the house now I’m back,
Mum?’
‘Because he doesn’t want to.’
‘But I want him to. If you won’t give him notice, I will.’
Joshua, recently arrived from Nigeria, was flexing his ado¬
lescent muscles. Kehinde looked at her son, and saw the gangling
youth he had become. He felt he had the answer to the world’s
problems, having been to Africa, where young men were made
to feel they owned heaven and earth.
Kehinde, meanwhile, still had her life to live. At forty-five, she
would be old in an African compound situation, but in the west,
she was just approaching her middle years. She was not heartless,
just pragmatic. A man-child did not need to kill his parents to
establish his manhood. In her house, whoever she wanted to
stay, stayed.
‘Mr Gibson is not in anybody’s way, darling,’ she said sweetly
to Joshua.
‘But this is my house, and I want him out.’
‘It’s not quite like that. This is my house, though it may be
yours one day.’
She waited for him to object that he was his father’s first son,
and that women don’t own houses, but instead, he muttered
sullenly, ‘They say he’s a homosexual.’
‘Who says? Just because he’s not married? This is England,
you know, people are not obliged to be married here. And even
if he were, what harm is there in that?’

137
 Joshua stuck out his lower lip. ‘Shio, shameful. People like him
should be shot. They carry disease,’ he spat.
‘Joshua, anybody who is sexually active can get AIDS. Even
you. It’s something you’d better think about, since you’re so
grown up.’ Kehinde sighed, and lifted one foot onto the sofa
where she was sitting. It was more comfortable, and besides, it
was her sofa. In fact, it was her living-room.
Joshua looked at her in amazement. He had expected her to
be the ideal Ibusa village mother, but she lived in London, not
the village. Then he said abruptly, ‘I saw you in bed with him.’
‘Oh, is that what this drama is all about? I’m sorry, we weren’t
sure it was you. You weren’t meant to, believe me, but it’s not a
crime to love. Your dad has taken two other wives in Nigeria,
and I’m not complaining. That’s one of the beauties of polygamy,
it gives you freedom. I’m still his wife, if I want to be, and I’m
still your mother. It doesn’t change anything.’ Kehinde laughed,
as Taiwo, the spirit of her rebellious sister, took over. ‘You have
girlfriends, don’t you?’ she asked. ‘And why do you think your
sister Bimpe didn’t want to do a degree here in London? Because
she wants to be with her boyfriend, Elijah. And if you had taken
the trouble to knock, you would not have seen what you were not
meant to see. You used to knock when your father was here.’
‘Mama, can’t you see? He’s not a Nigerian or even an African.
He’s a West Indian and years younger than you. You look
ridiculous.’
Oh God, he really believes the nonsense he is uttering,
Kehinde thought. Did he expect her to alter her behaviour
because of his arrival? She was wondering what to say next,
when Joshua went on: ‘Legally, all this is supposed to be mine.
Dad said so several times, you heard him yourself. Why didn’t
you challenge him then?’
‘I know what your father said, but where am I supposed to
live? Let me tell you something. When your Dad and I started
out, we didn’t inherit any houses. We worked to pay for our
education, miles away from anybody who cared for us. You’re
much luckier. You have a good education, and a British passport,
so you can make choices we didn’t have.’

