Everything Good Will Come Page 5

  “Are you disillusioned?” I asked.

  “Sometimes.”

  “Me too,” I said.

  We would get married as soon as we finished school, I thought. From then on we would avoid other people. People our age clung together unnecessarily anyway. It was a sign of not thinking, like being constantly happy. Really, there was no need to reach as high as the stars. Around us was enough proof that optimism was dangerous, and some of us had discovered this before.

  Outside it looked like it was about to rain. It was late afternoon but the sky was as dark as early evening because of the rainy season. Mosquitoes flew indoors. They buzzed around my legs and I bent to slap them. The stereo began to play a slow number, “That’s the Way of the World” by Earth, Wind, and Fire. I hoped Damola would ask me to dance, but he didn’t.

  I tapped my foot under the end of that record. Afterward, our vice principal came into the hall to turn the stereo off. She thanked the boys and girls for coming and announced that their school buses were waiting outside. I’d spent most of the dance sitting next to Damola who nodded from time to time as though he were above it all. Together, we walked to the gates and I stopped by the last travelers palm beyond which boarders weren’t allowed to pass.

  “Have a nice summer,” I said.

  “You too,” he said.

  A group of classmates hurried over. They circled me and stuck their chins out: “What did he say?” “Do you like him?” “Does he like you?”

  Normally, we were friends. We fetched water and bathed together; studied in pairs and shared scrapbooks details. Damola was another excuse for a group giggle. I wasn’t going to tell them. One of them congratulated me on my wedding. I asked her not to be silly.

  “What’s scratching you?” she asked.

  The others waited for an answer. I managed a smile to appease them, then I walked on. In the twilight, students shifted in groups back to the dormitory blocks.

  The structure of our blocks, three adjacent buildings, each three floors high with long balconies, made me imagine I was living in a prison. Walking those balconies, I’d discovered they weren’t straight. Some parts dipped and other parts rose a little and whenever I was anxious, because of an examination or a punishment, I dreamed they had turned to waves and I was trying to ride them. Sometimes I’d fall off the balconies in my dreams, fall, and never reach the bottom.

  Friday after school, I received a letter from Sheri. I was sitting in class. It was raining again. Lightning flashed, followed by a crash of thunder. About thirty girls sat behind and on top of wooden desks indoors. School hour rules no longer applicable, we wore mufti and spoke vernacular freely. Outside, a group of girls scurried across the quadrangle with buckets over their heads. One placed hers on the ground to collect rain water. The wind changed direction. “Shut the windows,” someone said. A few girls jumped up to secure them.

  Over the years, Sheri and I exchanged letters, sharing our thoughts on sheets torn from exercise books, ending them “love and peace, your trusted friend.” Sheri was always in trouble. Someone called her loose, someone punished her, someone tried to beat her up. It was always girls. She seemed to get along with boys. Occasionally I saw her when she came to stay with her father. She sneaked to my room, rapped on my window and frightened me almost to death. Her brows were plucked thin, her hair pulled back in a bun. She wore red lipstick and said “Ciao.” She was way too advanced for me, but I enjoyed seeing her anyway.

  She had had the best misadventures: parties that ended in brawls, cinemas where audiences talked back to the screen. Once, she hitched a ride from a friend who borrowed his parents’ car. They pushed the car down the driveway, while his parents were sleeping, and an hour later they pushed it up again. She was a bold-face, unlike me. I worried about breaking school rules, failing exams. I even worried about being skinny, and for a while I worried that I might be a hermaphrodite, like an earthworm, because my periods hadn’t started. Then they did and my mother killed a fowl to secure my fertility.

  In her usual curvy writing, Sheri had written on the back of the envelope: de-liver, de-letter, de-sooner, de-better. And addressed it to: Miss Enitan Taiwo Esquire, Royal College, Yaba, Lagos, Nigeria, West Africa, Africa, The Universe. Her writing was overly curly, and her letter had been opened by my class teacher who checked our letters. If they came from boys she ripped them up.

