Ogadinma Read online

  Satisfied there was nothing else lying around on the floor, Aunty Ngozi told her to rest, that she would ask Nnanna to get some water for her to bathe.

  After she left, Ogadinma looked out to find a group of teenagers in blue-and-white uniforms walking to school, their gait leisurely. It all felt surreal, her mind struggling to wrap itself around the sudden change of things. Only weeks ago, she was preparing to go to university. Now she was in Lagos, her buttocks on fire, her future as hazy as the confusion swirling in her head. Nothing made sense to her yet. She wondered what her father had told Uncle Ugonna and Aunty Ngozi about her coming, how long she would be staying here. But they hadn’t shown signs that they knew what had happened with her; they carried on like she was on a vacation.

  Nnanna appeared at the door later. He had changed into blue shorts and a faded white t-shirt. She could almost see the bones of his legs, the veins wiring his arms. He looked different suddenly, maybe because she was now seeing him in their house, in simple clothes. He looked painfully thin.

  ‘Your water is ready,’ he said, ‘go and bathe now before the water gets cold o.’ And she was pleased that he talked as if she had not just come, as if she had always visited and knew her way around the house. She smiled and thanked him.

  After he retreated, she looked around the room. It wasn’t much larger than her room in Kano, but it stank of dust and mould from clothes not properly dried. The reading table was stained with food and the standing mirror was chipped and caked with makeup and cream. The bed sheet smelled of unwashed skin and the pillow of sweat. Ifeoma evidently paid less attention to her room and more to her books. She had so many of them, especially novels, stacked in cartons under the bed, piled in stacks atop the wardrobe, stuffed in bags under the bed. She seemed to read everything from James Hadley Chase to Mills and Boons and Harlequins, most of them tucked away from sight.

  The wardrobe was filled with bags, so Ogadinma left her bag by the foot of the bed, then stripped hastily, knotting a wrapper around her chest. When she stepped out of the room, Nnanna was carrying a tray into the parlour. He stopped and said, ‘I fried some eggs for you.’ She gave him a nervous grin because what she wanted to say had nothing to do with eggs or food. ‘Where is the bathroom?’ she asked him.

  ‘Oh, over there.’ He gestured at a brown door down the passageway as he continued into the parlour.

  Inside the bathroom, she stepped into the white tub and pulled the blue bucket of water close to her legs. This place was scrubbed clean, even the spaces in between the tiles. The toilet bowl had no stains and the sink was wiped clean. Without being told, she knew Nnanna had made it so. She could almost imagine what his room must look like.

  She was still sponging her body when Aunty Ngozi called out her name and said she was leaving for her shop. ‘Rest well o. And don’t let this boy disturb your sleep, ị nụ? He watches too much TV,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, Aunty. Bye-bye, Aunty!’ she said, and then she wondered if the lightness in her voice was too forced.

  She had just pulled on her dress when Uncle Ugonna announced that he was leaving for the office. She came out to bid him goodbye. He was dressed in full police regalia, the black outfit shiny and ironed, lacking the dusty fadedness she had seen on the police officers on the streets. He reached out to pick something from her hair. She stood still, watched every movement he made; she could not tear her eyes away from his. After he showed her the lint he had picked out, she thanked him and watched him leave. And she felt a pang. It was because of the way he carried himself like her father, his back slightly curved, his gait light and swift. Watching him from behind was like watching her father leave for work.

  The flat fell silent afterwards. She sat on the bed. Had Uncle Ugonna called her father to inform him of her safe arrival? She imagined he had wanted to speak with her but ended the call because she was in the bathroom. She looked out of the window. This part of the barracks was empty, silent. The silence unnerved her. She got off the bed and went to the parlour to join her cousin.

  Nnanna had arranged tins of Peak Milk, Bournvita, Ovaltine, Planta and a packet of Saint Louis Sugar on the table, and he had set out a plate of fried eggs and a loaf of bread. Her mouth watered though there was no hunger in her stomach. But she took a seat at the table and pulled the plate closer after Nnanna said, ‘Your food is almost cold, Ogadinma. Biko sit down and eat.’

  He was crouched before the large TV encased in a burnished wood shelf, picking through a bunch of video tapes stacked in a corner. ‘Have you watched Rocky II?’ he asked.