138
 ‘I thought you were supposed to live for your children,’ said
Joshua.
‘I did, when you were young. My whole life was wound around
your needs, but now you’re a grown man! Mothers are people
too, you know.’
Joshua frowned. He was trying to come to terms with a mother
who was behaving very unlike the mother who had brought him
up. It seemed to him that Kehinde was not only depriving him
of his rights, but ducking her responsibilities as a wife and
mother. ,
‘But Ma, they said I should take the house and look after you.
All mothers want their children to look after them,’ he appealed.
‘That’s very noble,’ laughed Kehinde. ‘But I don’t need
looking after right now. I need you very much as a friend, just as
I need your father, Mr Gibson, Bimpe and many others. I have
a degree, and a job at the Department of Social Services. I’m
enjoying meeting people and leading my own life.’
‘So, now your life is full, you don’t need your family any
longer?’ he pouted.
‘Oh Joshua, of course I need you. I just don’t have the energy
to be the carrier of everybody’s burdens any more. I sometimes
need help too.’
‘But what about Dad?’
‘What about him?’
‘This is his house too.’
‘I didn’t drive him out of the house. He left and started another
family. He’s free to return any time he wants.’
‘Then why doesn’t he come?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t want to.’
‘What does that mean? Honestly, Ma, I don’t understand you
any more. I don’t.’
‘Do we older people always have to justify our behaviour to
you, simply because you’re young? I’m sure he has his reasons
for staying away from London.’
Joshua stared at his mother long and hard. He had boasted to
his friends that his father had given him a house, a fact he had
dangled in the face of his new girlfriend, Moya. Before he left

139
Lagos, Albert had said to him, ‘We men must stick together, and
look after our women. The house in London is yours. Make sure
it goes under your name. Your mother loves you very much and
would be happy to see you make your claim. Get in some tenants
and send me money monthly.’ It had made Joshua feel import¬
ant, as if he had a responsibility. When Albert saw him off at
Murtala Muhammed airport, he had been bold enough to pat
his father on the back and assure him he had nothing to worry
about. But the mother he had found in England was different
from the one he remembered. She had gone by herself and got a
degree, and survived without any of them. Joshua had not
bargained for what that meant.
Eventually, unable to win the argument, he wrote to his father.
Albert advised him to go to the Law Centre. There, they told
him without much preamble that the house belonged to his
parents, and if his mother did not wish to relinquish it, there was
nothing he could do.
‘Who is paying the mortgage now?’ the lawyer asked.
‘My mum,’Joshua replied, without thinking.
‘Then you are wasting my time. You need to go and sort out
your own life, rather than interfere in your mother’s.’
This was a very hard truth for Joshua. He had a grant to study
agriculture, a subject that had fascinated him when he got to
Nigeria. He had hoped his mother would retire gracefully, giving
him the run of the house. The grant and the money collected
from the house rent would have made his life comfortable as a
student. Even Moya did not react as he expected when he told
her it was beginning to look as if his mother would not let go of
the house. She responded, ‘Well, it’s her house.’
‘But when I met you, I told you that I had a house and that
we would live rent-free as students. Wasn’t that why we became
friends?’
‘That was one of the attractions, yes. But it didn’t work out
that way. So what! You thought your mother would pack up and
go ... go where? It’s not always good to be saddled with a house
at our age. Houses need looking after, you know.’
Joshua thought that she was laughing at him. Nonetheless, he

140
was determined he would go and have it out with his mother
once and for all.
A few days later, Joshua saw Kehinde and Mr Gibson together
in the bedroom. He dashed blindly out of the house, determined
to make his mother feel ashamed of her behaviour.
But now talking to her face to face, she seemed to be glorying
in it. Enjoying shedding her duties. Most Igbo women liked
taking on the whole family’s burden, so that they would be
needed. His mother no longer cared. How could you deal with a
rebel who happened to be your mother?
Aloud he cried, ‘Shio, so what kind of mother are you then?’
He pushed his chair back noisily and stomped out. The slamming
of the street door echoed round the ageing house. Eventually it
died down.
Kehinde sighed. She added one more teaspoon of sugar to the
tea she had just poured herself and stirred it absentmindedly,
looking into space.
“Claiming my right does not make me less of a mother, not
less of a woman. If anything it makes me more human,” she
murmured to her Taiwo.
At length she put the cup to her lips. She felt the sweet liquid
running through her inside, warming every part.
‘Now we are one,’ the living Kehinde said to the spirit of her
long dead Taiwo.

