Mixed Signals

MIXED SIGNALS

I can’t understand why this is happening again. Can’t understand why ‘lucky in love’ never works for me. And I loved Tunde oh! Maybe I even loved him too much sef, spoilt him so much till he began to believe I loved him more than he loved me. Imagine! Me! Tunde was an accountant in a thriving Oil & Gas company. I remember the big O my mouth formed when he told me his take home package. Because not only was it huge, Tunde never gave me money for anything. I came to his apartment every weekend to cook soup he’ll eat during the week. Come and watch him frown when I ask for the money! Food he’ll digest and polish all the pots and pans! It was from Tunde I heard I looked sexy in a helmet, so he’ll rather give me fare for bikes than cab. When he said it was over, I didn’t know when I whispered ‘at last’. In spite of the wasted two years, the money and all I put into it. Mschew!
So here... Broke, bored and broken. Tolani had dragged me out to join her and her boyfriend because it was his birthday. As the night stretched, I began to believe Tolani invited me out to rub Seyi in my face. Every conversation they exchanged was ended with a kiss; I feared they’ll suffer bruised lips before the night ended.
“Are you okay Fikayo?” Seyi asked.
How nice of you to notice me. I thought. “Excellent.” I said trying a thumbs–up. I looked awful so I resumed to my sulking. Tolani didn’t even spare me a glance.
It was either the La Casera I was sipping had been spiked or that was actually the third time that guy was walking, oh sorry swaggering past our table, staring as if I was in the wrong company.
Well wasn’t I?
He stopped, this time facing Seyi. “Seyo!”Seyi got up, squinted and then they hugged.
Handsome. I agreed.
“It’s been what...” they hugged again before the introduction which got Handsome impatient until he was introduced to me! He dragged a seat towards me, sat and smiled. The heartbeats became irregular.
His name– Priye. Smart, sexy and suave. He was very deep, soft and romantic.
He loved to work really hard and had influenced my life and attitude towards life so positively. We didn’t have so much in common but I guess we subsisted because we both independently respected what the other wanted. We were already six months into it and I had started feeling all the signals. The signals that came with break-up. First Priye got unnecessarily angry if I did the most natural thing.
I wondered why he brought up dinner at this Chinese restaurant when I knew I was very much likely to be upset at the end of it all. My face felt oily but I remembered how he had impatiently sighed to no end, while I took my time to dress up and I didn’t want a make-up kit spoiling the night as it was Valentine’s eve. I knew that this was a ‘pity dinner’. The one some men threw right before a break-up
“Why not taste the bread?” I glanced up at him. Did I mention Priye was handsome? I wonder why he was unnecessarily impatient. But since this was it, I planned to make the best of it.
“I don’t feel like flour tonight.” I managed in my calmest voice.
“Oh yes, you’ll eat the bread.” He was shoving the plate towards me.
See wahala oh! “I don’t want!” I said sternly. Much as I had raised my voice, I was surprised no one in the restaurant glanced our way.
“Then you’ll have to help me break this one because I want bread.” He took the loaf at the top, passed it to me and crossed his arms, waiting, daring to see what I’ll do.
“We don’t have to end this badly, you know?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Can I have my bread?”
When did he become so unfeeling? I hadn’t seen this side of him before. Ever!
I tore the bread into two halves and a clatter hit my plate and bounced off it. By the time I found what rolled away and saw it was a ring, Priye had knelt in my presence and the other diners turned out to be some of his friends, his brother and then Tolani. I was stunned!
“Marry me.” He said smiling softly.
I got the signals mixed up this time. I said to myself.
“Yes.” I whispered to him.
“We sure can’t hear you from this side.” His brother called from the corner of the floor.
“Yes.” I screamed. He kissed me and everyone got up to hug and congratulate us. Still shaken and nursing a glass of wine, I caught his glance from across the room, he smiled and winked and there I knew I had finally hooked The One.
Oyinda!