  She paused and wondered what he would think if she told him that they did not own a VHS player, that she only watched American movies from the window of their rich neighbour who owned the expensive machine. ‘I haven’t watched it,’ she said.

  Nnanna smiled at her, a small, honest smile that seemed to say it did not matter if she hadn’t watched any American movies at all. ‘You are lucky,’ he said. ‘I have all the Sylvester Stallone films.’ He inserted the cassette and sat back as the TV came on, flashing gritty grey like a rain of fine sand, before the pictures started rolling. ‘Have you seen his other films? He is better than Chuck Norris.’

  ‘We don’t have a VHS player,’ she finally said. ‘But I have seen one Chuck Norris movie. I think I like him,’ she said.

  ‘But Chuck Norris is a terrible actor.’ He started to laugh, and she was relieved to find that it was not a laughter that mocked her for having poor knowledge of foreign films. It was a kind, soft giggle. He turned back to the TV as Sylvester Stallone dashed across the screen, and began to talk easily about these actors, these films.

  She watched from the table until she finished her breakfast. After she had cleared the table, she came to sit beside him. He continued his running commentary about the film. She listened to every word he said and followed the images on the screen. But soon, she grew tired, her thoughts often flitting to Kano, to her father and their now-empty flat, until her eyes drooped closed in sleep.

  Ogadinma was watching schoolchildren trudge down the narrow street, on their way home, when Ifeoma walked into the yard. She was a slimmer version of her mother. She dragged her feet when she walked, as though sacks of garri were tied to her ankles, and when she entered the flat she called Nnanna’s name in the loud, piercing voice of someone used to getting whatever she wanted, asking if he had left any food for her. Ogadinma smoothed her palms on her lap and took a deep breath to steady her nerves before Ifeoma walked in.

  Ifeoma paused by the door. Her eyes clouded with a look that seemed to say Ogadinma was the last person in the world she wanted to see. ‘Ogadinma, you are here,’ she finally said.

  ‘I arrived this morning,’ Ogadinma said. ‘How have you been?’ She reached out and clasped Ifeoma in her arms, but as she made to press the girl against her chest, Ifeoma slipped from the hug just as quickly, their bodies barely touching.

  ‘Wow, you are really here.’ Ifeoma kicked off her shoes and left them in the middle of the room. She threw a quick glance around, her brows creasing in surprise. ‘You rearranged everything.’ It sounded like an accusation.

  Ogadinma nodded and smiled. She wanted to say Ifeoma had become more beautiful, but she couldn’t. They had long grown apart. As children, they spent Christmases together in their home town, shared the same bed, did chores together. Some Christmases, Aunty Ngozi bought them identical dresses and shoes. And though Ogadinma was a year older, they behaved like twins. They grew apart after Uncle Ugonna built a big house and moved out, and Ifeoma had made new friends, friends who were the children of other rich men. She talked stiffly when her family visited Ogadinma’s, and did not sit with Ogadinma even when her parents urged her to. Uncle Ugonna’s wealth had transformed Ifeoma into a stranger. Ogadinma mourned the girl she had once been. And now, as Ifeoma looked at her, and Ogadinma briefly wondered if Ifeoma still remembered their childhood, how close they had been; if she missed the girls they once were.

  ‘How was school today?’ she asked Ifeoma instead.

  A tight smile appeared on Ifeoma’s face. She had stripped to her underwear. ‘Aside from the silly NYSC teacher that tried to mess with me today, it was boring.’

  Ogadinma sat on the edge of the bed, leaned forward, eager to chat about Ifeoma’s day. Perhaps her enthusiasm would ease the awkwardness between them. ‘What did he do? I am guessing it’s a he.’

  Ifeoma snorted. ‘He thought I was one of those small-small girls they lure into their quarters. I reported him to the principal after he tried nonsense with me.’

  ‘Good job!’

  ‘So how long are you going to stay here?’ Ifeoma blurted out.

  Ogadinma gasped because she had not expected the question. She could hear Nnanna speaking to someone outside. ‘I don’t even know,’ she told Ifeoma.

  Ifeoma seemed to consider this for a moment, then she pulled on her dress and walked out, shouting, ‘I am so hungry. Is there any food in this house?’ Ogadinma’s face fell, but she got up and followed Ifeoma out.

  ‘Nnanna made jollof rice,’ she said.

