The Girl with the Louding Voice(53)

“What is her name?” she ask. “Come on, girl. Raise your head. What is your name?”

I lift my head. Kofi say I must not be talking, but this woman is looking me with her green eyes, blinking, waiting for me to give answers. She make me think of a cat, a black cat with brown hair and green eyes and long nails.

“Adunni is the name, ma,” I say.

“Well, at least this one speaks English. Who remembers that girl that Florence had for like a week? That stole half of your kitchen food. What was her name?”

“Chichi,” Big Madam say. “Possessed child of the devil. I sent her back to the hell she came from after I caught her urinating into the cup I use for my morning tea.”

“Rebecca is still your best house girl ever. Well-spoken, respectful girl. She was what, twenty?”

I stay stiff when I hear Rebecca’s name. Maybe one of these womens will know. Maybe Big Madam will say something.

“Who cares?” Big Madam ask. “Does anyone want some cocktails? I also have some peppered snails on the grill. There’s suya too, fresh and spicy.”

“Florence, did you get to the bottom of what happened with Rebecca?” Football Head ask. “I always liked that girl,” she say. “Did she run away? Florence? Did you go to her family?”

Big Madam say, “I could have sworn someone requested homemade pi?a colada.”

“They all run away in the end, don’t they?” another woman say. I peep that one too. Her whole body is one straight line. No breast, flat chest like floor. Her hair is long to her back, straight, the black of charcoal. Her eyeslashes is sticking outside of her face; like a short broom sweeping the red powder on top her cheeks. “Why would Florence bother traveling to goodness-knows-where to search for Rebecca? We all know that house girls are notorious for getting pregnant for one local idiot and disappearing. Hey, you. Bring that tray here.”

“Yes, ma,” I say as I move my feets, carry the tray to her, and keep my eyes on the gold tile on the floor. “Here, ma.”

She pinch two stick of meat and pick it, fingers like matchstick. “Take it round to the girls,” she say.

I raise my head. “Which girls?” I ask. “You mean the womens?”

The woman, she throw her thin head back so quick, I am fearing it will just snap off, fall to the ground, and roll to the outside.

“Did she just call us ‘womens’?” she say, laughing, her eyes filling with water. “My days. That is hilarious. Kiki, Caroline, Sade. She just called us ‘womens.’”

There is laughters all around me, be like one kind crazy chorus.

“Sorry, ma,” I say. “I didn’t think sense.”

“What is wrong with you guys?” somebody say, over the laughters. She sound like she is far, far back of me, her voice as if she lick plenty honey before she is talking. I want to peep her, but I cannot be turning my head well, so I keep my ears on her voice and lock the sound of it in my heart.

“We are women,” she say. “I don’t get the need to embarrass this girl. Not amusing in the least bit. Not at all.”

“What is Tia moaning about now?” Green Eyes whisper to Football Head.

Football Head twist her nose like her own mouth is smelling. “All she does is complain about the ozone layer. Lost soul.”

“She needs to get laid and have a baby.” Green Eyes sniff a laugh as Thin Woman pinch another stick-meat.

“Adunni, you know you are meant to be at the backyard,” I hear Big Madam say as I turn around. Her red boubou is sweeping the floor, the yellow bows on shoulder area jumping up and down. She is holding a wineglass, the red drink inside turning around and around as she is walking and talking. “Serve the stick-meat and get out of here. If I hear your voice again, I will break your head with my cup.”

“Yes, ma.”

“I hear Senator Abdul is backing Jonathan’s campaign,” Green Eyes is saying as I am turning away from Big Madam. “He was one of his most vocal critics. I guess money has changed hands.”

“My husband has a meeting at Aso Rock tomorrow,” Thin Woman answer as she pick another two stick-meat from my tray, bite on it as if it vex her. She so thin. Where all the food is going to?

“Whenever he gets summoned to the Presidential Villa to discuss oil revenue and all that, he always comes back home with a suitcase of dollars,” she say, chewing. “With the election imminent, I can only imagine he will be returning with a truckload of cool cash. I must be a good girl so that he can sponsor a day trip to Harrods next weekend. That Gucci croc-skin bag is calling me.”

“The 5K one? With bamboo handles?” Green Eyes say.

“5K what? Dollars?” Football Head ask.

“Pounds, baby,” Thin Woman answer. “UK pounds. I’ll be rocking it for Senator Ladun’s fiftieth. Got my shoes from Harvey Nicks last month. It’s a stunning pair of six-inch red bottoms. The perfect match.”

Honest, honest, these rich people have a sickness of the head. Because why anybody will wear red buttocks on their feets? Who own the red buttocks? Maybe this night I can check The Book of Nigeria Fact, maybe it will tell me why rich people of the Nigeria are wanting to wear red buttocks as shoe.

“Gucci is so not my thing,” Green Eyes say. “You know how long I waited for my Hermès Birkin? Eight bloody months. I swear, nobody in Lagos has that bag. By the way, I heard Lola’s husband got his side-chick pregnant. She’s expecting twins.”