Everything Good Will Come Page 3

  I walked down the driveway, conscious of my shoes crunching the gravel. One half-eaten mango on the tree caught my eye. Birds must have nibbled it and now ants were finishing it up. The way they scrambled over the orange flesh reminded me of a beggar I’d seen outside my mother’s church, except his sore was pink and pus oozed out. No one would go near him, not even to give him money which they threw on a dirty potato sack before him.

  A young woman with two pert facial marks on her cheeks answered the door.

  “Yesch?”

  “Is Sheri in?” I asked.

  “Is schleeping.”

  In the living room, the curtains were drawn and the furniture sat around like mute shadows. The Bakares had the same chairs as most people I knew, fake Louis XIV, my father called them. There wasn’t a sound and it was eleven o’clock in the morning. At first I thought the ‘sch’ woman was going to turn me away, then she stepped aside. I followed her up the narrow wooden stairway, through a quiet corridor, past two doors until we reached a third. “Scheree?” she called out.

  Someone whined. I knew it was Sheri. She opened her door wearing a yellow night gown. The ‘sch’ woman dragged her feet down the corridor.

  “Why are you still sleeping?” I asked Sheri.

  In my house that would be considered laziness. She’d been out last night, at her uncle’s fortieth birthday. She danced throughout. Her voice did not yet sound like hers. There were clothes on the floor: white lace blouses, colorful wrappers, and head ties. She’d been sleeping on a cloth spread over a bare mattress, and another cloth was what she used to cover herself at night. A picture of apples and pears hung above her bed and on her bedside table was a framed photograph of a woman in traditional dress. In the corner, some dusty shoes spilled out of a wooden cupboard. The door dropped from a broken hinge and the mirror inside was stained brown. A table fan perched on a desk worried the clothes on the floor from time to time.

  “Is this your room?” I asked.

  “Anyone’s,” she said, clearing her throat noisily. She drew the curtains and sunlight flooded the room. She pointed to a wad of notes stashed by the photograph: the total amount she received for dancing.

  “I got the most in the family,” she said.

  “Where is everyone?” I asked.

  She scratched her hair. “My stepmothers are sleeping. My brothers and sisters are still sleeping. My father, I don’t know where he is.”

  She reached for her behind.

  I screwed up my nose. “I think you’d better have a bath.”

  One o’clock and the entire house was awake. Sheri’s stepmothers had prepared akara, fried bean cakes, for everyone to eat. We knelt before them to say good morning, they patted our heads in appreciation. “Both knees,” one of them ordered. I found myself looking at two women who resembled each other, pretty with watery eyes and chiffon scarves wrapped around their heads. I noted the gold tooth in the smile of the one who had ordered me to kneel.

  In the veranda, the other children sat on chairs with bowls of akara on their laps. The girls wore dresses; the boys were in short-sleeved shirts and shorts. Sheri had changed into a tangerine-colored maxi length dress and was strutting around ordering them to be quiet. “Stop fighting.” “Gani, will you sit down?” “Didn’t I tell you to wash your hands?” “Kudi? What is wrong with you this morning?” She separated a squabble here, wiped a dripping nose. I watched in amazement as they called her Sister Sheri. The women were called Mama Gani and Mama Kudi after their firstborns.

  “How many children will you have?” Sheri asked, thrusting a baby boy into my arms. I kept my mouth still for fear of dropping him. He wriggled and felt as fragile as a crystal glass.

  “One,” I said.

  “Why not half, if you like?” Sheri asked.

  I was not offended. Her rudeness had been curtailed by nature. Whenever she sucked her teeth, her lips didn’t quite curl, and her dirty looks flashed through lashes as thick as moth wings. She knew all the rude sayings: mouth like a duck, dumb as a zero with a dot in it. If I said “so?” she said, “Sew your button on your shirt.” When I asked “why?” she answered, “Z your head to Zambia.” But she was far too funny to be successfully surly. Her full name was Sherifat, but she didn’t like it. “Am not fat,” she explained, as we sat down to eat. I had already had breakfast, but seeing the akara made me hungry. I took a bite and the peppers inside made my eyes water. My legs trembled in appreciation. “When we finish,” Sheri said. “I will take you to the balcony upstairs.” She chewed with her mouth open and had enough on her plate to fill a man.