CAUGHT IN THE ACT

CAUGHT IN THE ACT

He sat outside the house, a stick which had been chewed half-way hung in between his dry lips, spittle sat at the corners of his mouth as he drove the stick deeper into his mouth, sticking out his tongue to do the same work on. He sucked up phlegm from all regions of his mouth and gathered momentum to spit it out. Woe betide anyone it touched. Its effect will be just as disastrous as one whom had been bathed with acid. Unfortunately, Mrs. Williams chose that time to leave home for work. Both their eyes met, held and travelled to the front of her skirt, her crisp grey skirt suit which bore the thick phlegm with some of it hanging down and dropping to her shining Jimmy Choos. Her jaw clenched as she balled her fist. It was a Monday morning. Why did he have to choose today to display his nasty character.
Otunba’s chewing stick did not stop its work. All he did was spy at her for a fraction of a second and continue. She took a roundabout turn and moved back into her apartment. It was a miracle her husband had been called on an emergency earlier that morning. The house was so quiet, at least her apartment. She had loved the home. Though she’d have preferred something more private, like a duplex or even a bungalow, she hadn’t minded the flat her husband had bought them right after they married. It was that privacy she needed that had brought her trouble with Otunba. He sort of saw himself as some kind of landlord because he bought the first flat and even bought more which he placed for let. But he wasn’t the owner of theirs. They owned theirs!
Right there in the living room, Bisoye got out of her soiled clothes and picked up her phone, calling in sick at the advertising agency she worked as a client-service officer. She flung her phone on the table and lay on the couch in her red, lacy two-piece. The one Bode had bought and Kolade loved to rip apart when they made love. She lay, facing the ceramic ceiling, just like the day it had all started.
She was still on her honeymoon-leave and Bode had scheduled they travel to the UK but as usual, work had come in the way so they had had to cancel. She couldn’t face up to her friends so she just decided to turn off her phone for the period and stuck strictly to the internet. It had initially seemed okay marrying a doctor but she hadn’t known it could ever get so lonely. Bode was a lot caring and attentive when they were dating than now when they were ‘happily married’. His phone never stopped ringing, like he was the only doctor in the hospital. That night, he had just returned tired from work. She had fed him and they just lay there in the living room. The mood had seemed right and they had started getting out of their clothes when his phone rang. One thing she was certain about was that he’d go into a mad rush of love making before he jets out, but he didn’t. He just got up, his glorious body glistening in the candle light, got into his clothes and left after a murmured apology. After he had had her engine revved up and running!
She sat in the balcony, bent on drinking herself to stupor. They were no friends to call-she was still on the pretence of being in the UK- no one to talk to and not a soul anywhere around. It was like she dwelt alone in the world until she saw a silhouetted figure move from the balcony besides theirs. There was a red light swinging from up in the air and falling to its sides. It was a male and he was smoking. She strained to see if she could get a clearer picture of him for she hadn’t known all neighbours when he caught her movement. He moved towards the banister. That was the closest he could get. She got up towards him, moving to her too.
“Hi”
She nodded, watching as his eyes bored into her night wear, she had just donned it on, completely nude beneath. If his hands could go further, they could have attacked her with venom, because her nipples rose wantonly. He was shirtless, a jeans trouser riding down his waist. He reached out his hands, they barely brushed hers but the effect was electrifying. She couldn’t quite remember if they had spoken or words had been superfluous, all she could recollect in her drunken state was his hard, taut body stretched over hers like wrung wire.
“Invite me in.”
The distance from the balcony to the main entrance was far enough for her to get back to her senses but all rational thoughts deluded her.
There was no room for second thoughts, no kisses, no foreplays. They both needed sex and they gave heavily. And she thought her husband was gorgeous! Kolade had a body made for women to stare, salivate and shiver. They had sex like she had never had in her life. He completely filled her.
“I’m so sorry we both got carried away.”
Reality had dawned and the shame was unbearable. He picked his trousers, the one she had assisted him in flinging to a corner of her living room!
He looked from her to the wedding photo frame. “My name is Kolade. I’m sorry I don’t make a habit of sleeping with married women but...”
“Get out!”
She had slammed the door just as he put his foot out and she cried, cried for her recklessness.
But it hadn’t ended there. Kolade came back for more and stupid as she was she needed the attention, the way his eyes made love to her, his touch which was as delicate as porcelain and his kind words. He was separated from his wife, not legally, but bottom-line was he was an unhappy, lonely man who convinced her till she began seeing herself as unhappy too even though she lacked for nothing besides Bode’s crazy schedules. It became so bad, that Kolade knew when Bode left home. He slipped in almost immediately; tearing at their clothes until that eventful day she had been stupid not to have bolted the door and then Otunba walked in on them, right there in the living room. He made sure he made eye contact with them both before apologising on entering the wrong apartment! For heaven’s sake it wasn’t a face-II-face house where you could mistakenly enter someone else’s room. And ever since then, it had been hell for her and well Kolade too because his wife it was who bought the apartment. She was on a course in the US and was back. She was also a cousin to Otunba which made the issue a lot dicier.
If Otunba tried blackmailing Bisoye, perhaps it would help rather than the public frustrations he meted out on her. Kolade rushed into her apartment one evening just as Bode left the home; he was in a state, saying Otunba claimed he couldn’t hold it up anymore. He was being a traitor holding that kind of information from his cousin. He wanted her to act like nothing of the sort happened, but even at that, it would take a miracle not to be out of her marriage barely a year after they just married. But she hoped, prayed and somehow waited for Otunba’s next mischief. She hadn’t seen Kolade too and it was already four days after he had come to hint her on the development.
Bode got home late after work. The moment she opened the door for him and saw his face, she knew something had gone wrong. Her insides took an elevator ride when Bode nodded his head and didn’t respond to her greetings. The chair made a hissing noise as he fell into it.
“I take it you didn’t hear Otunba was killed this morning? It must have been some hired-assassins. His head was bashed-in with a pole.”
That was enough for her to collapse, which she did.

Review of my book

In a world rapidly overtaken by technology in all its awesome forms, what role does superstition play in people’s lives? Does living in the city with its many glitters, sophisticated and urbane airs diminish the power of superstition in determining how people live their lives? These are some of the intriguing questions Oyindamola Affinnih’s new novel Two Gone... Still Counting tries to unravel
AMANI'S young and settled world in the city of London takes a turn for the worse when she overhears her parents agonising over her fate and how to undergo the most gruesome rite ever to straighten it before she is ripe enough for marriage. Her parents are Yoruba and Muslims; they all live in London. But they fear the worse for their daughter’s future and prospects for a successful marriage on account of a superstitious belief among the Yoruba of an incident that happened to her at infancy.