  June 27, 1975.

  Aburo,

  I’m sorry I haven’t written for so long. I’ve been studying for my exams and I’m sure you have too. How were yours? This term has been tough for me. I’ve worked hard, but my father still says I’m not trying enough. He wants me to be a doctor. How can I be a doctor when I hate sciences? Now I have to stay with him over the summer and take lessons in Phi, Chem and Bi. I think I will go mad...

  Someone switched the lights on as the sky darkened. The rain drummed faster on our roof and the girls began to sing a Yoruba folk song:

  The banana tree

  in my father’s farm

  bears fruit every year.

  May I not be barren

  but be fruitful and blessed

  with the gift of children.

  A fat mosquito landed on my ankle, heavy and slow. I slapped it off.

  I can’t wait to get away and see your face. I don’t want to stay in my father’s house though. It’s too crowded. Can I come and stay in yours? I’m sure your mother will love that—ha, ha...

  Sheri was not afraid of my mother. If she sneaked to my window, who would find out? she asked. But I knew she would not last a day in my house, loving food as much as she did. On my last vacation food had become a weapon in our house. My mother cooked meals and locked them up in the freezer so my father couldn’t eat when he returned from work. I had to eat with her, before he returned, whether or not I was hungry. One morning, she took the sugar cubes my father used for coffee and hid them. He threatened to stop her food allowance. The sugar cubes came out, the other food remained locked in the freezer. I could not tell anyone this was happening in our house.

  As the rain turned to drizzle, I finished reading Sheri’s letter. Girls opened the windows and the wind brought in the smell of wet grass. My classmates were singing another song now, this one a jazz standard and I joined them, thinking only of Damola.

  Always get that mood indigo

  Since my baby said goodbye...

  Summer vacation began and the smell of wet grass was everywhere. I’d seen fifteen rainy seasons and was finding this one predictable: palm trees bowing and shivering shrubs. The sky darkened fast; the lagoon, too, and its surface looked like the water was scurrying from the wind. The rain advanced in a wall across the water and lightning ripped the sky in two: Boom! As a child, I clutched my chest and searched for the destruction outside. The thunder often caught me by my window, hands over my head and recoiling. These days I found the noise tedious, especially the frogs.

  Sunday afternoon, when I hoped it had stopped raining for the day, Sheri appeared at my window, startling me so much, I accidentally banged my head on the wall.

  “When did you arrive?” I asked, rubbing my sore spot.

  “Yesterday,” she said.

  Her teeth were as small and white as milk teeth. She stuck her head inside.

  “What are you doing inside, Mrs. Morose?”

  “I’m not morose,” I said.

  “Yes, you are. You’re always indoors.”

  I laughed. “That is not morose.”

  Outside the grass squeaked and wet my shoes; mud splattered on the back of my legs and dried. Inside, I had my own record player, albeit one with a nervous needle. I also had a small collection of Motown records, a Stevie Wonder poster on my wall, a library of books like Little Women. I enjoyed being on my own in my room. My parents, too, mistook my behavior for sulking.

  This vacation I found them repentant. They did not argue, but they were hardly at home either and I was glad for the silence. My father stayed at work; my mother in her chu
rch. I thought of Damola. Once or twice, I crossed out the common letters in my name and his to find out what we would be: friends, lovers, enemies, married. We were lovers.

  “This house is like a graveyard,” Sheri said.

  “My parents are out,” I said.

  “Ah-ah? Let’s go then.”

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere. I want to get out of here. I hate my lessons and I hate my lesson teacher. He spits.”

  “Tell your father.”

  “He won’t listen. All he talks about is doctor this and doctor that. Abi, can you see me as a doctor?”

  “No.”

  She would misdiagnose her patients and boss them around.

  “Let’s go,” she said.

  “Walk-about,” I teased.

  She flung her hand up. “You see? You’re morose.”

  I thought she was going home so I ran to the front door to stop her. She said she wasn’t angry, but why did I never want to do anything? I pushed her up the drive.

