The Girl with the Louding Voice(77)

I turn to look at her, to hear what she is saying about Buhari because I like to be learning new things. She is nodding her head up and down, speaking. “I hear you, Caroline, I hear you. But I don’t see how this can be good for us. That man can make a law that will affect my business. Ninety percent of my income comes from selling fabric for weddings, funerals, engagements . . . ha. It will be a disaster if people start to reduce their spending on fabric. A real disaster.” She catch my eye, say, “Please, hold on, hold on.”

Before I can turn away quick, she knock the side of my head with her finger that have a gold stone ring on it. I feel the pain in the middle of my brain.

“Will you keep your eye on the road and stop listening to my conversation? Idiot.”

I hear her pull something from her bag, jingle like a bunch of keys. She throws the thing to the front seat. It miss me, land on the floor by Abu’s feet, where the car foot pedals are. Abu slide one eye to me, then face his front and keep driving like nothing happen.

Big Madam keeps talking on her phone. “Sorry, Caroline. Adunni was listening to my conversation. Imagine the godforsaken idiot? No, she’s coming with me to the shop. Glory went home for Christmas and has refused to return. Adunni will help me today while I wait for a replacement shop assistant. Anyway, I found a cruise package I think you’d love. My wonderful Chief will be sponsoring me, as usual. No, not the Royal Caribbean—let us talk about it later. How far away are you? Okay, that’s not far. There is no traffic on Awolowo Road, so I should see you soon. Bye.”

I rub my head, feel hot tears burn my eyes. I know the meaning of “forsake.” I know it means when somebody has leave you by yourself. When you are of no use to the person. A wasted waste.

I am not a wasted waste; I am Adunni. A person important enough because my tomorrow will be better than today. I talk to myself, as I have been doing every day since Ms. Tia teach me, until Abu turns the car into the gate of Big Madam’s shop.



* * *





The steps climbing up to Big Madam’s shop is made of white marble, and deep inside each step is a bulb of white light, shining on our feet.

At the top floor is a room the size of her parlor, and I look around, blinking at how bright it is, the wonder of it all. The air is cold with air-con air, smelling like perfume and money.

There are no noises of cars or market women here. No smelling people. Just glass shelves, lining up right from the floor all the way to the ceiling, like a wall of glass around the whole room. Inside each glass is a small ladder sitting under a bright white bulb of round light. Fabrics, the most beautiful I ever seen in my life, are folded into each step of the ladder. There are fabrics with flowers, hundreds of them, so that it look like Big Madam uproot a flower garden and fold it like a cloth to sell. Others have stones, shining ones, different colors, purple, pink, red, blue, white, black, even some colors that don’t have a name. There is one of net, one like a curtain material, heavy-looking, another like a sponge, thick and full. Up in the ceiling, I count sixteen lightbulbs deep inside it and round like eyesballs of light, all in a case of silver metal.

The same dolly babies from when Mr. Kola was pointing the shop to me, two of them, both naked, are still standing behind the front window. A sea of white lace is around their feet, and two vases made out of basket weaving and full of dried yellow flowers sit by each dolly.

In the middle of the shop, there is a purple chair with gold feet, the cushion back of it curling a little. There are magazines on the glass table to the side of the chair, arranged like an open hand fan, and I catch the title of the top magazine with my eyes: Genevieve. There is a picture of three Nollywood actress on the cover, looking rich and happy.

“Put my handbag on the till,” Big Madam say, pointing to the glass shelf on my left with a small computer sitting on top, next to a pen and a pad of paper. Behind the shelf is a chair, tall, with a round seat. There is a tee-vee on the wall too, flat like the one in Big Madam’s parlor.

I put down her handbag, wait for her to tell me what to do.

“My storage is behind that door,” Big Madam say, setting herself in the purple sofa and kicking off her purple shoes. “I don’t think it is locked. Open it, and right on the floor, you will see a bag full of fabric. Bring that bag for me.”

“Yes, ma,” I say, turning to the door behind me. I twist the gold handle, blink into the dark storeroom. It is too dark to see much, but I can make out rows and rows of ladders, full of lace materials, too many to count, too far to see the end of it. I pick the nylon bag behind the door and close it.

When I enter the shop floor, I see Caroline. She is wearing blue jeans-trousers that look too tight, with a gold t-shirt that stop on her belly. There are high heels on her feet, pink with a sharp, pointing tip. Today, her eyes are not green but the gold-brown of honey. How is she able to keep changing her eye color? Or is she wearing a special eye-glass deep inside her eyes?

She wrap up her head with a red scarf and when she nod at me with a quick smile, the two big, round earrings in her ears dance up and down.

“Is this my guipure?” she say, snatching the bag from my hand and peeping into the bag. “Florence, did you give me the best in your collection? I want to make a waist-snatching dress for a special somebody.”

Big Madam laughs like a horse. “Who is the special person? Eh? You this woman, the day your husband will catch you, I will not beg him to take you back.”