As an infant strapped to her mother’s back as African mothers are wont to do, she had slipped and fallen done. For the Yoruba, that is a taboo that brings the worse fate for the girlchild; it has the capability to ruin the men that would attempt to marry her. Indeed, if the abomination is not appeased and the poor girl set free from its clutches, the men the girl in question will marry will die to the eighth one. The only way to propitiate the powers that hold court over the abomination is for the mother to walk through a marketplace in full session naked as an act of contrition in carelessness.

It is such dire situation Amani’s parents find themselves, particularly her mother, who believes; her father not quite so. At Amani’s mother’s instigation and out of a mother’s concern for her daughters’ prospect for a successful marriage, father and mother, together with their two children Amani and Areef, their son, set out for Nigeria in what turns out the worse ordeal ever a family encounters.

They arrive their palacial home in Ikoyi and still agonise over how a sophisticated woman that shuttles between London and Lagos will subject herself to such primitive act of propitiation to save a daughter from a fate the mother brought on.
With the husband not quite in support, the moment to commit herself to the act of appeasement becomes delayed.
But something happens to thwart the calculation of their trip from London to Lagos. On their way to a friend’s party, husband and wife are cut down in a possible case of mistaken identity. This leaves poor Amani and her younger brother Areef in bitter grief. It also sets them up for the most gruesome ordeal that leaves them stranded in the next few years.

Their father’s brother Uncle Kolade turns out a monster and terrorises the living daylight out of the bereaved children. He takes possession of their father’s house and sends them to the boy’s quarters, seizes their passports and mets out the worse punishment to them. But Amani is smart to have taken possession of her father’s documents to his vast assets; it’s for this brazen act of denying him the documents to the brother’s properties that Uncle Kolade would punish them relentlessly.

Eventually, Amani and Areef find themselves some reprieve from the pain their uncle subjects them. Areef goes back to London to school, and Amani had to do most to get herself a life in Lagos as Uncle Kolade had defaced her passport.
Now, with her mother not being able to carry out the sacrifece of walking through a market naked to free her from the supposed curse under which she is placed, what becomes the fate of Amani and her prospect for marriage? Will she live under that curse forever?
Can the fate that befall the two men that cross her path be considered mere a fulfillment of the superstition or mere coincidence? This certainly seems arguable the way she treats the subject.

Nevertheless, this is the fate under which a young woman struggles as she tries to grapple with a harsh environment. Affinnih makes a strong case against the cruelty of relations, who deny bereaved children and their mothers a chance for a decent life in most parts of Africa, where the deceased’s property are shared among the extended family members at the expense of the nuclear family.

Affinnih’s Two Gone... Still Counting is most revelatory and explorative of a superstitios belief, the sort most Africans are still subjected in spite of their urbanity. Indeed, it’s an intriguing novel that exposes city dwellers for what they are: The are no different from their rural folks. Uncle Kolade’s behaviour is most evil. However, Affinnih dwells too much on their ordeal at the hands of Uncle Kolade to task the faculty of her readers. Their ordeal takes a third part of the novel. And, when it comes to unravelling her fate and her relationship with the two men she encounters, she seems to have run out of steam.

Nevertheless, Two Gone... Still Counting is superb narrative that will leave the reader breathless in its range and exploration of materials ordinarily taken for granted. It’s certainly makes for a joyful reading, and it shows Affinnih as a writer of promise.

Sisi Eko: AURA

Sisi Eko: AURA: "AURA Tito sprawled on the sofa of his lavishly furnished living room. He didn’t bargain to ever be this fatigued. It was the reason he resig..."

