Kalu had one of his drivers rent out a regular taxi to take him to the estate by the lagoon so no one would recognize the car. Security at the first gate waved it in with a flick of their torchlights, and Kalu felt invisible, masked in the yellow metal. The car seat was worn and frayed, a spring glinting through the ragged padding. It reminded Kalu of his childhood, before he’d left to plan a life away from home somewhere in an American suburb. Before his mother fell ill and turned into a muted and folded woman, thinning out until her fragility called Kalu home to take over the family’s luxury car-service business. Every time she blessed him, her palms felt like spun paper about to flake gently over his scalp.
As his taxi pulled through the second gate, Kalu turned the invitation over in his hands, feeling out the weight of the heavy paper. His driver spun the steering wheel slowly and drove the taxi into a corner of the sprawling parking lot. Kalu handed him a fold of thousand-naira notes and he handed Kalu a mask in return—soft leather made in battered oxblood. Kalu held it against his face, and for a quick moment, it felt like another skin, almost like he wasn’t the man Aima had walked away from yesterday, the man who had watched her crumple against a wall the week before, sobbing.
“You’re never going to marry me!” she’d wailed, tears dragging her eyeliner down her heart-shaped face. “Four years of my life that I went and threw away on you! How do you think this looks in the eyes of God?”
Kalu had just watched her. He knew he was supposed to pick her up and hold her and tell her that of course he loved her, of course he would marry her—but the raw bitterleaf truth was that he simply didn’t recognize who he was looking at. Aima sounded as if another woman’s mouth had eaten hers, like a church had spat over her face. Finally, she stood up and wiped her face. She’d looked as beautiful as she always did—with her delicate wrists and soft arms, her hips flaring into lush curves, and her dimpled thighs he used to sink his teeth into.
“I’m going,” she’d said. “Call me a taxi.” She went upstairs and threw her things into a suitcase, drawers rattling and slamming as she packed. He’d run after her and held her, begged her to stay, and it had worked for a week. Then today he’d come home in the late afternoon and she was packed, about to call a car. Kalu had convinced her to let him take her to the airport, but he hadn’t recognized himself when he had let her walk away. That feeling of being someone he didn’t know had stayed with him since. Tonight, his plan was to forget about everything, including the way Aima hadn’t even looked back.
The driver dangled a leg out of the car, striking a match to light one of his cigarettes. Kalu stepped out of the back seat and unbuttoned his jacket, the silk lining glinting a jealous green as he walked through the gleaming accumulation of cars. He was surrounded by residential prison blocks looming next to one another, dark units broken up by squares of blue and yellow light from the apartments. It was amazing how much people paid to live in projects like these. Kalu fastened the mask over his eyes as he climbed up the stairs, the leather sinking on his skin like a relieved breath.
The door was nothing, a smudged beige portal with half the number plate broken and missing. He knocked once, a lonely sound that seemed inadequate, then waited. There was a click from the lock and the hinges swung briefly, stopping at a crack. The doorkeeper’s face showed through, covered in a heavy black veil of fine lace and thin gold thread, shining lines that Kalu followed with his eyes. His mask shielded his cheekbones but left his mouth open and vulnerable, one corner undecided, almost smiling in his nervousness. It had been a while since he had come to one of these parties. Kalu thought of the girl he’d just left, how she had smiled drowsily from a pillow that didn’t belong to her. She was a random hookup he kept on deck, and he’d called her to meet him at his house as soon as he returned from the airport—it was his house now that Aima didn’t want to live in it—before, it had been theirs.
“Your mouth is almost as expressive as your face,” the girl had said, laughing when Kalu flinched from her hand. He had thought she could help distract him from the emptiness of his bed and chest, and she had, a little, before she started talking. “See,” she said. “Like that. It just went tight. You don’t like your face to be touched?”
Kalu almost told her that it was her hand he didn’t like, that he used to let Aima run her fingers over every pore of his face in the cool mornings before the day kicked in. But he kissed her instead, ran his hands down her tight stomach, and washed his face after she left. Ahmed’s invitation had been waiting on the kitchen table, humming softly in its scalloped gold, and it led Kalu here to this frayed welcome mat. The doorkeeper took his hand and pulled him into the apartment.
He knew the routine—turn off your cell phone and turn it in. Allow Thursday, the tall man with the milky eye, to pat you down. Give him your signed report from the approved doctor. The doorkeeper knelt and lifted Kalu’s foot to unlace his shoe. Kalu flattened his palm against the wall to stop himself from falling and sighed. He already knew it was pointless to ask for explanations. You just showed up and went with whatever flow Ahmed had picked for that night. The first party had been eight years ago, and even though Ahmed and Kalu had known each other for long years before that, ever since they’d been inseparable in boarding school, Kalu could never predict what each party would look like. He made a mental note to ask Ahmed about the shoe thing later, but then he looked down at the veiled woman kneeling before him, her henna-stained fingers quick and deft with his laces, and something dark stirred in him. Kalu caught his breath. This was just the kind of thing Ahmed liked to do—awaken coiled desires you didn’t even know you had. Kalu watched as she peeled his socks off his feet and he felt the beginnings of an erection as blood shifted in his body. Once he was barefoot, the doorkeeper unfolded to her full height and Kalu took a deep breath, stepping toward the weighted velvet curtains separating the foyer from the parlor and touching his new face to make sure it was still in place.