141
 Glossary

abi interrogative expression, meaning ‘isn’t it so?’

acada slang for university educated person, derogatorily applied
to women
adah eldest daughter
agbada voluminous robe, traditional to Yoruba areas, worn by
men
akara fried spicy balls made of a bean batter
aso-oke traditional Yoruba heavy woven cloth
Baba Father (Yoruba)
boubou robe worn by women, especially in Senegal, cut wide so
it slips off the shoulder
chi an individual’s personal god, according to Igbo belief. The
chi of an ancestor may inhabit the body of a descendant.
ehulu beads
Eko Lagos
gburu degrading jobs for women in England
gele woman’s head-tie
get belle become pregnant
get k leg become complicated
ibeji twins (Yoruba)
iro and buba wrapper and blouse, worn by Yoruba women
iwu akpu grated boiled cassava, soaked in slightly salted cold
water; a traditional Igbo dish
iyabeji mother of twins (Yoruba)
kererem a long time ago
kora stringed musical instrument, originally of Wolof people of
West Africa

143
lappa traditional woman’s costume, a length of cloth wrapped
around the waist
make shakara be boastful, puff yourself up
moyin-moyin small bean loaf, steamed and usually containing
flakes of dried fish, chopped boiled egg, etc.
na wa it’s trouble or it’s big trouble
nne-eyime twins’ mother
oga boss, chief (colloquial)
ojugo asker of questions (Igbo)
onilu professional drummer
otu-ogwu cloth wound about the body under the armpits
oyinbo white person
oyokoyo beautiful, irresponsible young female
palava discussion, issue, argument
jbikin child, children
play koto fondle
sebi? Yoruba word, equivalent of‘isn’t it?’
shuku woven basket
tanda stay put
tiro kohl
wahala trouble
woli prophet of a charismatic church
yamutu dead

144
 THE AFRICAN WRITERS SERIES

The book you have been reading is part of Heinemann’s long-

established series of African fiction. Details of some of the other
titles available in this series are given below, but for a catalogue
giving information on all the titles available in this series and in
the Caribbean Writers Series write to:
Heinemann Educational Publishers, Halley Court, Jordan Hill,
Oxford 0X2 8EJ;
United States customers should write to:
Heinemann, 361 Hanover Street,
Portsmouth, NH 3801-3959, USA.

BUCHI EMECHETA
In The Ditch

A harrowing and humorous account of a young, lone, Nigerian

mother’s determination to carve a place for herself against the
odds.

New Edition

Head Above Water

Buchi Emecheta’s autobiography, spanning the transition from

tribal childhood in the African bush to life in North London as
an internationally admired author.

New Edition
 Gwendolen

A tale of lost innocence arid betrayal of trust. ‘Miss Emecheta’s

prose has a shimmer of originality, of English being reinvented
. . . Issues of survival lie inherent in her material and give her
tales weight’ John Updike, The New Yorker

New Edition
(Not available from Heinemann in the US)

Second-Class Citizen

Adah’s fervent desire to write is pitted against the dual forces of

an egotistical and unfeeling husband and a largely indifferent
white society.

New Edition
(Not available from Heinemann in the US)

Destination Biafra

Destination Biafra dramatises the painful birth of the republic

of Biafra in the late 1960s.

New Edition

Joys of Motherhood

a graceful, touching, ironically titled tale that bears a plain

feminist message’ John Updike, The New Yorker

New Edition
<
 r r.

.
 J
f

OEMGO
 Buchi Emecheta was born in Nigeria and
came to England in 1962. Her novels
include In the Ditch, The Joys of
Motherhood and Destination Biafra.

Kehinde and her husband Albert had always

intended to return to Nigeria. When the
opportunity arises, Kehinde realises she is
reluctant to leave London and the
independence she has enjoyed there.
Albert, longing for the prosperity and status
that will be his in Nigeria, is determined not
to be thwarted in his plans. He thinks that it
is his wife’s duty to obey him, and forces her
to make terrible choices. Kehinde, plagued
with guilt, is led on an unexpected path by
the spirit of her dead twin.

‘Buchi Emecheta is a born writer. ’

THE SUNDAY TIMES

FICTION / LITERATURE
UK £ 5.99
US $ 9.95

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