  “I’ll get into trouble, Sheri.”

  “If your parents find out.”

  “They’ll find out.”

  “If you let them.”

  Sheri already had a boyfriend in school. They had kissed before and it was like chewing gum, but she wasn’t serious because he wasn’t. I told her about Damola.

  “You sat there not talking?” she asked.

  “We communicated by mind.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “We didn’t have to talk.”

  “You and your boyfriend, sha.”

  I poked her shoulder. “He is not my boyfriend.”

  She forced me to call him. I recited his number which we found in the telephone book and my heart thumped so hard it reached my temples. Sheri handed the receiver to me. “Hello?” came a high-pitched voice, and I promptly gave the phone back to Sheri.

  “Em, yes, helleu,” she said, faking a poor English accent. “Is Damola in please?”

  “What’s she saying?” I whispered.

  Sheri raised a finger to silence me. Unable to sustain her accent, she slammed the phone down.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  She clutched her belly.

  “What did she say, Sheri?”

  “He’s not... in.”

  I snorted. That was it? My jaw locked watching her kick. She threatened to make another phone call, just to hear the woman’s voice again. I told her if she did, I’d rip the phone from its socket. I too was laughing, from her silliness. My stomach ached. I thought I would suffocate.

  “Stop.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You have to go home, Sheri.”

  “Wh-why?”

  “My mother hates you.”

  “S-so?”

  We slapped each other’s cheeks to stop.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “We won’t phone your boyfriend again. You can communicate with him, unless his mind is otherwise occupied.”

  She went home with mascara tears and said it was my fault. The following Sunday, she appeared at my bedroom window again. This time, Baba was burning leaves and the smell nauseated me. I leaned over to shut my window and Sheri’s head popped up: “Aburo!”

  I jumped at least a foot high. “What is wrong with you? Can’t you use the door?”

  “Oh, don’t be so morose,” she said.

  “Sheri,” I said. “I don’t think you know the meaning of that word.”

  She was dressed in a black skirt and strapless top. Sheri was no longer a yellow banana. She could easily win any of the beauty contests in my school, but her demeanor needed to be toned down. She was gragra. Girls who won were demure.

  “You look nice,” I said.

  She also had the latest fashions: Oliver Twist caps, wedge heels and flares. Her grandmother knew traders in Quayside by the Lagos Marina, who imported clothes and shoes from Europe.

  She blinked through her mascara. “Are your parents in?”

  “Out.”

  “They’re always out.”

  “I prefer it.”

  “Let’s go then.”

  “No. Where?”

  “A picnic. At Ikoyi Park. Your boyfriend will be there.” I smiled. “What boyfriend, Sheri?”

  “Your boyfriend, Damola. I found out he’ll be there.” Tears filled my eyes. “You rotten little... ”

  I resisted the urge to hug her. As she tried to explain her connection to him, I lost track. I wore a black T-shirt and white dungarees. In the mirror, I checked my hair, which was pulled into two puffs and fingered the Fulani choker around my neck. I picked a ring from my dressing table and slipped it on my toe.

  “Boogie on Reggae Woman,” Stevie Wonder was singing. Sheri snapped her fingers and muddled up the lyrics between grunts and whines. I studied her leg movements. No one knew where this latest dance came from. America, a classmate had said, but where in that country, and how it crossed an ocean to reach ours, she couldn’t explain. Six months later the dance would be as fashionable as our grandmothers. Then we would be learning another.

  “Aren’t you wearing makeup?” she asked.

  “No,” I said, letting my bangles tumble down my arm.

  “You can’t come looking like that,” she said.

  “Yes, I can.” “Morose.”

  I was, she insisted. I wore no makeup, didn’t go out, and I had no boyfriend. I tried to retaliate. “Just because I’m not juvenile like the rest of you, following the crowd and getting infatuated with... ”

  “Oh hush, your grammar is too much,” she said.