“Wait,” said the doorkeeper, her voice winding out like soft ribbons from under the layers of gold-shot black. She lifted her veil just enough to uncover an unstained mouth so full that Kalu’s throat went dry. When she raised herself up on tiptoe and pressed her lips to his, Kalu cupped her jaw lightly. Things slithered in him as her tongue flickered inside his mouth, the wet muscle depositing a damp pill before she pulled away. Kalu swallowed it obediently.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Something to help your mood,” she replied. He reached for her veil and she slapped his hand away, the lace drowning out her mouth. “Not now.” She pulled back the curtain to let him pass and Kalu stepped into the parlor, sweeping the scene with a practiced eye. Ahmed, that hedonistic bastard! He laughed softly to himself.
The apartment might have been something sterile and white when they gave Ahmed the keys, but it was sinuous now, a boudoir that cannibalized every room. The walls were deep blood orange and burnt mustard, lit by scrolled lanterns dropping from the ceiling on delicate chains. The heated light seeping out in dim streams made everyone’s skin glow. And, Jesus Christ, there were skins—writhing, sweating, gleaming skins. People were pressed up against the walls, shirtless bodies crowding one another, teeth and fingers shining everywhere. Kalu’s feet sank into a thick rug, and he smiled at the fabric soaking the floor, the embroidery on the floor cushions, the wine-tinted leather ottomans.
“You made it!” Ahmed appeared beside him, tall and dark, his gleaming teeth open under a chalk-white mask. His head was shaved, and together with the white caftan he had on, it made him look almost ascetic, nothing like the debauched ringmaster he really was. After Kalu had moved to America, Ahmed had left Nigeria as well and traveled almost nonstop. From London to Dubai to Cape Town to Melbourne to Nairobi, round and around. His voice sounded like nothing had stuck to it. The two men embraced, and Ahmed clapped Kalu on the shoulder, gesturing around him. “Just like when we were in Casablanca, oui?”
“Hell yeah,” said Kalu. “Looks just like it.” That had been a wild stop, sixteen hours of Ahmed squeezing the city with long-fingered hands until juice ran down his arms. Kalu had followed him blindly, drunk and half-afraid, envious of the ease with which Ahmed touched life and it bent before him. “How’s the party going so far?”
“No complaints.” Ahmed kept his body relaxed and his mouth curved, but his slitted eyes raked over the room, as vigilant as his guards. In the city, Ahmed’s careful reputation was that of an unserious playboy, someone people could underestimate until he severed their vital tendons and left them neatly fucked-up and floundering. Kalu had a lot of respect for his friend, and the two of them occasionally traded information on clients—Ahmed hiring Kalu’s cars because those drivers could be deaf for him.
“Don’t work too hard,” said Kalu. “It’s still a party, you know.”
Ahmed laughed and grabbed his balls, thrusting forward slightly. “Oh, I know. I’ve been taken care of.” He winked and Kalu bit back a smile. “That’s the face of a man with too much weight between his legs,” said Ahmed. “Go and take care of yourself, my friend.”
Kalu laughed and looked out toward the balcony doors. A bloated moon hung low and swollen in the sky. Ahmed’s hand gripped his arm, gold rings bracing the knuckles.
“Listen, Kalu,” he said, his voice low. “Try and forget Aima, ehn? There are other beautiful people here tonight.” He squeezed once, then left.
Kalu watched his friend’s white caftan recede and tried to settle his shoulders. He was here for the night. Ahmed was right—there were other people and they were here, and he needed to leave Aima behind. Kalu stepped through the small crowd and went to the bar. The bartender was a young man in a satin waistcoat, his face curiously exposed and his eyes wide as he mixed drinks and poured champagne with quick hands. It was clearly his first time at one of Ahmed’s parties. Kalu almost wished he didn’t look so excited. Ahmed liked to leave some of the staff barefaced, their identities unprotected. You’re not important enough to be covered, it said, and if you open your mouth about what you see tonight, a mask won’t save you anyway.
Kalu took a rum and Coke from the boy, sipping it as he looked over the buffet table. Half-shell oysters balanced on crushed ice and peppered snails curled around each other. There were meats and cheeses and fruits, skewered and roasted and raw. A large man in a deep-blue suit elbowed him aside to reach for the snails, strings from his gilt mask cutting into the flesh of his head. The mask was a mere formality—Kalu recognized his face easily, the man was a senator, a popular one. Sometimes Ahmed allowed politicians into his parties—he called them the money bodies—and they all seemed to smell like this man, clogged cologne and damp sweat. The senator was followed by a boy with a dancer’s body wearing a bright feathered mask. Kalu moved aside for them and started heading for the balcony so he could look at the moon over the lagoon, let it settle the tides in him. He’d never been the type of man to gaze aimlessly into the sky, but two years of being back home had left him dreaming of flight and stars and levitation.
