The Girl with the Louding Voice(69)

“If you don’t know what it means—”

“I know what it means,” I say. “What am I thanking you for?”

“For how I intervened at dinner this evening,” he say, voice low. “With the Dadas. Come on, stop playing stupid,” he say, throwing a look behind his shoulder, where the light in one of the top windows in the house off itself, and someone draw a curtain. “I know you and Tia Dada have been meeting for tutorials of some sort. I saw her once or twice while Florence was away. She was sitting with you back there, behind the kitchen. I like that she is trying to educate you.” He lick his lip. “I support it. A hundred percent. And that is why I made that suggestion in the dining room. My wife would never allow you, by the way. She is not as generous as I am.”

“Thank you, sah,” I say.

“Your madam is this close to kicking you to the streets.” He hold up two fingers, bring it up to his eye level. “This close. But for my intervention. I can let you continue to meet Tia Dada one day a week for as long as you want, but on one condition.”

“What is the one condition?” I slap a mosquito from my shoulder, peep my hand. It has become a spot of blood. “Be quick, sah, I want to go, mosquito is biting me here.”

“Did mosquitoes not wine and dine with you in the village you came from? Look at her, complaining about mosquitoes. These useless housemaids. They have a taste of luxury and start to feel entitled. Listen. All I want is for you to allow me to help you. To be kind to you. You understand?”

I look at the man, at the sack of him, his gray beard like beads of silver cotton wool around his chin, and hiss a silent hiss. “If you want to help me,” I say just as the idea is coming to my mind, “find Mr. Kola, sah. Tell him to bring all my money for working here since August. We are now in the first week of December, sah, it has been five months of working with no salary.”

“Mr. Kola? Who is that? The agent?” Big Daddy sniff a laugh. “Why would I waste my time and resources to find Mr. Kola? For peanuts? How much is your salary? I will pay you double, triple. Listen. If you allow me to help you, you will have more than enough to spend.”

“I want the money I have worked for, sah,” I say as I begin to walk away from him. “Good night.”

“Adunni,” he call out, but his voice is not loud, I know it is because he is afraid of Big Madam hearing him.

“Adunni, come back here,” he say, whispering. “Come back here.”

I reach the clothing line—a thin wire tied between two trees behind the boys’ quarters—snatch my dress from it and throw it over my shoulder.

How is Morufu and Big Daddy different from each other? One can speak good English, and the other doesn’t speak good English, but both of them have the same terrible sickness of the mind.

A sickness with no cure.





CHAPTER 40

Fact: As of 2012, Nigeria was estimated to have lost over $400 billion of oil revenue to corruption since independence.

The man in the tee-vee has been talking elections for one hour now.

I am sitting on the floor, massaging Big Madam’s feet and keeping one eye to the tee-vee. He is holding a microphone, his neck long in the gray English jacket he is wearing as he is speaking. “The question in everyone’s mind as 2014 draws to a close is this: Will the giant of Africa continue to be propelled into further instability, bloodshed, and economic woes under the fedora-hat-wearing man who never had shoes as a child, or will Nigerians arise and vote for change under Muhammadu Buhari, the retired major general who was once the nation’s head of state? We have four months until the nation decides. Until then, keep your eyes glued to your favorite channel.”

“Buhari can never rule us again,” Big Madam say, twisting her feet in my hand. “Scratch that place for me, Adunni, yes, that place by my heel. That’s it. Perfect. God forbid that Buhari should become president.”

She is not talking to me, but she is looking me, looking my hand as it is going up and down on her feet. “Buhari is going to deal with all those who benefited under Jonathan. Ah, my God will not let him win. Buhari is an enemy of progress. What corruption is he promising to fight? All lies! Nigerians have been blindfolded by this promise-of-change nonsense. They think the man is the next Obama. I pity them. That man has no heart. He will finish the country with his military-man ruling style.”

There is a knock on the door, and Ms. Tia comes in. She is wearing her same style of t-shirt and jeans-trouser. This time, they write NAIJA GIRL on the t-shirt with shining alphabet. She give me a smile and a wink, nod her head at Big Madam.

“Good morning, Madam Florence,” she say. “Hope you are enjoying your Saturday.”

Big Madam put up her nose in the air, as if about to sniff a smell. “Mrs. Dada.”

Ms. Tia keep her smile. “So, I figured that since it’s a Saturday morning, and we, uh, agreed last week that Adunni could come with me to the market . . . I just thought to check if, you know, today might be a good time, say around two?”

“Adunni is busy,” Big Madam say. “Keep massaging, rub my big toe well,” she say to me.

Ms. Tia give a laugh that sound like it pain her. “Right. I thought we agreed—”

“We did not agree anything,” Big Madam say. She collect her feet, push herself up on the sofa. “I offered you my house help as a favor. I don’t owe you anything. Today, she is busy. Come back on Monday when I am at the shop.”