What It Means When a Man Falls from the Sky(24)

Buchi had become an expert in interpreting her daughter’s expressions, almost as good as Louisa, her eldest, who understood Damaris completely, even though the child hadn’t spoken a word since her father’s death. Before that, she’d been a chatty girl, inquisitive and bossy.

The blade pinged again and again. Louisa woke like a startled animal but relaxed when she saw her mother. Her smile was filmy, sadness visible underneath. It disappeared completely when she nudged her younger sister with her knee.

“Damaris wet the bed!”

“I know, baby.”

“Auntie will be angry.”

Buchi’s throat constricted.

The thwack-thwack stopped and the runch of the rake replaced it.

“We won’t tell them then. Come on, help me.”

Their talking roused Damaris and the little girl blinked awake, became aware of the damp underneath her, and started to cry.

“Shh, it’s okay, honey, up, up.”

Damaris raised her arms and Buchi scooped her up, then jostled and swayed her to quiet before handing her to Louisa.

In the kitchen, Buchi set a pot of water to boil and switched on the kettle. The raking had stopped and if she listened close enough she could hear Lawrence singing one of his Yoruba songs, the most sound he made other than when he spoke to the girls. His voice was terrible, but she would never risk their hard-won friendship by pointing that out, even in jest. She steeped two cups of tea and set aside a sachet of Ovaltine for the girls to share.

Lawrence approached the back door and she quickly buttered and jammed two slices of bread before the old man could object to the excess. The screen door creaked open and he stood there, waiting. Buchi didn’t waste time cajoling him in. Precious had trained him too well.

“Good morning, ma.”

“Good morning, Lawrence.”

She handed him his cup of tea, creamy with milk and sugar, and a slice of bread. She checked the pot of water, then took her breakfast to join him on the steps. She needed this, these few quiet moments of companionship before the monotony of her day. Lawrence sipped his tea and gave little hums of satisfaction as he chewed. He was a man who enjoyed his sugar.

“Damaris wet the bed today.”

He grunted, then murmured, “Sorry, oh.”

Unspoken was Buchi’s request that he be gentle with her daughter. Gentler. When she and the girls first moved in with her sister and her husband a few months before, less than a month after Nnamdi’s passing, they had been a mess. Damaris, though silent, cycled through wild mood swings. And Louisa, dear Louisa, had been so scared they would be asked to leave that she put all her effort into being so very good and so very careful, losing her impetus for play.

Lawrence, jaded no doubt by interactions with the four spoiled children of the house, who took after their mother in looks but their father in temperament, had been standoffish with the girls at first. But after the day he came across Damaris having a fit in the garden and Louisa bent over her, begging her to be quiet or “they’ll send us away,” he’d become softer with them. Damaris responded to the softness by following him around, pulling weeds where he pulled weeds and feeding the chickens, whose numbers fluctuated with meals and repurchases, each fulfilling its destiny on the plate. All save one.

Kano was a runt that one of the frequently replaced house girls had been tricked into buying. Stuck in perpetual adolescence, the chicken never grew or laid eggs, and had graduated from future meal to family pet. Buchi and Kano shared a mutual dislike for each other, but the bird and the girls got along. Especially Damaris, who took to the small chicken like it was her child. They took turns following each other, and at times the temperamental bird got something in its head and chased Damaris around the house, and Buchi and Louisa would laugh and laugh when she rushed screaming past the kitchen door. Then Kano would stop as abruptly as she’d started and peck around Damaris’s feet, and the little girl would squat by her and play.

“Go and feed your wife,” Buchi would say, handing a chunk of bread to her daughter, and Damaris would take it and run to the bird.

Now Kano pecked around the bottom of the steps, awaiting their generosity. Lawrence tossed a few crumbs her way and the pecking became frenzied. They watched the bird till Buchi heard the sizzle of boiling water hitting the burner, followed by a sound that had her gritting her teeth.

“Buchi! Buchi!” Her sister from somewhere in the house.

They all three scattered, bird, man, woman. Buchi grabbed Lawrence’s half-filled cup. Precious would have a fit if she saw the man drinking out of one of her mugs. She gulped the last of her tea, choked, and was almost knocked over when Lawrence slapped her back.

“Chineke, before Madam sees you and accuses you of assault.”

She was rewarded with a quiver of a smile that from reserved Lawrence might as well have been a guffaw. As soon as she had moved into her sister’s house, Precious had discouraged her friendly overtures toward the servant. “You’ll start giving him airs.” But Buchi persisted and was repaid with his rare smiles, the care he took with her children, and a kind ear. Though he rarely offered advice, the old man was someone she could talk to. And the bits she knew about him—that he was the eldest of nine, that his mother had died only last year, that in a past life he’d been one of Abacha’s drivers—were gems she’d pried from their setting.

“Buchi!” Louder now. She rushed to meet Precious before her sister sought her in the guest bedroom.