AURA

AURA
Tito sprawled on the sofa of his lavishly furnished living room. He didn’t bargain to ever be this fatigued. It was the reason he resigned from his initial job to come settle himself with something less boring, not so financially comparable though but hey! After almost two decades in the corporate world and having to lose all elements of fun to work, work and more hard work, it felt fulfilling being on one’s own, having to sleep till whatever time and choosing not to go work on other days. It has worked well until the beginning of the previous year. A young, writer had queried him with an incredible synopsis of what eventually turned out to be a fantastic well-read fiction that attracted a lot of awards, home and internationally. It had done a lot of improvement to both his bank account and to his name. Everyone, just about anybody wanted to associate his name with Tito Salvador Publications. Alongside fame came its challenges. They had even more work to be done. First, the office became a harem for aspiring writers and then notable editors from different journals wanted a chance to work with him.
He should have taken the offer of spending summer with his wife and the kids. However tempting it was, there was work to be done. He needed to increase the staff strength of his company and then read every single query letter that touched his table. A shower and dinner seemed appropriate. The latter more appealing than the former. He always ate late, that explained the slight bulge his midriff was now taking. Tito lay in bed, absently picking from the Pyrex bowl, diced fruits prepared by one of the hands when the soft voice from the radio infiltrated his room. She introduced herself to the host of the show as ‘Aura’. It was one of those radio shows where the callers needed to hook up with friends, families or even strangers and the host appeared to be having the time of her life from her hysterical screams. Tito had been contemplating changing stations when Aura came on air through the phone lines. In addition to her voice which was like melted honey, was the rather clever and smart way she sounded. All she asked for was a no-strings-attached friend. A genuinely humorous man bold enough to be her chat mate. Tito typed in her number just as she spoke them out to the public. He was mulling over calling her when sleep stole him away.
************************************************************************
“Hello.” She sounded like she didn’t appreciate being interrupted from sleep.
“Hi Aura.”
“One of them.” she whispered.
“Well you asked for it, didn’t you?” Tito flopped into his reading chair, inspecting the oranges that had been laid out for him as dessert.
“I also can remember using the words ‘intelligent, genuinely humorous man’. You can’t imagine the drunken callers that have been calling me since yesterday.”
They both shared a laugh while they dug into conversation after conversation- on his bill.
There was something about Aura. Well it wasn’t as if he had been without the ladies, even after his marriage. Tito considered them necessary evils but somehow he felt justified to date one with a brain and Aura was full of brains. The text messages she sent to his phone impressed him and made him hot and swell in inappropriate places. The messages were not deliberately erotic but a romantic woman could be told from the slightest of her moves. Another thing was the way she sounded when he called her. He always tried to make sure she’d have been in bed because it was only then she sounded like she was drunk on love making. It was crazy what a woman’s voice and her harmless messages were doing to a fifty something year old man. He had inquired everything about her background. Knowing the way rumour circulated with the speed of fibre optic, he couldn’t be too careful. Being some kind of celebrity, especially one known to be quite spiritual, it would be a disaster to get entangled with the wrong girl. He had learnt from a fatal mistake. Only a fool got burnt twice by the same candle. He didn’t trust anything she said, and well couldn’t hide it but she took it in good faith. Sometimes when he discovered they were getting too close, he’d just bring up unnecessary issues and create a wide berth until he gains some kind of momentum. He knew he was taking advantage of her but that wasn’t supposed to be a crime. She was an adult and from the look of things, she enjoyed his company. That was when he wasn’t touchy, grouchy or just being mean. He also knew a girl like her would love being spoiled from time to time, so he sent outrageous amount of call cards or sometimes organised that she picks up a parcel from his driver.
Tito’s phone rang at straight up midnight and he was surprised to see her name on the LCD. She never called. Truth is, he never gave her the opportunity and she didn’t seem to mind. He waited till her ring ceased before dialling her. Her voice was distant and after a few words exchanged, he could only but guess what was wrong with her. He settled into his bed, squeezed his legs together, clutched his phone to his ears and listened while she made love to him over the phone. It was an experience. She didn’t say much. She didn’t have to. Her slight whinings and the incomprehensible words she muttered did it for her and well, maybe him too for he had problems staying still. At the end of the phone call, his briefs was a mess and his face wore a frown for she had uttered a brief ‘thank you’ and got off the phone.
For days, they stayed out of contact until he could bear it no more. He had to see her, had to put a face to the event. Since she refused seeing him, he had to make do the phone way. She alone knew how to do it in a way that ate deep into him; she aroused certain sensations in him that in no time he became an active participant. In fact he put in more than she did, added a lot more spice to the act that after every phone call he was almost drenched. He decided on meeting her, even if it is to catch a glimpse of her from afar.
Aura had called him to say she was low on cash and so Tito fixed a meeting for her and his driver only that he drove himself to the Palms where they were supposed to converge. Tito had parked his car and was walking towards the mall when he caught sight of her amidst the tons of people trouping in and out of the mall. Her back was to him, she was punching something on her phone and somehow he just guessed she was the one. When she turned, her hair took a brilliant toss, giving him a perfect view of her face. He was awestruck. She had the loveliest pairs of breast he had ever seen in a long time. He gave her a once over. Make that long, long time. Breast slightly bigger than you’ll think she would be capable of bearing. But when she walked, sorry swayed, Tito lost it completely. He glanced at his ringing phone, drawing it to his ears.
“Just keep walking forward.” That was the only thing that fell from his lips.
He did an exaggerated shopping for her. She hadn’t recovered from seeing him in person and she was so shy to even utter one word without stammering. After shopping round for her and buying things he saw amazed her from the corner of his eye, he moved over to the boutique beside the mall to spoil her some more before taking her home. He remembered her saying she lived alone somewhere close to the University campus.
Surprisingly he wasn’t sceptical to eat when she dished out food for him and after a few glasses of wine later; it felt okay for him to place his hands over her. He held her with care, like he was so certain she would break apart otherwise. He wasn’t really into kisses, he had told her on one of their conversations so she didn’t go there. The other parts she tried going got him bursting up in flames. Suddenly there was no finesse to their love making. Fingers roved, his buttons gave way and then he ripped her clothes apart just to have her fill his palms. He trembled. She did too as their hands found places that had both intrigued them only on phone. He moved her towards her room but they couldn’t have made it to the bed before they experienced the sweet reality of being in each other’s arms and his flesh fusing ever with hers.
It was the first time in years he was sleeping out. He did not regret it.

Meet me.