  And Ifeoma, without bothering to acknowledge Ogadinma again, headed into the kitchen. Ogadinma heard her opening pots and clanging spoons. When she stopped by the door of the kitchen, she found Ifeoma eating directly out of the pot.

  A car horn honked in the distance and Ifeoma sighed and said aloud, ‘Mummy and Daddy are back. I hope we are not cooking soup tonight because I don’t have strength to do anything at all.’ She bounded back to the room, just as Aunty Ngozi walked in lugging a nylon bag spilling with ugu leaves. ‘Ogadinma, kedụ? I know these children did not let you rest today,’ she said.

  Ogadinma took the bag from Aunty Ngozi and said she rested well.

  Aunty Ngozi peered into the room. ‘Madam, you left your bra on the floor this morning.’

  ‘Mummy, I forgot—’ Ifeoma began.

  ‘Taa, kpuchie ọnụ gị, shut your mouth! I have warned you about this over and over again, but you have refused to learn. That is how you will take this nonsense attitude to a man’s house and he will break your empty head for you, since you refuse to grow yourself some sense.’

  Ogadinma took the bag to the kitchen and emptied the contents, setting the items side by side on the sink – the meat tied in a black nylon bag, the mangala, okporoko, pepper, crayfish, palm oil, onion and okro. It was her first time living with her uncle’s family and so she would have to behave well, she thought; she was expected to be polite. She had transferred the meat into a basin, taken a pot from one of the shelves, and was turning on the stove when Aunty Ngozi walked in, a wrapper knotted around her chest. The older woman pulled a chair close to the door and sat and talked about her day as Ogadinma worked: she did not sell a thing in her shop today and she blamed the bad market on suspicious neighbours who she believed buried ogwu in front of her shop to drive away her customers.

  ‘God will shame all of them,’ she said. ‘God will expose all of them and destroy their evil charms.’

  Ogadinma did not say anything as Aunty Ngozi talked, but she gave perfunctory smiles and nodded when she felt it was necessary. She sensed her contribution was not needed in the monologue, that Aunty Ngozi just wanted her to listen to her chatter about her tedious day. So, Ogadinma sliced onions into the pot, wiped onion tears, added Maggi cubes and salt. Then she washed the okro, dicing each into thin slices. She pounded the crayfish and peppers and sliced the ugu. She cooked the soup, nodded or smiled, and all the while Aunty Ngozi talked.

  Uncle Ugonna peeped in later, after the soup was simmering and Ogadinma was stirring garri in a large bowl. ‘Daalụ kwa nụ o. This soup smells good,’ he said. ‘Did Ogadinma cook it?’

  ‘She did o! See how neat the kitchen is! She has even washed all the utensils she used. But that girl Ifeoma, who has refused to come here and learn how things are done, will leave them lying around until you buy her drinks, kneel and beg her to wash them.’

  Uncle Ugonna smiled and left, and Aunty Ngozi followed. Ifeoma snuck into the kitchen later. ‘Mummy has finally carried her wahala and go,’ Ifeoma said. She opened the pot and sniffed the steam. ‘Can I take mine now? Because if Uncle Tobe comes now, this soup will be finished this night.’

  ‘Who is Uncle Tobe?’

  ‘Mummy’s younger brother. He is a contractor. He comes here every evening to eat.’

  Ifeoma took some soup, scooped some garri and fled into her room before her mother returned. Ogadinma returned to the room too, to wait for Aunty Ngozi’s next command.

  ‘The soup is very sweet,’ Ifeoma said after she had finished eating. ‘You cook so well.’

  Ogadinma was too unnerved by the sudden warmth to smile, and instead asked Ifeoma if she wanted more soup. Aunty Ngozi’s voice floated into the flat later, unusually loud. She was speaking with a man whose voice had laughter clinging to the end of each word. Though Ogadinma could not hear what they said, she knew they were speaking about her because shortly afterwards, Aunty Ngozi peeped into the room and told her to come and meet Tobe.

  ‘You can change your dress,’ Aunty Ngozi said and left.

  Ogadinma rubbed one sweaty palm on her dress, her stomach suddenly queasy. Why did she need to dress up for Aunty Ngozi’s brother? And why did Aunty Ngozi say this so casually, as if it was totally normal for a girl to dress up for a man she had never met? She stood up and went over to her bag, and began to search for what to wear. She did not know the appropriate thing one should wear on such an occasion. After rummaging through her clothes, she settled for a pink dress, a gift from her father last Christmas.

