One could begin
with the dust, the heat, and the purple bougainvillea. One might even
begin with the smell of rotting mangos, tossed by the side of the road
where flies hummed and green-bellied lizards bobbed their orange heads
while loitering in the sun. But Tayo did not notice these – instead he
walked in silence, oblivious to his surroundings. With a smile on his
face, he thought of the night before, when he had dared to run a hand
beneath the folds of Modupe’s wrapper. Miraculously, without him even
asking, Modupe had loosened the cloth around her waist. Of course they
had kissed many times before, usually in the Lebanese cinema when all
was dark, but that was nothing compared to last night. And while Tayo
was lost in his thoughts, his father, who walked alongside, noticed the
smile and read it as excitement for the forthcoming trip. They had set
off early that morning to visit relatives, as was the tradition when
someone was about to embark on a long journey. They would begin with
Uncle Bola in the hope of finding him sober. By midday, he would almost
certainly be drinking ogogoro and this was not a day to meet Uncle Bola
under the influence.
“An old man should
be contemplating his mortality, rather than dreaming of women,” Tayo’s
father said, alluding to his brother’s raunchy tales, which Tayo knew
his father secretly enjoyed.
Uncle B liked to
joke that he was still young enough to make babies and thank the Lord
God Almighty. And he did make babies – dozens of them. As for thanking
God – well, that was simply a manner of speaking. Uncle Bola believed
only in beautiful women – not Allah, Christ nor Ogun. In turn, women
loved him, in spite of what he lacked by way of height, teeth and
schooling. Tayo had long since concluded that Uncle Bola held the
secret to a woman’s heart, which was why he looked forward to this
visit. But on this particular morning, Uncle Bola did not seem himself.
Upon seeing them, he became quite weepy, so weepy in fact that he
forgot about his atheism and offered prayers to Allah, Ogun and Jesus
on behalf of his favourite nephew. With tears still in his eyes, Uncle
Bola gave Tayo his best aso ebi as a going-away present, and then
insisted that they stay longer to take amala and stew with him.
“Here is some money
for the ladies when you arrive,” Uncle Bola whispered, stuffing the
newly-minted pound notes into Tayo’s shirt pocket before waving a final
goodbye. Tayo had hoped to stay even longer, enjoying the company of
his sentimental uncle, but there were many more relatives to be visited
and several more lunches to eat. Everyone insisted on feeding them and
then, just when Tayo thought it was all over, they returned home to
find more relatives gathered to wish him well. Several of Father’s
friends were sprawled across the courtyard drinking beer and palm wine
while the children chased each other in the dirt path by the side of
the house. The women sat in one corner, roasting corn on an open fire,
with sleeping babies on their backs.
“Tayo! Tayo!” the
older children chanted as he made his way through the throng, stopping
to pick up the youngest. Tayo expected his father to usher people away,
but after the day’s copious consumption of palm wine, he had apparently
forgotten time, preferring instead to continue boasting about his
eldest son.
“Na special scholarship dey don make for de boy?” somebody asked.
“Oh yes.” Tayo’s father beamed.
In fact, the
scholarship was not created just for Tayo, but because he was the first
Nigerian to win it (such things having been reserved, in the past, for
whites), Tayo’s father decided that he might as well claim it solely
for his son. Tayo closed his eyes while his father boasted, and thought
ahead to the day after next, imagining how he would move swiftly
through the crowds at Lagos Port to the ship and sail over the seas to
England.
“And then to Balliol College, Oxford,” Tayo whispered, thinking how grand it sounded.
At dawn the
following day, the entire Ajayi family said prayers before gathering
around Father’s silver Morris Minor, washed and polished by brothers
Remi and Tunde so that it glistened like a fresh river fish. Everybody
was dressed in his or her Sunday best, ready for the photographs, and
only when the photographer ran out of film did five of them clamber
into the car. Father sounded the horn and all the doors slammed shut.
The key turned and turned again, but the motor wouldn’t start, so
everyone stumbled out again to push. Even Father helped, with one foot
pumping the pedals and the other pushing back against the ground. They
rolled it down the path, out of the compound and onto the road, until
the engine jerked into action. Then, hurriedly, they all piled back in.
The children followed the car down the dirt road, running and waving,
not caring about the dust being blown into their faces, but jogging
along until they could no longer keep up. Sister Bisi ran the fastest,
thumping decisively on the car boot before they sped away, out of
Ibadan and onto the main road that would take them to Uncle Kayode’s
place in Lagos. In the car, Mama and Baba sat in the front, and Tayo
and his two aunts in the back. Father forbade talking in the car,
claiming that it distracted him, and for once Tayo was happy with this
edict, knowing that otherwise his aunts would lecture him on how to
behave in England. It didn’t matter that his aunts had never travelled
outside Nigeria: it was their right and duty to instruct. Tayo closed
his eyes and thought again about his sweetheart and their final
goodbye. He remembered the poem he had composed for the occasion and
the lines that did not quite rhyme. Thankfully, in the end, there had
been no need for sonnets.
By the time they
arrived at Uncle Kayode’s house, the car was caked in dust and its
weary passengers covered in sweat and grime, but all would soon be
forgotten. Uncle Kayode had a luxurious home. He was a big man in
Lagos, recently returned from abroad as a senior army officer. Maids
cooked for him, and large fans hung from the ceilings, whirling at high
speed to keep the house cool. Tayo had never seen anything like it
before.
