The Girl with the Louding Voice(35)

“I hear you,” Mr. Kola say. “But there is nobody that can give her a job because . . .” He stop his talking, as if he is just thinking another thing. “There is one girl that is supposed to be starting work for me in Lagos today,” he say. “Maybe I can put Adunni instead. She seems to be what my boss is looking for. The right age. Can she travel to somewhere far like Lagos?”

Lagos, the big, shining city? The Lagos of plenty aeloplane and motorcars and moneys? The Lagos that me and my friend Enitan, we was talking about all the time? And dreaming of going when we have small moneys?

My heart is turning of excitement and sadness. I am feeling much sadness because I was wanting to go to Lagos to see what it is looking like and learn about the place, not because I am running away. But the man is waiting for my answer, and Papa and Morufu can come back anytime now.

“I can travel any far you want, sah,” I say. “I am a good girl, sah.”

“Let me make the call,” he say.

He put his hand inside his pocket and bring out the mobile of telephone. He press the thing one, two, three numbers and put it to his ears. He is talking, moving his head up and down, left and right.

“Hello? Big Madam? Morning, ma. This is Mr. Kola-the-Agent calling. Sorry I am waking you up this early morning. There is a small, important problem. The girl I was bringing today is developing typhoid fever. Too sick to travel long journey. I have another girl. Good one. Her name is Adunni. Yes. Same price. Small girl, yes. Did I ever disappoint you, ma? Of course, yes. She has passed all the medical tests. Thank you.” He press the number on the mobile thing again and put it inside his pocket.

“All is done,” he say. “Pack your things. We are going to Lagos.”

I didn’t sure whether to be laughing or crying. My throat is closing as I am kneeling and thanking Iya and putting my belongings into another nylon bag that Iya give me.

“Kola, thank you,” Iya say, clapping. “Adunni’s mother’s spirit is thanking you.”

Mr. Kola nod his head, dip his hand inside his pocket, and bring out two dirty notes of money and a key. He squeeze the moneys and put it inside Iya’s hand. “Things are hard. The country is not smiling. Manage this till next month.” He turn to me, make a beckon with the key in his hand. “Let’s go.”

I hold my bag tight, but I don’t move my feets. I stand there, blinking, looking the man because what if the man be a bad man? What if he will do me bad things in the Lagos?

“Iya?” I say, wanting to ask her if she really know this man well, even though he is her brother, but the words are hiding somewhere inside my brain and I am looking for them, but they are hiding too far so I just stand there, looking the man, blinking.

“Adunni,” Iya say, sounding like she will slap her stick on my head any moment now if I don’t move my feets. “You better go with him before your peoples are coming back.”

The man sniff up his nose, turn around, say, “I will be in the car. If I don’t see you after five minutes, I move.”

“Pray for me,” I say to Iya, bending to where she is sitting on the floor so she can touch my head.

“Good things will meet you in Lagos,” she say, pointing a hand to my head. “Your mama’s spirit is with you. Go quick.”

It is after Mr. Kola on the engines of his car and forward it on the road that the load of everything gather itself and fall on my head, breaking my spirit.

I am leaving Ikati.

This is what I been wanting all my life, to leave this place and see what the world outside is looking like, but not like this. Not with a bad name following me. Not like a person that the whole village is looking for because they think she have kill a woman. Not with one half of my heart with Kayus and the other half with Khadija.

I hang my head down, feeling a thick, heavy cloth as it is covering me. The thick cloth of shame, of sorrow, of heart pain.





CHAPTER 22

Lagos is far like we are driving to the end of the Nigeria. It been three hours or so since we leave Agan village, and we are still on the express motorway.

Sleep is catching me, but the road is having potholes every five minutes of driving and Mr. Kola’s blue Mazda car is just doing like electric is shocking it every time we fall inside the pothole. All the jerking is slapping the sleep from my eyes. Sometimes, I am even fearing the car will just division into two and Mr. Kola will gum to one half and I will gum to the other half.

Because of it, I am keeping my eyes on the window and looking outside. The express motorway is having womens, mens, and childrens selling bread, Coca-Cola and Fanta, dried bush meat hanging upside down on a stick, newspapers, fruits, water in a nylon bag. My stomach is vexing with hunger, but I am not asking Mr. Kola to stop for me to be buying food because Mr. Kola is stronging his face and holding the wheel-steering with his two hands tight as if he is afraid the wheel-steering will just fly away. There is a angry line on his front head, a rough folding of his skin.

We been driving in silent since morning, and when I am tired of keeping shut, I ask him a question.

“When will we reach this Lagos?” I ask as I use my palm to cover my eyes from the sun. It is not yet midday, but the heat is much, feel as if the sun is spitting fire from the sky. Everywhere is burning, even the rubber of the car chair is frying my buttocks, and sometimes I am sitting on my palms to be keeping my buttocks cool. When he didn’t answer me, I ask him again.