  Ifeoma lifted her face from her book and watched as Ogadinma gathered her braids into a bun. ‘This one, you are dressed like you are going out this night,’ she said. She was looking at Ogadinma, but her gaze was softer than earlier.

  Ogadinma was suddenly unsure of her choice of clothing, and she thought of changing into something simpler. But Ifeoma said, ‘The dress is very pretty. It hugs your body well.’

  Ogadinma’s palms became clammy again. As she came out of the room, Aunty Ngozi and Tobe’s voices floated in from the open door of the parlour. They were talking about the executions being shown on the TV.

  ‘I will never understand why they televise these things,’ Aunty Ngozi was saying. ‘Yes, you have condemned these people to death, but why must you televise their execution, eh? Just negọdinụ, see how they strung them up like chickens and riddled their bodies with bullets. These are people’s children bikonu!’

  ‘What do you expect?’ Tobe said. ‘These soldiers do not think like civilians.’

  Ogadinma waited for a moment by the door because she did not want to see executions. She had read about the men when they were condemned to death by the military tribunal for smuggling drugs. She still remembered them, the small-boned men who looked like university undergraduates, their pictures splashed on the covers of newspapers. Her father had raged when the men were condemned, and she remembered him staring at their faces on the cover of Daily News, muttering, ‘So, they are going to be shot because of low-level drug offences?’

  After Aunty Ngozi and Tobe had resumed making small talk, she walked into the parlour, feeling a sudden headache. What should she do? Aunty Ngozi and Tobe had their backs to her, so she wondered for a moment if she should stand behind and greet them, or walk over and stand in front of them. She was still contemplating what to do when Aunty Ngozi sensed her presence, turned and saw her and leapt from her seat.

  ‘Ezigbo nwa, good girl!’ Aunty Ngozi sang, her laughter layered with extra notes. ‘Tobe, meet my niece, Ogadinma. She has home training and she is a great cook.’

  Ogadinma muttered greetings and kept her eyes on her hands. Her fingernails were still tinted a deep green, the same colour as the ugu leaves she had cut earlier. She was not sure why Aunty Ngozi spoke about her cooking.

  Tobe sat forward in his seat and said, ‘I can’t wait to eat your delicious food.’

  She nodded, settling her eyes on a spot on his chest, so she wouldn’t be flustered by his direct gaze. She wished they would both stop looking at her in such a brash way. She was not used to this kind of scrutiny. This had never happened to her before.

  ‘You are welcome to Lagos, nne,’ Tobe said softly. That soft voice prompted her to finally look up and meet his eyes.

  Tobe was built like his sister but slimmer, taller. He was handsome in a soft, relaxed way and had the kind of perfectly symmetrical body that seemed suited only for royal regalia. Perhaps it was the way he carried his upper body, as though his shirt was fortified with shoulder pads. There was something about him that eased the tension simmering in her body. It was the way he smiled at her, how he arched his neck when he spoke. She exhaled. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  This seemed to please Aunty Ngozi because she brimmed with the satisfaction of one who has done a good job. Ogadinma stood before them as Aunty Ngozi resumed telling him stories about her upbringing, as though she was no longer in the room. ‘Ị makwa na this girl na-eje sọ ozi, she does everything in her father’s house, from cooking to washing. Everything.’

  ‘Looking at her, you already know she was raised well,’ Tobe said, and turning to her, he asked, ‘How was your trip, nne?’

  ‘It was fine.’ Ogadinma tried to smile, though in fact she was becoming unnerved by how steadily he looked her in the eyes.

  Then Uncle Ugonna entered the parlour, a wrapper wound round his waist. The tufts of hair on his chest were coiled and sparse and dusted with grey. ‘Ha! My in-law, you are here already,’ he said, and Tobe stood to greet him.

  Ogadinma took the cue and made for the exit. Aunty Ngozi followed closely behind her. ‘We are coming o,’ she told the men. As they left the parlour, she took Ogadinma’s hand in hers. It was callused and warm, like the hand of someone who farmed the land every day. Aunty Ngozi did not speak until they reached the passageway, then she turned around and her face broke into a smile. ‘Akwa gị nke a amaka! Such a beautiful dress. You chose the perfect outfit,’ she said. ‘Ngwa, come, let us serve them food.’