  The balcony upstairs resembled an empty swimming pool. Past rains had left mildew in its corners. It was higher than my house and standing there, we could see the whole of her yard and mine. I pointed out the plants in my yard as Sheri walked toward the view of the lagoon.

  “It leads to the Atlantic,” she said.

  “I know,” I said, trying not to lose my concentration. “Bougainvillea, golden trumpets... ”

  “You know where that leads?”

  “Yes. Almond tree, banana tree... ”

  “Paris,” she said.

  I gave up counting plants. Downstairs, two of the children ran through the washing lines. They were playing a Civil War game: Halt. Who goes there? Advance to be recognized. Boom! You’re dead.

  “I want to go to Paris,” Sheri said.

  “How will you get there?”

  “My jet plane,” she said.

  I laughed. “How will you get a jet plane?”

  “I’ll be an actress,” she said, turning to me. In the sunlight, her pupils were like the underside of mushrooms.

  “Actor-ess,” I said.

  “Yes, and when I arrive, I’ll be wearing a red negligée.”

  “Em, Paris is cold.”

  “Eh?”

  “Paris is cold. My father told me. It’s cold and it rains.”

  “I’ll have a fur coat, then.”

  “What else?” I asked.

  “High, high heels.”

  “And?”

  “Dark sunglasses.”

  “What kind?”

  “Cressun Door,” she said, smiling.

  I shut my eyes, imagining. “You’ll need fans. All actresses have fans.”

  “Oh, they’ll be there,” she said. “And they’ll be running around, shouting, ‘Sheri. Voulez-vous. Bonsoir. Mercredi.’ But I won’t mind them.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’ll get into my car and drive away fast.”

  I opened my eyes. “What kind of car?”

  “Sports,” she said.

  I sighed. “I want to be something like... like president.”

  “Eh? Women are not presidents.”

  “Why not?”

  “Our men won’t stand for it. Who will cook for your husband?”

  “He will cook for himself.”

  “What if he refuses?”

  “I’ll drive him away.”

  “You can’t,” she said.

  “Yes I can. Who wants to marry him anyway?”

  “What if they kill you in a coup?”

  “I’ll kill them back.”

  “What kind of dream is that?”

  “Mine.” I smirked.

  “Oh, women aren’t presidents,” she said.

  Someone downstairs was calling her. We looked over the balcony to see Akanni. He was wearing heart-shaped sunshades, like mirrors.

  “What?” Sheri answered.

  Akanni looked up. “Isn’t that my good friend, Enitan, from next door?”

  “None of your business,” Sheri said. “Now, what do you want from me?”

  I smiled at Akanni. His sunshades were funny and his war stories were fantastic.

  “My good friend,” he said to me in Yoruba. “At least you’re nice to me, unlike this trouble maker, Sheri. Where is my money, Sheri?”

  “I don’t have your money,” she said.

  “You promised we would share t
he proceeds from last night. I stayed up till five this morning, now you’re trying to cheat me. Country is hard for a poor man, you know.”

  “Who asked you?”

  Akanni snapped his fingers. “Next time you’ll see who will drive you around.”

  “Fine,” Sheri said, then she turned to me. “Oaf. Look at his face, flat as a church clock. Come on, let’s go back inside. The sun is beating my head.”

  “Now?” I asked.

  She pressed her hair down. “Can’t you see I’m a half-caste?”

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or feel sorry for her.

  “I don’t mind,” she said. “Only my ears I mind and I cover them up, because they’re big like theirs.”

  “Whose?” I asked.

  “White people’s,” she said. “Now, come on.”

  I followed her. She did have huge ears and her afro did not hide them.

  “You know that foolish Akanni?” she asked as we ran down the stairs.

  “He comes to our house.”