MEET ME
“Ewo lo kan mi gan?” I said to myself. It didn’t take another minute before I knew how it concerned me.
“Iya Idera!” She screamed with her voice that was naturally loud even when talking. “Iya Idera! E wa gbo nkan!”
I almost went berserk. It was Mama Tunde. It took a while to orient myself with my environment. The new house I just moved into and the super-crazy neighbours. I had rolled from the bed to the rug. Rug, abi? Nothing fanciful. Yes it was a one-room affair but I planned to make it look presentable. I had a cable, a TV and a DVD player. The pant-less children that roamed the compound had smiled at me while I was packing my stuff from the truck into my room while the women had remained outside, frowning because of my 21 inches colour TV. Shio! No one had volunteered to help.
I rolled back on the mattress which lay close to the wall and heaved for a while. Of course there was no light. I picked my phone, wondering why the alarm hadn’t gone off. It was only five o’clock! These women were screaming at 5am! I pulled out the net, pushed the hook off the window and stretched out my neck. Mama Tunde was one of the lousiest women I had ever met. While I had come to check the house, she had pulled me aside to discourage me on taking the room, saying the previous occupant had been a witch. It wasn’t my first time in Lagos but getting an apartment in Lagos was the smartest thing I’ve been able to do rather than remain an occupant in our Felele home in Ibadan. Dad was already old, and my mother, who tied me to him, was late. He never bothered if I had stones for breakfast or sticks for lunch, never cared to throw a ‘how are you’ at me, no matter how insincere. Strangers I met in the market were even a lot friendlier. He had three more wives, even before my mum died. Not that I was that close to her too. She was too ambitious and unreasonable to let dad ruin her.
She said she had never known dad with a job, yet she was too blinded with love she didn’t see him as the lazy thing he was. She took care of the family, bought him clothes, fed us and bought the house in Felele.
“Sisi, you better carry your face inside because if hot water touches you, am not there oh.”
Mama Joy, the twenty-something year old rival of Mama Tunde advised.
Hot? This house I moved into was one mad house but my dear, anything but Felele.
I stuck my head back in and pulled the window shut just in time because the crashing of buckets was the next sound that filled the air. It was always war at the backyard every morning, I had noticed, that was why I filled in my containers at midnight. No one dared came to my door step, let alone step foot in my room. I was not my mum. I had sworn I won’t let people take me for granted.
Maami had taught me all I needed to know. Sad she had to die the way she did. Full of regrets, but she caused it. She spoilt my dad and showed him the way to her safe. He had one afternoon emptied it and went to Iseyin to ask for the Oba’s daughter’s hand in marriage.

