Friendship is a sheltering tree
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
19
Country
Nwakaego loved to use run-on sentences where a simple word would do; a true lawyer that one. That morning, the sky still a drab overcast of grey, my phone vibrated on the nightstand by my bedside. I rolled over to pick it up. A WhatsApp message: ‘I’m coming home.’
I was jolted fully awake. Ignoring the rhythmic snores beside me, I pushed my way out of bed and walked over to the veranda, then I dialled the international number underneath her name.
Three years had passed since we’d last seen each other at the Heathrow terminal. Ego’s years abroad had barely changed her, although there was a sophistication and confidence that now clung to her like the high-end clothes she wore. Later, I would realise it was success.
Over pricey coffee and dainty pastries – her treat – we’d caught up; there were things that couldn’t be said over the phone.
‘Remember that guy that lived in the flat beside your mother’s? The one that had a new girl over every day? Well, he got a government appointment and now owns a flat in Ikoyi,’ I told her.
‘Is that so?’ she responded, eyes wide as she wiped sugar from her lips with a napkin. Years back, she would have used her tongue.
The glass walls of her flat offered an uninterrupted view of the city. And yet she clicked the curtains closed as we arrived, dragging my bags towards a room where she said with a sardonic smile, ‘I got a two-bedroom in case anyone came to visit, but they never come.’
‘Ego, this is really nice, you’ve done so well for yourself,’ I remarked, looking round at the expansive space and elegant furniture, aware that I sounded almost in awe. Did I appear local and unrefined?
She shrugged dismissively. ‘They say those of us abroad wash dead bodies to survive. Well, mine is paying off.’
Later, she said, ‘Some of our people here act like we didn’t all arrive by the same plane; they think they are better than others.’
‘Well, some came by boat,’ I joked.
‘Don’t joke. That’s an actual crisis,’ Ego reprimanded. The old Ego would have laughed; if there was anything we Nigerians did, it was laugh at the most morbid of situations. How else would we survive? But this new Ego was more socially sensitive, more aware of appropriateness and correctness.
I thought her well settled in her new life. In the beginning, she’d spent her money on phone cards, expressing her awe at every new discovery: ‘Would you believe I have access to free proper health care over here? And I’m not even a citizen o; the lecturer told us to call him Adam, how can I call someone older than my father by his name?’
But she’d lost that sheen of excitement and naivety.
‘You’re one of them now, a proper Britico,’ I’d told her that day.
‘Hello?’ Ego answered.
‘You’re serious,’ I said, my voice gruff. It wasn’t a question. The simplicity of her words held only one meaning – she would have carefully pondered over the decision for months. Ego wasn’t like me; she didn’t just jump into the deep end.
‘You’re just waking up? Zinachukwu, your mates are already searching for their daily bread.’
I hissed. ‘I was on set till 3am this morning, this woman. Or you’ve forgotten not all of us work a nine to five? And don’t change the subject.’
‘Oh,’ she said.
‘Yes, oh. Who sends that sort of message first thing in the morning like this? “I’m coming home.” Are you Jesus Christ?’
She laughed. ‘I’ve forgotten how cranky you are in the morning. I didn’t know what else to say and how else to say it and I wanted you to know.’
I sighed. ‘Why?’ I asked, stating the real cause of my frustration.
‘Why? I can’t stay here forever, it’s not my country.’
‘My dear as long as you live there, it’s your country. Did we ask to be born here? Did we even create this country? Some people came and merged us together and created borders between tribes and called us a country and now we have a passport. My friend from Lagos has relatives in Cotonou across the border. You’ve been there long enough to apply for citizenship, that should be your primary focus now; when is your red passport is arriving? Not “I’m coming home”. To do what? When?’
‘I have a job,’ she said. ‘It’s a senior legal position at a multinational – chief legal officer actually – I just accepted their offer. I don’t have to start until September, so in a few months.’
‘You purposely didn’t tell me you were applying. I would have told you to not bother. I smell Eriife’s handiwork all over this. I’ve told you to stop listening to her politician speak. This place is a fucking hell hole.’
‘I know it isn’t all roses. You know me, I wouldn’t make such a decision lightly.’
I knew her – it was why I knew I couldn’t change her mind. ‘Is it because of him?’
‘Who?’ she said, feigning ignorance.
‘You know who I’m talking about. Him. Are you coming back for him? Ego, you should never make life-changing decisions for a man, you of all people should know that.’
She sighed. ‘It’s not because of him. I miss home. I’m lonely here. You say this is my country but it doesn’t feel like it. I don’t even feel welcome here. I miss the food, the music, the people. I miss how much concern we show for one another. Here, everyone minds their business. I could die in my apartment tomorrow and no one would know for days. I can’t continue to live like this. You were the one who said I shouldn’t throw the best years of my life away.’
I felt tears gather in my eyes and leaned over the railings. ‘Ego, please. Have you forgotten what this place is like? You’ve forgotten what they did to you?’
Puffing smoke from my lips, I observed the clouds disperse into contours of bright blue, an array of pastels splintering through. My mood was indisputably grey after the call. From the veranda, I could see the shanty towns that sat on wooden stilts on the Lagoon that bordered the Island. I’d spent my last Christmas there, distributing packs of food and drinks, watching half-naked bony children man boats with sticks, jarred by the reality of such dire poverty adjacent to the most immense Nigerian wealth.
I considered opening a bottle of wine. It’s too early, I thought. The gateman staggered out of his room then, a plastic bowl in hand, and pulled at the gate latch. A few minutes later, he returned with a full plate of steaming beans. I was reminded of our most recent estate association meeting.
‘Our main agenda today is discussing a worrying phenomenon that has come to our attention,’ the council chairman said. ‘Whereas this area of Lagos used to be for people like us who can afford to create our own haven within this city, recently, we’ve noticed a rising number of shanties and structures, selling one thing or the other on our streets, and miscreants lurking. How long before these people invite criminals into our homes?’