When he’d first returned, his mother had touched his face and told him plainly that she would like grandchildren. Before he could reply, she dropped her hand and changed the subject. That had always been her way, as gentle as a flame, only blistering afterward. Kalu had looked away, biting the inside of his cheek into a raised line. He had wanted to shout at her, to ask why it wasn’t enough that he had come home, dragging his girlfriend all the way with him, but this was his mother and she was old, so Kalu held his peace. Months later, when he reached for a condom while in bed with Aima, she stopped his wrist with a soft pressure from her fingers.
“Would it truly be so terrible?” she whispered. “Let’s see what God allows.” Kalu stared at her in shock, at the woman who used to joke about him getting a vasectomy, and Aima quickly covered her question with a light laugh, taking the foil packet and tearing it open herself. “I’m just playing,” she had said, but in that small space between her question and the delayed laugh, Kalu had started to see that he was losing her.
Inside the party, he passed a hand over his face as his eyes stung. This was no way to forget anything. The music filtered back into his ears, Bonobo sliding into Sutra, and two models sashayed past him arm in arm, their small breasts cupped in matching filigreed pearl, long weaves swaying down their backs. They were tipsy and giggling, flirting under thick eyelashes that stretched out from their golden masks, ruby lipstick framing pretty teeth. Kalu raised his glass to them and they burst into soft chattering giggles, glancing over their shoulders to appraise him. Perhaps later. They looked familiar. They’re probably sisters, he thought. Or lovers. Or both. It was that kind of night, that kind of place.
The television was a black slab against the wall and a woman was dancing in front of it, a twisting collection of sinews and soft flesh. She moved privately—the way women move when they have stopped dancing for hungry men, a thing faithful to the music. It was beautiful and none of his business. Her hair was in long braids and someone had made her a lacquered ankara mask that draped over her face like wax. The low carved table in front of her was balancing towers of empty shot glasses and lines of coke. People were seated around her in a half moon, clapping in a steady rhythm as her hips snapped and snaked. A few of them were passing around a joint, frail smoke winging out as they threw their heads back to expose smooth necks. Kalu reached for the belonging he used to feel when he came to these things, but this time there was only a curious numbness. He felt imaginary.
The woman with braids was wearing half of a traditional outfit, a tight printed skirt that clutched her thighs and sliced her ankles. Her top was gone. Her bra was triangular and white, more functional than sexy, covering her breasts wholly. It looked like something his mother would wear, something he’d seen dangling from the clothesline of his childhood. Aima would never have let something like that even touch her. The thought of her clawed its way back through his chest and Kalu stopped to catch a breath. He hadn’t tried to stop her at the airport because the peace offering she wanted would sink him. They used to lie in bed when they lived together in Houston and make fun of friends who rushed to get married after three months.
“What will ninety days tell me about you?” Aima had asked, her breasts spilling over his hands. “See ehn, I want to know what kind of man I’ll be looking at in ninety years.”
“We won’t live that long,” Kalu had told her.
“Shun the unbeliever,” she’d joked, and leaned in to kiss him. Her mouth had tasted immortal, so he believed her. After they had moved back home, to this city, Aima had changed so slowly that Kalu almost missed it until she was collapsing and God was in her every second breath and she was begging him for a ring and all he could do was wonder at the briny taste of desperation this city had put on her skin.
“We said we’d wait until we were both ready,” he had said, and she looked like she could spit on him.
“It has been four years, Kalu! How much longer do you expect me to wait?” Each word had been a small and sour betrayal.
Kalu slid open the door to the balcony with Aima’s voice reverberating in his head, and for a wild second, he thought she was the woman standing against the railing. Maybe Ahmed had kidnapped her before the flight took off and got her to come here. Maybe he took pity on Kalu’s vast landscapes of pain and orchestrated a costumed reunion, a story that Ahmed would then tell at the wedding during his best man toast while Kalu stared at Aima and wondered how many children it would take on top of the ring to make her happy.
But it wasn’t her. This woman was yellow like a firefly, her skin a window in the backless dress she was wearing. She half turned when Kalu stepped out to the balcony, a cigarette perched lightly between her fingers. Her nails were dark-red porcelain, curved and blinding, and the moon swung low over her head.
Kalu smiled politely. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Do you see anybody else out here?” Her mask was a smooth collection of blues with exaggerated cheekbones, and she’d painted her lips a deep pink. The color clashed with her nails. She offered the cigarette to Kalu as he leaned on the railing next to her, and he took it because the brightness of her mouth led him to think maybe he’d kiss her before the night was over. It would be better to smoke his own tongue instead of tasting it only on hers.
“I hate this city,” the woman said, as if continuing an old conversation. “Don’t you wish you had never come back sometimes?”
“How do you know I ever left?”
Her laugh was like a man’s, low and swinging. “Ajebutter like you. See your head.”