two gone... still counting

Chapter One


I looked into the eyes of my date; the shiver that ran down my spine was expected. He was my first and I was scared. I couldn’t contain the joy that was almost bursting out my heart when we pulled over at Oxo Tower Restaurant. We had driven in silence past the Blackfriars into Barge House Street. I wasn’t exactly surprised. His taste had always been remarkable. We walked into the restaurant and were escorted to our seats by the waiter. Even though we didn’t get a window seating, we still got a panoramic view of the city, St. Paul’s and all other architectural designs because it was covered in glass. The decor prepared you for a fantastic dining experience. The bulbs in the restaurant shone radiantly from huge chandeliers hung beneath the double-sided louvered ceiling. The tables were covered in white, crisp linen cloth and were a little too close together. It was a busy night and people, mostly whites, chattered excitedly. Looking properly I noticed we were the only blacks in the room. It was a beautiful night. There was so much laughter ringing from every corner of the large room. It was an efficiently run spot. Service was professional, polite and courteous.
We got people staring at us for very good reasons while we perused the menu. We were blacks and my date was three times my age. But what did it matter? He loved people believing what they wanted. It would be understating to call him attractive, with a face wearing well for its forty-five years. He had rich chocolate skin, a slightly protruding midriff that confirmed he fed well and a touch of grey hair, a beautiful streak just above his forehead, the one that made people beg to age. He was tall, even from his sitting position, his six feet plus was unmistakable.
“Tamilore”.
He called me that when there was something disturbing to say. And how I loved the way he spoke it. “Would you like your order taken now?”
I smiled, though confused, showing all teeth. What had I done this time? My brain flashed back on the events of the past week. I hadn’t done anything wrong lately.
“Yes.”
He returned the smile too and then beckoned to the maitre d’. He was withholding information. I knew him very well. His black trim tux was worn over a crisp linen shirt. My gown hissed as I moved even closer to the table. It was one of those classic bandage dresses wrapped in expensive boxes from Herve Leger with an amazing price tag. He bought it only the day before. With the gown came a SUSANNE FRII BJØRNER black Phrenite circle necklace too. All packed in a green, Harrods carrier bag. When he shopped expensively for me, I was either in some kind of trouble or he wanted to prove a point. He also loved my face as well made up as it was. It was as if I had dressed to impress him. We both whispered to the maitre d’ and when he returned I wasn’t surprised we had both ordered the crab cocktail as starters. We exchanged uncomfortable smiles yet again, digging in. Besides the frequent stare and half a dozen more smiles, he was quiet. He chose the beef dish for his main course while I went for the Lobster ravioli which was absolutely tasty. Halfway into the meal, when he was certain I was carried away by the food, he coughed to clear his throat.
“Dear,” I guessed right. His face showed concern while he sipped wine from the clear glass. “I saw a young man come home with you from school yesterday.”
I blanched stammering “Emm…yes… he’s my classmate.”
He nodded dropping the flute. He enjoyed my befuddled state.
“I’m sure you understand how hard it is for me to watch you being taken advantage of. It’s the reason I brought you here with me to come and eat expensively. I had sworn to your mother that I’d be your first date.”
I blinked at him, smiling at his mischief. “Daaaddy!”
“Sure, so it doesn’t seem unusual when eventually you begin dating.”
“But dad, Oliver is just a classmate.”
He nodded unconvincingly as if he was jealous. “Besides, what happened to all the blacks in your school?”
“One, Oliver is just a friend and two, I thought you usually tell us never to bother about skin colour daddy.” My eyes bored into his. He smiled knowing I got him on that.
We had a wonderful time together. So was the relationship between daddy and me. He had been a solid confidant ever since I was old enough to acknowledge him as my father. And much as he was dedicated to his job at the HSBC Bank on SE9, his family always topped his mind. He had been in England for years. There he lived, worked and studied. He had graduated with First Class honours at Cambridge and lots of offers had naturally opened for him. Every penny he owned, he had worked real hard for. Mum was a client at his bank. Her own office was close to our Riddons Road, Grove Park home on SE12. She was a self-employed stockbroker who had graduated from the University of Lagos, Nigeria. They had married in Nigeria and had me almost immediately. When I turned two, we all relocated to England for an even better living. Two years after my birth, Areef, my brother, was born. My parents were very close so much so that sometimes Areef and I felt like intruders.
“You still have to be careful, Amani,” He said sotto voce. His voice jolted me back.
“Yes dad.” I leaned over to press a kiss to his cheek. He grimaced while he cleaned my lip gloss which now smeared his right cheek, I laughed heartily. Dad made me laugh and I couldn’t get over the love I had for him.
A white couple who sat three tables away had been glaring at us in disgust. Being black I was already somehow attuned to it, but there was something to the lady’s stare that surpassed skin colour. They had had only drinks. It was a Friday night and her companion had loosened his tie, as he swallowed glass after glass of champagne. They had perhaps come to seal a business deal because from my secret glances at them they had signed some papers brought in a flat blue Manila file. Their eyes never wavered on us. I grew uncomfortable despite mummy’s frequent lectures on composure. From the corner of my eye, I watched the lady get up to our table and my heart danced a tango. As she stopped at our table, my eyes shot up. She was upset about heaven-knows-what. Her skin had grown taut and her nostrils flared, making her beautiful face a mask of disgust. Her well-coated lips had gone horribly thin and sealed tight and her jaw was set as she looked down at us in our seats. We were just rounding off on our dessert of Shortbread and Earl Grey tea. She adjusted her navy blue jacket while she eventually spilled the reasons for her anger in very terse words. She had a firm voice, and sounded like an intelligent woman. Only she had got it all wrong.
“I see you are one of those men who take advantage of children by deceiving them with expensive restaurant and cash! Do you know where her mum thinks she is right now? Do you know what her mum thinks she’s doing?” She turned to me. “Dear, trust me, you are ruining your future if this is your idea of having fun.” She muttered an expletive at daddy’s way and just as she turned to go, daddy got up, pulling her arm firmly, yet gently.
“Nice of you Ms…” She hadn’t offered her name, so daddy continued. “But let me have the pleasure of introducing my beautiful daughter to you, Amani. Amani I hope you are not upset by the unnecessary outburst?”
I looked up smiling confidently. “No daddy. I am fine.”
The woman had now turned a very bright pink. She was dumbfounded and I could see the apology in her eyes, only daddy didn’t allow her say it. We left immediately walking past her, heads high, shoulders up. That was one thing dad imbibed in us: self-assurance; say it as it is, black or white.
The only way you can have a white listen to a black is when you have an inherent thing that pleases them, something that intrigues them. First, one needed to be intelligent, creative, honest and, most of all, confident. Areef and I lived on that school of thought and so far it had worked, in spades.

