The Girl with the Louding Voice(55)

She sit on the floor next to me like me and her are best of friends since we was small childrens. “It’s my second time attending the WRWA,” she say, after a moment. “My husband wants me to get to know our neighbors better. He thinks I am too uptight. How’s the head? Better?”

“Yes, madam,” I say. “Better. You are a kind person.”

“Forget the ‘madam,’” she say. “Just call me Tia.”

“Madam Tee-ya?”

“Ms. Tia,” she say.

“Ms. Tia.” I smile. “I like it if you like it.”

“How old are you?”

“Fourteen, ma.”

“Fourteen?” She strong her face a moment, think. “That’s not right . . . Florence should know better than to hire an underage girl as a maid. I should speak to her—”

“No,” I say, nearly shouting, and when she look me, concern, I force myself to smile. “I mean, don’t be talking to Big Madam about me, please. Just leave me here like this.” How I can be telling this woman that I must stay here until I enter the scholarship? That I have nowhere else to be going except of this place?

“Okay,” she say, slow, dragging the word. “I won’t say anything. Tell me, where have you come from? You said something about Ikati when you served me the stick-meat. Where is that?”

I tell her I don’t know where it is, but I know it is far because we are driving for a long time before we are reaching Lagos.

“I don’t need to ask if you like it here,” she say. “I can tell you aren’t happy.”

I down my face, shake my head. “Are you living far from here?” I ask.

“We moved down the road last year,” she say. “Well, I did. My husband has always lived on this street. I used to live in England. You know England? The UK?”

I think of that rich man Ade. My mama’s man-friend. “I am hearing of the UK of the Abroad,” I say. “And I am seeing it a bit in the CNN news tee-vee.”

She scratch her jaw with her fingernail, as if she is thinking of something deep. “Did you go to school?”

“I was going to school for small time. I didn’t able to finish because of no money and because my mama was dying, but I am trying to be learning English and speaking better because I am wanting to enter one exam very, very soon. I keep reading The Book of Nigeria Fact and the Collins.”

“The Collins? Oh, you mean the dictionary?” She turn, look my whole face, inside my eyes, as if she is seeing me for the first time ever and at the same time she is searching for something deep inside of my eyes. “I am surprised that Florence is putting you through school. You could ask her to get you some storybooks, you know?” she say. “A few books on grammar should help with your forthcoming exam.”

“Yes, madam. I mean, Ms. Tia.” How can I tell her Big Madam is not putting me in any school?

“Do you know Rebecca?” I ask, thinking of her waist beads still under my pillow. Maybe Ms. Tia can help me.

“I heard the women talking about her,” Ms. Tia say. “I don’t think I ever met her. Why are you asking?”

“I am just asking,” I say. “She was working here before, and now she is missing. I ask Kofi, but he say maybe she run away with her boyfriend.”

“She probably did,” Ms. Tia say, shrug. “Stuff like that happens all the time.”

Talking to this Ms. Tia is making the pain in my head to be stopping small. Her honey voice is like medicine, her laugh like cool water on my hot head. I don’t want her to hurry and go, so I am asking her more questions, saying everything that is coming to my brain, so she will stay. “Did you live in the Nigeria after they born you? When did you go to the Abroad?”

“I was born in Lagos. My primary school education was here in Lagos as well,” she say. “In Ikoyi, actually. My dad then got a job in an oil company in Port Harcourt, and so we moved over.”

She say the word “Port Harcourt” as if it is a song, her tongue wrapping around the words, making them dance.

“I spent most of my life in Port Harcourt before I left for university in Surrey.”

“Why it is Sorry?” I ask. “Is it a sad place?”

She raise her hand, cover her eyes from sun rays with a smile. “No, it’s nice. Different.”

“You have any brother or sister?” I ask. “Where is your mama?”

“I am an only child,” she say, shrug, voice level, flat. “My parents are still in Port Harcourt; my dad still works for the oil firm. My mum was working as a librarian at the University of Port Harcourt until she got sick last year.”

“Your mama sick?” I say, feeling much pity. “Sickness is the worst of all things to happen to a mama. When my mama was sick, I didn’t able to balance myself. I was crying every day until she dead. Even now, sometimes, I cry nearly every day. Are you crying every day too?”

She sigh, say, “No, I don’t cry. I am so sorry to hear your mother passed. Sounds like you were close.”

“My mama?” I smile soft. “She was everything to me. My best of friend. Everything.”

“Good for you,” she say. “I . . . uh, how to say this? I relocated . . . came back home to Nigeria last year.”