“When you arrive in
England, my son,” Uncle Kayode was saying, “you must make sure to
contact the British Council and don’t forget to write to cousin Tunde
and cousin Jumoke.”
Tayo listened
carefully, hoping not to forget any valuable advice, but by the time he
went to bed he couldn’t remember half of what he had been told. Annoyed
with himself, he tossed restlessly on his mattress. For weeks he had
been looking forward to travelling away from home – to having his
freedom – but now he thought only of what he would miss and how
frightening it would be to travel alone. He took Modupe’s photograph
from his bag, quietly, so as not to wake his uncle, and kissed it.
Reassured by her smile and remembering the events of Friday night, he
rolled over and eventually fell asleep.
The next day, Tayo
stood at the port, holding his bag tightly. He dared not ask his uncle
another question (he had asked so many already), but he still wasn’t
clear about what to do when he disembarked. What if the arrival halls
in England were just as chaotic as the confusion he was seeing now,
with everyone shouting and gesticulating and no-one bothering to queue?
Exasperated by the late-afternoon heat, men took off their cloth caps
and flicked away beads of perspiration. Then, as the folds of their
agbadas kept slipping off their shoulders, they hitched them back,
raising their arms like swimmers. Meanwhile, women herded children and
straightened little dresses, trousers, and shirts, while hastily
tightening their own wrappers and head ties, continually unravelled by
heat and bustle. Tayo, like everyone else, had been standing in this
crowd for hours. He smiled, but not as broadly as the day before. His
parents, uncle, aunties, and several Lagos-based relatives were with
him, as well as Headmaster Faircliff and some teachers from school:
Mrs. Burton (Latin), Mr. Clark (Maths), and Mr. Blackburn (British
Empire History), but none of his brothers or sisters had come and he
missed them, especially Bisi.
Tayo shook his head
wistfully, staring at the Aureol, which towered high above them like a
vast white giant with hundreds of porthole eyes. You will be missed, he
told himself, recalling the rumour started by friends that a particular
Lagos girls’ school – the one whose pupils occasionally visited his old
school – was in mourning over his departure. He glanced around for
these girls, but all he saw were family, easy to recognise in the
matching clothes worn specially for his send-off. The men’s agbadas
were the same aubergine purple as the women’s short sleeve bubas and
ankle-length wrappers. Tayo’s mother had chosen the material, fine
Dutch waxed cotton, embroidered in gold thread at the neck and sleeves.
Tayo had wanted to wear his agbada like the rest of the family, but
Father insisted on western attire, claiming it more appropriate for an
Oxford-bound man. So instead of loose, flowing robes, Tayo wore grey
flannel trousers, white shirt, school tie, and a bottle green blazer
that stuck to his skin like boiled okra. His agbada was neatly packed
away in the trunk with extra clothes, the Koran, the Bible,
half-a-dozen records, and several large tins of cooked meat with dried
okra, egusi seed and elubo.
“Jeun daada o, omo
mi. F’oju si iwe re o, de ma jeki awon obinrin ko si e lori. (Eat well,
my son. Pay attention to your studies, and don’t be distracted by
women),” Mama whispered, tugging at his shirt sleeve.
“Yes, Ma,” he
nodded, turning to face her as she adjusted his collar – it needed no
tweaking but that was her way. He hugged her tightly so that her head
tie brushed against his chin, and the weight of stone and coral
necklaces clinked against his blazer buttons. It took him back to his
childhood days, when he was afraid of thunder and lightning and would
rush to his mother’s arms to bury himself in the reassuring scent of
her rose perfume, tinged with the smell of firewood and starched
cotton. He squeezed her again before his father called him away.
“So long, my son,” Baba spoke in English, which was his custom when in the presence of expatriates.
Tayo held out his
hand and was surprised when his father pulled him into the voluminous
folds of his agbada and held him there for some time. Baba then started
sniffling and fiddling with his handkerchief behind Tayo’s neck, which
compelled Tayo to cough and break Father’s hold so that they stood for
some moments, disentangled but silent, each searching for something to
say.
“Now, Tayo,” Headmaster Faircliff interrupted. “You’re off to be a Balliol man.”
“Yes sir.” Tayo nodded.
“You ought to be jolly proud of yourself, Tayo, and soon you’ll return to lead your country and make our school proud.”
He grasped Tayo’s
hand and threw a friendly slap across his shoulder. Tayo nodded again,
feeling strangely irritated by the man whom he normally admired and
felt indebted to for the scholarship.
“Right then, off you go,” Mr. Faircliff ordered, releasing Tayo, and pointing to the gangway.
Tayo turned to
leave, holding tightly to the large canvas bag that hung from his
shoulder. Mama had assured him that in it was all that he needed for
the voyage – a few changes of clothes, a bar of Palmolive soap, a tin
of kola nuts, some dried meats, a map of England, chewing sticks, and
Uncle Kayode’s old winter coat.
“Write to me as soon as you arrive,” Father called.
“Yes sir.” Tayo
glanced back at his father before making his way slowly up the steps.
He waited for his father to shout one last instruction, but it never
came.
Excerpt taken from ‘In Dependence’ by Sarah Ladipo Manyika, published by Cassava Republic Press.