***********************************************************

“It’s bad enough to steal my husband for the whole of the night, but when you begin to...”
That was mum. She wasn’t looking for anything in particular. She just paced the living room bellyaching because I went out with daddy; she wanted a minute-to-minute account on all that happened and because I wasn’t telling she was bickering. The way mum itched for gist was alarming. She cherished meeting Nigerians when we went shopping. It was the reason she preferred the market to the department stores. Market was Deptford, while the store was Harrods and we hardly ever saw many Nigerians in Harrods.
“Darling, you too?” Daddy just stepped out from the shower, and had obviously said his prayers. He was garbed in his pale grey dhallabiyah. He planted a kiss on mummy’s forehead and narrated our experience with the white woman. I sprawled on the couch. Our house was a four-room duplex. The living room was large, with high walls covered in soft blue wallpaper. The couch was leather, beige and brown. Our centre table, which reflected light from the Marie Antoinette 8 light chandelier, was brown too with a glass we had replaced twice because of Areef’s carelessness.
My eyes were glued to the plasma TV that rested comfortably on the wall. Beside it was the guitar-shaped CD rack; stacked full. We put mum and dad’s collections to one side since Areef and I never enjoyed their choice of songs, especially one which excited them so much. We didn’t understand it, couldn’t explain what was being said, only that the word kétékété was sung several times. Then dad had taken time to explain to us–whether we wanted to listen or not, we didn’t have any choice– that kétékété meant a donkey in Yoruba, our language. The lesson of the song was meaningful to Areef and me after dad had explained several minutes later. The musician, he went further to tell us, was Chief Ebenezer Obey, and mum would chant ‘Commander’ whenever dad called his name and the song was evergreen, they told us. For no reason, I took a liking to the kétékété song afterwards, and Areef mocked me to no end, which earned me another nickname in Areef’s book— “Commander”. There was the DVD player lying somewhere on the electronic divider as well as other musical videos Areef bought frequently, and then came the invisible speakers. It was past the top of the hour and I waited expectantly for my luck.
It was the weather forecast on CNN, and I was just in time with the right presenter. I listened but couldn’t pick anything save for Femi Oke’s flawless delivery of the news. Femi was very much Nigerian and she was a presenter on CNN. She was the reason I intended studying journalism, at least so my name might be a household one and I could be a great ambassador of my country.
It’s not that I hadn’t heard of the inefficiency of the Nigerian government, the high level of poverty and even higher level of crime and lawlessness, but dad was always particular about what we ourselves gave back to the country instead of what we were getting from it. He had his big plans on settling in Nigeria after he resigned and though we were sceptical, we always went with dad’s wishes. Although he, hard as he tried to hide it, knew he couldn’t have attained such success ladder early, had he studied in his own country. We however had to work towards giving back to our motherland. I shared at least a good percentage of his opinion and maybe mum did too because of friends and family back home but Areef totally despised Nigeria. It was rare for him to speak about our country and it worried our parents. The most important thing to him was that he was a British citizen and he planned living the rest of his life in England. In fact, he had no black friends. Though dad explained his precarious choice to him, Areef was less bothered.
I got up to my room just immediately Femi got off the screen, glancing at my parents; the smiles I expected to see on their faces were there. Once again they confirmed my interest for Femi and, of course, not the news.

It wouldn’t be fair to call me arrogant at my school on Horn Park Lane. No one knew who my parents were, who our guests were when we held parties, how close dad was to many dignitaries all over the world or how many houses daddy had, home and abroad. I was just seen as ‘one of those blacks’ in school. My clothes were neat and my long hair was always beautifully plaited in cornrows by mum since she did part-time hairdressing for friends. But I loved wristwatches and perfumes. Daddy spoilt me with them. I was always followed around by some notorious Africans in school just by the trace of my scent. The previous week I had unconsciously left my gold wristwatch on my desk to have lunch. I hadn’t got halfway when I remembered; only it had grown legs when I returned. I fumed painfully in silence but couldn’t ask anyone. No one in my class except Oliver, who had left the school upon his relocation to Scotland, ever spoke a straight sentence to my face except jeers. Well I would say the girls were jealous and the guys…well maybe scared, except Kwame. He was Ghanaian and talked to no one other than the instructor. The only day he had been pushed to speak was when he almost beat an Irish classmate who had dared call him names.
One would think Kwame and I would be an item but the boy was eccentric. I recall hearing him speak to me just once, the day my wristwatch was stolen. He had come to my table, his dark skin shining like he used some of mum’s coconut oil she fondly called adi agbon.
“I can’t say who took your watch but pay them no mind. They are just jealous because you are smarter and have a better body structure.”
And then he left. It could have been imagined. “Body structure?” This was someone who hadn’t ever spared me a double glance.
Today was going to be difficult I knew. My classmate’s constant jeers, sneers and bitchy retorts have sometimes rubbed me the wrong way and other times created a tougher coat on my skin, only one couldn’t tell their next move and I couldn’t predict my temper. I took a quick scrutiny on myself and just when I assured myself I was good to go in, they started when I entered.
“Hey! Look who is early today.” Josh, the obese, childish one in the group had alerted as he moved unbearably close. I stood to the roots, my eyes thinning with anger.
“Little miss.” Another of them smiled mischievously.
I counted the imaginary 1-10 so as not to lose it but dear me!
****************************************************************************

“Haven’t I warned you repeatedly?” I was on my knees in the living room, my hands folded behind my back staring at the floor. I dared not look up at dad. He was boiling with so much fury since he had been called by my school instructor on the day’s incident, rudely interrupted from work.
“But daddy...” I tried raising my head, what I saw, I didn’t like. His eyes were red with rage. “Daddy I was as careful as I could. He sat at my desk running dirty talk about me, my family and... even my country.” I had put in the last one to win daddy’s heart but he wasn’t fooled.
“Amani, that’s no way to fight for your country!” He yelled. I shivered. He never got this irate, especially with me. Areef was a better candidate for dad’s wrath.
“Irrespective of what he said to you, couldn’t you have kept your cool? What kind of lady are you growing up to be?” That’s mum. She bothered more on my being a lady.
My heart beat angrily, rapidly. “But I am always harassed daddy.” I fought back the tears. “The other day it was my wristwatch.”
He turned to me abruptly. “I can remember buying you another and telling you to forget it. What exactly has come over you? Would you consider changing your school?”
“I am not a coward daddy,” I rasped. I said my apologies even though I wasn’t sorry and left for my room. I recalled the incident in class earlier and smiled. I had poked the bloated brat right in the chest when he sat on my desk and somehow he had tripped, falling butt flat on the floor. He had hurt himself real bad. His accomplices had reported me quickly and as expected blew it out of proportion.
As I lay on my comfy bed later at night, a smile of victory danced on my lips. I hugged my fluffy pillow tighter to my chest. Kwame broke his own record and was respected. Even the girls flirted around him trying to get his attention. I hoped to God I be awarded the same respect henceforth. As for the flirting, no way.

