The Girl with the Louding Voice(49)

“Yes, sah.” I talk with my teeths close tight. “Work is waiting for me, sah. Please let me be going to—”

“I want you to feel free with me in this house,” he say, cutting my words, holding me more tight. “Florence will not be able to touch you if you let me protect you.”

I push his chest hard, collect myself from his hand, and run to the backyard. I was running fast and I didn’t see Kofi beside the outside tap, I jam him by the shoulder, nearly falling him and myself and the basin he was holding to the floor. Kofi set the basin on the floor and grip the wall with one hand to steady hisself.

“Adunni!” he shout, offing the tap. “Are you okay? Why . . . What is chasing you?”

I press my hand on my knees to slow my breathing. “Big Daddy,” I say. “He was holding me too tight, just now. I collect myself from him and run fast.”

“Big Daddy was holding you?” Kofi say, concern. “Why? Where is his wife?”

“I didn’t too sure why,” I say. “Big Madam just finish beating me, then Big Daddy say he wants me to feel free and that he wants to protect me. What is he wanting from me, Kofi?”

I look Kofi, fear in my eyes. I know what Big Daddy is wanting, but I am afraid to think it. To say it.

“Is that man cursed or something?” Kofi say, talking quiet. “Ah, chale, but I warned you to be careful.”

“I been trying to be be-careful,” I say, feeling tears climb down my cheeks. “I don’t want trouble in this Lagos and I cannot be going back to Ikati, but the man, the Big Daddy man, he was holding me tight, making me to fear. The other time, I catch him looking me one kind of way. Help me, Kofi, please.”

“Don’t cry,” Kofi say, shaking his head with a sad sigh. “There must be something . . . I’ll think of something that can help you. Stop crying, you hear?”

“Thank you,” I say, wiping my cheeks with the edge of my dress as I leave his front to begin my evening toilet washing.

When I finish my work and climb into bed at midnight, my body is sore, my back on fire.

My fingers feel like a stiff curve of plastic, and I know it is because I been holding the cleaning cloth too tight, for too long. I try to sleep, but when I close my eyes, I see Big Daddy’s teeths, sharp like a blade, bleeding with blood, coming for me.





CHAPTER 28

Fact: Nigerians are known for their love of parties and events. In 2012 alone, Nigerians spent over $59 million on champagne.

Big Madam is doing big party on Sunday.

She been running mad with preparations for it, shouting every second. “Adunni, wash every corner in the downstairs toilet,” she will say, pointing a fat hand with dancing flesh to the toilet door. “Use the new toothbrush I bought yesterday to scrub the grout before you bleach the bathroom tiles. Did you scrub the backyard fence like I asked you to? You did? Do it again. Scrub it until the cement sparkles like my mother’s gravestone. Don’t forget the mirrors in the dining room.”

Yesterday afternoon, a tall white van drive inside the compound. When I run outside to look who is inside it, all I see is one brown cow sitting inside the back of the van, licking the fly perching on his nose. I watch as Kofi drag the cow down and tie the neck to the coconut tree in the backyard with a long rope. “This will be slaughtered for barbecue meat and beef stew on Sunday,” Kofi say as he slap the cow on his buttocks and laugh.

“Why is Big Madam doing party preparations?” I ask Kofi this morning as I am sitting outside in the hot sun, washing the gold lace tablecloth. “Is the party tomorrow for Big Madam’s birthday?”

“No,” Kofi say. He is sitting on a bench beside me, picking beans in a tray. “The party on Sunday is for the Wellington Road Wives Association. Big Madam is the president of the group.”

“The what you say?”

“The WRWA,” Kofi say. “A bunch of middle-aged women who formed an association as an excuse to get dressed and get drunk. They say they are trying to raise funds, money to help the poor. All lies! They meet once a quarter and host in turns. Big Madam is hosting November’s meeting.”

“It is not even party for birthday,” I hiss, scrub the cloth, dip it into soapy water and turn it around. “So just a ordinary meeting and they are just wasting money anyhow. The Book of Nigeria Fact is telling me that Nigerians like to spend millions of money on parties and I was thinking it is not true until I reach this Lagos. Is Wellingston the name of our road?”

“Wellington, yes,” Kofi say. “There is no S anywhere in the word. This street is full of all sorts of people. Half of them are former military personnel, thieves who stole Nigeria’s wealth and divorced their wives of youth to marry younger blood; the other half is made up of wealthy businesspeople like Big Madam, high-flying executives and entertainers, some of whom cannot afford the lifestyle but fight to live it anyway.”

He pick up the beans tray, shake it so that the beans is jumping in the air and setting back on the tray with a rattle noise. As he is doing so, he is blowing the dirty among the beans into the air. Kofi set the tray down. “Three years ago, some idiot wife thought it’d be a good idea to form an association just because they happen to live in one of the richest streets in Lagos. I see it as another excuse to throw a party. That’s all these people do with their money. Throw parties and press dollars on each other’s foreheads and chests like it is a form of medication. Do you know that the exchange rate is now one hundred and seventy naira to one dollar? Chale, unless Buhari becomes president next year, nothing can move this country forward. Nothing.”