  “To do what?”

  “Visit our house girl, Bisi.”

  Sheri began to laugh. “He’s doing her!”

  I covered my mouth.

  “Sex,” she said. “Banana into tomato. Don’t you know about it?”

  My hand dropped.

  “Oh, close your mouth before a fly enters,” she said.

  I ran to catch up with her.

  “My grandma told me,” she said.

  We were sitting on her bed. Sheri tucked her tangerine dress between her legs. I wondered if she knew more than me.

  “When you... ” I asked. “I mean, with your husband. Where does it go? Because I don’t... ” I was pointing everywhere, even at the ceiling.

  Sheri’s eyes were wide. “You haven’t seen it? I’ve seen mine. Many times.” She stood up and retrieved a cracked mirror from a drawer. “Look and see.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Look,” she said, handing me the mirror.

  “Lock the door.”

  “Okay,” she said, heading there.

  I dragged my panties down, placed the mirror between my legs. It looked like a big, fat slug. I squealed as Sheri began to laugh. We heard loud knocks on the door and I almost dropped the mirror. “Who’s that?” I whispered.

  “Me,” she said.

  I hobbled to her bed. “You horrible... ”

  She rocked back and forth. “You’re so funny, aburo!”

  “You horrible girl,” I hissed.

  She stopped laughing. “Why?”

  “I don’t think it’s funny. What did you do that for?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Well, sorry is not enough.”

  I pulled my panties up, wondering whether I was angry with her, or what I’d seen between my legs. Sheri barricaded the door. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  At first I thought I’d push her aside and walk out, but the sight of her standing there like a star tickled me.

  “All right,” I said. “But this is your last chance, Sherifat, I’m warning you.”

  “Am not fat,” she yelled.

  I laughed until I thought my heart would pop. That was her insecurity: her full name, and her big ears.

  “Don’t go,” she said. “I like you. You’re very English. You know, high faluting.”

  The woman in the photograph by her bedside table was her grandmother.

  “Alhaja,” Sheri said. “She’s beautiful.”

  Alhaja had an enormous gap between her front teeth and her cheeks were so plump her eyes were barely visible. There were many Alhajas in Lagos. This one wasn’t the first woman to go on hajj to Mecca, but for women like her, who were powerful within their families and communities, the title became their name

  Sheri did not know her own mother. She died when Sheri was a baby and Alhaja raised her from then on, even after her father remarried. She pressed the picture to her chest and told me of her life in downtown Lagos. She lived in a house opposite her Alhaja’s fabric store. She went to a school where children didn’t care to speak English. After school, she helped Alhaja in her store and knew how to measure cloth. I listened, mindful that my life didn’t extend beyond Ikoyi Park. What would it be like to know downtown as Sheri did, haggle with customers, buy fried yams and roasted plantains from street hawkers, curse Area Boys and taxi cabs who drove too close to the curb.

  My only trips downtown were to visit the large foreign-owned stores, like Kelwarams and Leventis, or the crowded markets with my mother. The streets were crammed with vehicles, and there were too many people: people buying food from street hawkers, bumping shoulders, quarreling and crossing streets. Sometimes masqueraders came out for Christmas or for some other festival, dancing in their raffia gowns and ghoulish masks. Sheri knew them all: the ones who stood on stilts, the ones who looked like stretched out accordions and flattened to pancakes. It was juju, she said, but she was not scared. Not even of the eyo who dressed in white sheets like spirits of the day and whipped women who didn’t cover their heads.

  Sheri was a Moslem and she didn’t know much about Christianity, except that there was a book in the Bible and if you read it, you could go mad. I asked why Moslems didn’t eat pork. “It’s a filthy beast,” she said, scratching her hair. I told her about my own life, how my brother died and my mother was strict.

  “That church sounds scary,” she said.

  “I’m telling you, if my mother ever catches you in our house, she’ll send you home.”

  “Why?”

  I pointed at her pink mouth. “It’s bad, you know.”