It was a Saturday and my parents always slept in after their Subhi. I picked up my article which I had placed on my table the night before to do a check. Pulling the seat back, I slumped into the chair, the soft cushions massaging my buttocks. It brought some comfort to me on those nights I read till dawn for exams. Every item in my room was luxurious, from SECCIO. Daddy believed in us and made it imperative that we be comfortable. My room was the orange room while Areef’s the blue one. It was brilliantly colourful. The Formica of my wardrobe, the shelves, the bed stand and the reading table and chair were of very bright orange and white. The wardrobe was originally white save for an attached orange arc on the left corner. A beautiful, transparent twin handle hung jointly at the centre with a vague inscription. The top of the table was white with some touches of orange while the chair was strictly orange with the crescent moon and star emblem carved out from it. My laptop lay on the table as I checked for received email messages. I always loved surfing the net because it was the only place I had friends and, well, if there was also an assignment.
We were to choose anything interesting about our country to write about and discuss in class some days later. I decided to choose something very Nigerian, something that would not only catch the interests of the teacher but be good enough to divert the attention of everyone to my article. Daddy was whom I could rely on to help me to the top since our views matched. I was sure he would be awake poring over a copy of Financial Times, one of his novels or his Quran. My bet was on the Quran. If it was, it meant I had the benefit of only being glanced and nodded at. He spoke no word to anyone when reading, his concentration unwavering with lips moving silently and eyes constantly doing a runover from line to line. He looked like a child when observing this most precious moment. I threw my housecoat which had been hung on the rack close to my polished closet over the lilac satin and lace lingerie Areef had given me on my last birthday.
Their room was the closest to the staircase, the one right between Areef’s and mine and the biggest. Whenever we had stuff to do and we didn’t want them in, we just tiptoed across. Once dad had caught us sharing some junk right in front of their room; it had been a harrowing week of punishment.
Surprisingly their room wasn’t locked. The door was ajar and they were not asleep. In fact they were wide awake and seated on their VI Spring Super King Herald Supreme Divan bed, with daddy holding mum in his arms. I looked carefully. She was crying! That was alarming. We had all slept in good moods; what could have happened overnight? I was sure there hadn’t been a break-in. When I took an incremental step ahead and was not noticed, I was convinced something was wrong.
Slowly, grudgingly, they glanced at me and like I was a child, they tried to wipe the tears, replacing it expertly with feigned smiles. I was pissed. I took a few steps backwards, slumping into mummy’s large dressing chair. It was mahogany, polished to a very sharp hue.
“Dad, mum,” I sighed. “It will hurt me very much if I ask and you tell me ‘all is well’ or ‘it’s nothing we can’t handle.’ ”
Daddy sighed heavily, mummy was wiping her tears.
Silence.
No one spoke. Nor did they spare me a glance. I looked around to even get a picture of something. Perhaps a phone call but their mobile phones were not even in sight. They found it difficult switching them on on Saturdays.
“I’m sure we are not going to sit here quiet?” I fumed softly. In my family, one needed to remind my parents at every opportunity that I wasn’t a child anymore and was up to the task of handling situations.
Silence again.
“I saw your topic on Yoruba mythology Amani.” It was mum.
My face lit up in a smile at their usual concern only to get into more confusion. What about it?
“Simbi don’t cause any unnecessary...”
“TJ, it’s only fair to let her know.”
Daddy sighed annoyingly in confusion, pacing the room in long strides. It was unusual seeing them like this and even more calling their first names! What happened to good ol’ ‘Sweets’, ‘Dearie’, and the like?
“I have an experience to share with you Amani. You have to listen.” All the while her tears hadn’t ceased. I was by this time certain there was trouble.
“After I had you Amani...” Dad sighed distracting us. He didn’t want this out. What million dollar secret was this? Did dad have another wife stashed somewhere? Do I have half-siblings? And why hadn’t they called for Areef’s presence?
“We just got our visas and we were superbly ecstatic. We were coming into the UK to stay on a more permanent basis and your daddy had been offered a job.” Mummy continued. “Things were going to be a lot easier and we were glad about the development. In the heat of all the excitement, I had had you strapped to my back, since I was cooking and you were cranky from teething.”
Dad turned to mum infuriated, stopping dead in his tracks. “You really have to stop it there my dear. I can’t watch you ruin her. I can’t listen to the hogwash. This means you believe it would happen.”

Oyinda!

www.oyindamolaaffinnih.webs.com


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