  On the road to the park we kept to the sandy sidewalk. I planned to stay at the picnic until six-thirty if the rain didn’t unleash. My mother was at a vigil, and my father wouldn’t be back until late, he said. The sun was mild and a light breeze cooled our faces. Along the way, I noticed that a few drivers slowed as they passed us and kept my face down in case the next car was my father’s. Sheri shouted out insults in Yoruba meanwhile: “What are you looking at? Yes you. Nothing good will come to you, too. Come on, come on. I’m waiting for you.”

  By the time we reached the park, my eyes were streaming with tears.

  “That’s enough,” she ordered.

  I bit my lips and straightened up. We were beautiful, powerful, and having more fun than anyone else in Lagos. The sun was above us and the grass, under our feet.

  The grass became sea sand and I heard music playing. Ikoyi Park was an alternative spot for picnics. Unlike the open, crowded beaches, most of it was shaded by trees which gave it a secluded air. There were palm trees and casuarinas. I saw a group gathered behind a row of cars. I was so busy looking ahead I tripped over a twig. My sandal slipped off. Sheri carried on. She approached two boys who were standing by a white Volkswagen Kombi van. One of them was Damola, the other wore a black cap. A portly boy walked over and they circled her. I hurried to catch up with them as my heart seemed to punch through my chest wall.

  “We had to walk,” Sheri was saying.

  “You walked?” Damola asked.

  “Hello,” I said.

  Damola gave a quick smile, as if he had not recognized me. The other boys turned their backs on me. My heartbeat was now in my ears.

  Sheri wiggled. “How come no one is dancing?”

  “Would you like to?” Damola asked.

  I hugged myself as they walked off, to make use of my arms. The rest of my body trembled.

  “How long have you been here?” I asked the portly boy.

  The boys glanced at each other as if they hadn’t understood.

  “I mean, at the party,” I explained.

  The portly boy reached for his breast pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes.

  “Long enough,” he said.

  I moved away. These boys didn’t look like they answered to their parents anyway. The portly one had plaits in his hair and the boy with the cap wasn’t even wearing a shirt under his dungarees. Damola, too, looked different out of school uniform.
He had cut-off sleeves and his arms dangled out of them. He was smaller than I’d dreamed; a little duller, but I’d given him light, enough to blind myself. I pretended to be intrigued by the table where a picnic had been laid. The egg sandwich tasted sweet and salty. I liked the combination and gobbled it up. Then I poured myself a glass from the punch bowl. I spat it back into the cup. It was full of alcohol.

  The music stopped and started again. Sheri continued to dance with Damola. Then with the boy in the cap, then with the portly boy. It was no wonder other girls didn’t like her. She was not loyal. I was her only girl friend, she once wrote in a letter. Girls were nasty and they spread rumors about her, and pretended to be innocent. I watched her play wrestle with the portly boy after their dance. He grabbed her waist and the other two laughed as she struggled. If she preferred boys, she was free to. She would eventually learn. It was obvious, these days, that most of them preferred girls like Sheri. Whenever I noticed this, it bothered me. I was sure it would bother me even if I was on the receiving end of their admiration. Who were they to judge us by skin shades?

  I walked toward the lagoon where the sand was moist and firm, and sat on a large tree root. Crabs dashed in and out of holes and mud-skippers flopped across the water. I searched for my home. The shore line curved for miles and from where I sat I could not see it.

  “Hi,” someone said.

  He stood on the bank. His trouser legs were rolled up to his ankles and he wore bookish black rim glasses.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Why aren’t you dancing?” he asked.

  He was too short for me, and his voice wavered, as if he were on the verge of crying.

  “I don’t want to.”

  “So why come to a party if you don’t want to dance?”

  I resisted the urge to frown. That was the standard retort girls expected from boys and he hadn’t given me the chance to turn him down.

  He smiled. “Your friend Sheri seems to be enjoying herself. She’s hanging around some wild characters over there.”

  That wasn’t his business, I wanted to say.

  He pushed his glasses back. “At least tell me your name.”

  “Enitan.”