  She sucked her teeth. “It’s not bad. Anyway, you think my father allows me to wear lipstick? I wait until he’s gone out and put it on.”

  “What happens when he comes back?”

  “I rub it off. Simple. You want some?”

  I didn’t hesitate. As I rubbed the lipstick on my lips I mumbled, “Your stepmothers, won’t they tell?”

  “I kneel for them, help them in the kitchen. They won’t tell.”

  “What about the one with the gold tooth?”

  “She’s wicked, but she’s nice.”

  I showed her my lips. “Does it fit?”

  “It fits,” she said. “And guess what?”

  “What?”

  “You’ve just kissed me.”

  I slapped my forehead. She was forward, this girl, and the way she acted with the other children. She really didn’t do much, except to make sure she was noticed. I was impressed by the way she’d conned Akanni into staying up late for her uncle’s party. Sheri got away with whatever she did and said. Even when she insulted someone, her stepmothers would barely scold her. “Ah, this one. She’s such a terrible one.”

  They summoned her to act as a disc jockey. She changed the records as if she was handling dirty plates: The Beatles, Sunny Adé, Jackson Five, James Brown. Most of the records were scratched. Akanni arrived during, “Say it loud, I’m black and proud.” He skidded from one end of the room to the other and fell on the floor overcome as the real James Brown. We placed a hand towel on his back and coaxed him up. By the time “If I had the wings of a dove” came on, I was singing out loud myself, and was almost tearful from the words.

  As a parting gift Sheri gave me a romance novel titled Jacaranda Cove. The picture was barely visible and most of the pages were dog-eared. “Take this and read,” she said. I slipped it under my arm and wiped my lips clean. My one thought was to return home before my mother arrived. I’d disobeyed her too much. If she found out, I would be punished for life.

  Our house seemed darker when I arrived, though the curtains in the living room were not drawn. My father once explained the darkness was due to the position of the windows to the sun. Our living room reminded me of an empty hotel lounge. The curtains were made of a gold damask, and the chairs were a deep red velvet. A piano stood by the sliding doors to the veranda.

  The house was designed by two Englishmen with the help of an architect my fa
ther knew. They lived together for years, and everyone knew about them, he said. Then they moved to Nairobi and he bought the house from them. The two men living together; the Bakare house full of children; grandparents, parents, teachers, now Akanni, and of all people, Bisi. The whole world was full of sex, I thought, running away from my footsteps. In my bedroom, I read the first page of Sheri’s book, then the last. It described a man and woman kissing and how their hearts beat faster. I read it again and searched the book for more passages like that, then I marked each of them to read later.

  My father arrived soon afterward and challenged me to a game of ayo. He always won, but today he explained the secret of the game. “You’d better listen, because I’m tired of defeating you. First, you choose which bowl you want to land in. Then you choose which bowl will get you there.”

  He shook the beads in his fist and plopped them, one by one, into the six bowls carved into the wooden slate. I’d always thought the trick was to pick the fullest bowl.

  “Work it out backward?” I asked.

  “Exactly,” he said, scooping beads from the bowl.

  “Daddy,” I said. “I wasn’t watching.”

  He slapped the table. “Next time you will.”

  “Cheater.”

  We were on our fifth round when my mother returned from church. I waved to her as she walked through the front door. I didn’t get up to greet her as I normally would. I was winning the game and thought that if I moved, I would lose my good fortune.

  “Heh, heh, I’m beating you,” I said, wriggling in my chair.

  “Only because I let you,” my father said.

  I scooped the beads from a bowl and raised my hand. My mother walked through the veranda door.

  “Enitan? Who gave this to you?”

  She grabbed my ear and shoved Sheri’s book under my nose.

  “Who? Answer me now.”

  “For God’s sake,” my father said.

  Her fingers were like iron clamps. The ayo beads tumbled out of my hand, down to the floor. Sheri from next door, I said. My mother pulled me to my feet by my ear as I explained. Sheri handed it to me through the fence. The wide gap in the fence. Yes, it was wide enough. I had not read the book.