“Do you know why I have stopped you?”
I am tempted to point out that it is the traffic that has stopped me, but the futility of my position is all too clear. I have no way to escape.
“No, sir,” I reply as sweetly as I can. Surely if they were on to us, it’s not LASTMA that they would send, and they wouldn’t do it here. Surely…
“Your seat belt. You are not wearing your seat belt.”
“Oh…” I allow myself to breathe. The cars in front of me inch forward, but I am forced to stay in place.
“License and registration, please.” I am loath to give this man my license. It would be as foolhardy as allowing him to enter my car—then he would call the shots. I don’t answer immediately, so he tries to open my door, grunting when he finds it locked. He stands up straight, his conspiratorial manner flung away. “Madam, I said license and registration!” he barks.
On a normal day, I would fight him, but I cannot draw attention to myself right now, not while I’m driving the car that transported Femi to his final resting place. My mind wanders to the ammonia blemish in the boot.
“Oga,” I say with as much deference as I can muster, “no vex. It was a mistake. E no go happen again.” My words are more his than mine. Educated women anger men of his ilk, and so I try to adopt broken English, but I suspect my attempt betrays my upbringing even more.
“This woman, open the door!”
Around me cars continue to press forward. Some people give me a look of sympathy, but no one stops to help.
“Oga, please let’s talk, I’m sure we can reach an understanding.” My pride has divorced itself from me. But what can I do? Any other time, I would be able to call this man the criminal that he is, but Ayoola’s actions have made me cautious. The man crosses his arms, dissatisfied but willing to listen. “I no go lie, I don’t have plenty money. But if you go gree—”
“Did you hear me ask for money?” he asks, fiddling once again with my door handle, as though I’d be silly enough to unlock it. He straightens up and puts his hands on his hips. “Oya park!”
I open my mouth and shut it again. I just look at him.
“Unlock your car. Or we go tow am to the station and we go settle am there.” My pulse is thumping in my ears. I can’t risk them searching the car.
“Oga abeg, let’s sort am between ourselves.” My plea sounds shrill. He nods, glances around and leans forward again.
“Wetin you talk?”
I bring 3,000 naira out of my wallet, hoping it is enough and that he will accept it quickly. His eyes light up, but he frowns.
“You are not serious.”
“Oga, how much you go take?”
He licks his lips, leaving a large dollop of spittle to glisten at me. “Do I look like a small pikin?”
“No, sir.”
“So give me wetin a big man go use enjoy.”
I sigh. My pride waves me goodbye as I add another 2,000 to the money. He takes it from me and nods solemnly.
“Wear your seat belt, and make you no do am again.”
He wanders off, and I pull my seat belt on. Eventually, the tremors still.
RECEPTION
A man enters the hospital and makes a beeline for the reception desk. He is short, but he makes up for that in girth. He barrels toward us, and I brace myself for the impact.
“I have an appointment!”
Yinka grits her teeth and offers him her best smile. “Good morning, sir, can I take your name?”
He tosses her his name and she checks the files, thumbing through them slowly. You can’t rush Yinka, but she slows down intentionally when you push her buttons. Soon the man is tapping his fingers, then his feet. She raises her eyes and peers at him through her lashes, then lowers them again and continues her search. He starts to puff up his cheeks; he is about to explode. I consider stepping in and diffusing the situation, but a yelling from a patient might do Yinka some good, so I settle back into my seat and watch.
My phone lights up and I glance at it. Ayoola. It is the third time she has called, but I am not in the mood to talk to her. Maybe she is reaching out because she has sent another man to his grave prematurely, or maybe she wants to know if I can buy eggs on the way home. Either way, I’m not picking up.
“Ah, here it is,” Yinka cries, even though I have seen her examine that exact file twice and continue her search. He breathes out through his nostrils.
“Sir, you are thirty minutes late for your appointment.”
“Ehen?”
It is her turn to breathe out.
This morning is quieter than usual. From where we sit, we can see everyone in the waiting area. It is shaped like an arc, with the reception desk and sofas facing the entrance and a large-screen TV. If we dimmed the lights, we would have ourselves a personal cinema. The sofas are a rich burgundy color, but everything else is devoid of color. (The decorator was not trying to broaden anyone’s horizons.) If hospitals had a flag it would be white—the universal sign for surrender.
A child runs out of the playroom to her mum and then runs back in. There is no one else waiting to be attended to except the man who is right now getting on Yinka’s nerves. She sweeps a curl of Monrovian hair from her eyes and stares at him.
“Have you eaten today, sir?”
“No.”
“Okay, good. According to your chart, you haven’t had a blood sugar test in a while. Would you like to have one?”
“Yes. Put it there. How much is it?” She tells him the price, and he hisses.
“You are very foolish. Abeg, what do I need that for? You people will just be calling price anyhow, as if you are paying someone’s bill!”
Yinka glances my way. I know she is checking if I am still there, still watching her. She is recalling that if she steps out of line she will be forced to listen to my well-rehearsed speech about the code and culture of St. Peter’s. She smiles through clenched teeth.
“No blood sugar test it is then, sir. Please take a seat, and I will let you know when the doctor is ready to see you.”
“You mean he is not free now?”
“No. Unfortunately you are now”—she checks her watch—“forty minutes late, so you’ll have to wait till the doctor has a free appointment.”
The man gives a terse shake of his head and then takes his seat, staring at the television. After a minute he asks us to change the channel. Yinka mutters a series of curses under her breath, masked only by the occasional sounds of delight from the child in the sunny playroom and the football commentary from the TV.