‘Some of these statements are just so strange. I’d have preferred it if they didn’t say anything,’ Zina said, folding her arms across her chest in disgust.
‘They can’t be more forceful; they don’t want new immigrants,’ Ego said. ‘As long as the country is “stable” with a functioning government, most of the international community is okay, regardless of the price to the citizens. Besides, there are too many pro-government NGOs lobbying on behalf of our leaders and improving the general perception of the situation here. It’s the same for many countries across the world.’
Zina huffed. ‘Anyways, it’s not like their meddling in other countries has even yielded many positive results.’
We were quiet for a few minutes, staring at the floor to avoid looking at the beeping machines, then Ego said, ‘I understand the international community, but why aren’t the African Union and ECOWAS being sterner in their response?’
Zina hissed, ‘You want people to condemn what they themselves are guilty of? Take a look at the continent, my dear.’
That night, the monitor flatlined and Adelola was gone.
‘We’re not sure what went wrong but it could have been complications from a clot or bleed,’ the doctor tried to explain in between my screams as my friends struggled to pick me up from the floor.
‘… earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.’ It was the same pastor who’d officiated my mother’s funeral, the resonance of his voice diminished by age and time’s passing. Tears slipped down from underneath the sunglasses that covered my eyes.
Where had it gone wrong? At what point had I turned down the path and ignored all the warning signs? Was it the day I’d precociously blocked the path of a man I barely knew, in awe of his person, in need of a distraction from my mother’s death, and introduced myself? Or had it started before that, the moment I’d desired some form of attention my father had been too overwhelmed by grief to give?
‘Thy will be done, on Earth as it is in heaven.’
I could still see Adelola, as she’d been before the protests, so young, filled with so much life. Unburdened and carefree. How could this be anyone’s will? Mummy, she’d called me and yet I’d let this happen.
Soye gripped my shoulder, pleading and comforting at the same time, and I shrugged his hand away. There was little to be said now. We both knew it was over; our marriage could never recover from this.
He’d tried to explain his side of the events of that day. Yes, he’d attended meetings, but at no point had it been made clear what sort of actions would be taken. I couldn’t bring myself to believe him because I had lost a sense of who he was, of how far he was willing to go to achieve his ambitions. Until the moment the politician in the video had been identified, I’d found myself believing it was Soye, believing that he was capable of pulling out a gun and shooting out of his car because protesters had refused to listen to him. The young man with a flaming torch for the nation was gone and I had no idea who I was married to.
My father approached me when the service was over. His black suit hung from his frame, and I was astounded by just how much he’d aged since I saw him last; I was once again close to losing a parent. He placed a hand on my shoulder, unsure whether to reach out for a hug, afraid I would reject his comfort. His eyes said he recalled the similar service we’d attended over two decades before, just as I did.
‘Time heals all wounds,’ someone had said to us when my mother died, but if anything, we were proof that wounds festered, only to be replaced by more torturous ones.
40
New life
I hadn’t been to see her in a while, but it was her birthday so I took a broom and flowers along. Zina and Ego were to meet me there, delayed by a business meeting ahead of their first production. Their production company had already started to take off, the future path of their lives becoming clearer by the day while mine had turned hazy with fog. What was I to do next?
In the traffic, a hawker approached, plastering a state gossip magazine with coloured pages against my window. I turned to glance at the cover, only to recognise myself at the top right corner. It had been three months since I appeared in public with Soye and suspicions had already begun to rise. ‘Separation Rumours Plague House Rep,’ the headline screamed.
He wouldn’t stop begging. He’d called my father, my brother, even my youngest sister who lived in the UK. When he’d exhausted my limited nuclear family, he’d extended his pleas to Aunty Ada and Aunty Uju and their children. But I’d remained resolute. Mrs Aluko had been a sort of last resort on his part.
‘We political wives are made of different stuff my dear,’ she said to me over the phone. ‘We know what we see daily and the things we have to put up with to keep it together, but this is our God-appointed role. They can’t do anything without us. You can’t just up and leave because of a mere scandal that – if we’re being frank about it – he wasn’t directly involved in. If so, why hasn’t the governor’s wife left? Or the president’s wife? You’re made of far better stuff than that. There’s so much more to gain than to lose. Do you know the things I’ve seen in all my years? Adetosoye needs someone like you beside him to keep his head straight; you’re his backbone. It’s why I liked you even before we met; you’re tough and brutally honest. And I might deride him every now and then, but at least he’s different from the others in that he’s loyal to you. Give it a thought, my dear. We still have so much to work on together.’
I was still yet to call a lawyer, yet to find a place to live while I shared Zina’s large duplex, yet to figure out what to do with the NGO. I was even unsure if I could still run the clinic while Soye sat on the board and shared ownership. Our lives had been intertwined for so long that it seemed impossible to extricate myself in any way.
‘How did your mother do it?’ I’d asked Ego one day as we sat in Zina’s back garden splitting groundnut pods open and sipping orange juice, amid a bloom of colour and the mingled perfume of gardenia, jasmine and crinum.
‘Do what?’ she asked, pouring a pod’s contents in her mouth.
‘Leave a man like your father,’ I told her. ‘I know it’s not the same but…’
‘Well for one, there was no internet back then, and hence no useless blogs,’ Zina retorted.
We laughed. Zina never missed an opportunity to take a dig at internet blogs; they were a thorn in her side.
Ego paused to give it some thought, then she said, ‘I don’t know.’ She shrugged. ‘That’s just the truth. I don’t know how she was able to do it.’
Aunty Uju wanted me to come over to America, to write the medical exams and start over to avoid any vindictiveness on Soye’s part. I wanted to say Soye wasn’t like that; he wouldn’t act like Chief Azubuike, unleashing every tool of power at his disposal. But how was I to vouch for a man I didn’t know? A man entrenched in a game that chipped slowly away at your conscience and person?
Panels had been established across the country to investigate what had taken place and prosecute offending officers, but like most people, I was wary. There had been panels before, their reports still lying on the shelves of some government ministry collecting dust, the offenders running rampant. We were a collectively traumatised country pretending to move on.
I laid the flowers at the bottom of the headstone and stared at the words, still unable to believe they were true.
CHINELO NDAGI NÉE NWAEZE
LOVING MOTHER AND DAUGHTER
1957–1997
I tried to think of what she would say if she were with me, what she would advise I do. I was in need of my mother and she was still gone.
Zina and Ego came with wine, almost two hours later than agreed. ‘I’m so sorry,’ Ego apologised. ‘My uncle Ikechukwu went for his friend’s father’s burial and insulted the elders and now his friend is angry because he’s been asked to pay a fine before they can bury his father.’
I laughed; I needed it. ‘It’s fine.’
‘I brought wine; I thought you’d need it. I won’t be having any though,’ Zina said, shoving it in my direction.
‘Since when don’t you take wine? I know Ego doesn’t drink, but you?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s temporary.’
