Home > The Girl with the Louding Voice(43)

The Girl with the Louding Voice(43)
Author: Abi Dare

   “Did she just call us ‘womens’?” she say, laughing, her eyes filling with water. “My days. That is hilarious. Kiki, Caroline, Sade. She just called us ‘womens.’”

   There is laughters all around me, be like one kind crazy chorus.

   “Sorry, ma,” I say. “I didn’t think sense.”

   “What is wrong with you guys?” somebody say, over the laughters. She sound like she is far, far back of me, her voice as if she lick plenty honey before she is talking. I want to peep her, but I cannot be turning my head well, so I keep my ears on her voice and lock the sound of it in my heart.

   “We are women,” she say. “I don’t get the need to embarrass this girl. Not amusing in the least bit. Not at all.”

   “What is Tia moaning about now?” Green Eyes whisper to Football Head.

   Football Head twist her nose like her own mouth is smelling. “All she does is complain about the ozone layer. Lost soul.”

   “She needs to get laid and have a baby.” Green Eyes sniff a laugh as Thin Woman pinch another stick-meat.

   “Adunni, you know you are meant to be at the backyard,” I hear Big Madam say as I turn around. Her red boubou is sweeping the floor, the yellow bows on shoulder area jumping up and down. She is holding a wineglass, the red drink inside turning around and around as she is walking and talking. “Serve the stick-meat and get out of here. If I hear your voice again, I will break your head with my cup.”

   “Yes, ma.”

   “I hear Senator Abdul is backing Jonathan’s campaign,” Green Eyes is saying as I am turning away from Big Madam. “He was one of his most vocal critics. I guess money has changed hands.”

   “My husband has a meeting at Aso Rock tomorrow,” Thin Woman answer as she pick another two stick-meat from my tray, bite on it as if it vex her. She so thin. Where all the food is going to?

   “Whenever he gets summoned to the Presidential Villa to discuss oil revenue and all that, he always comes back home with a suitcase of dollars,” she say, chewing. “With the election imminent, I can only imagine he will be returning with a truckload of cool cash. I must be a good girl so that he can sponsor a day trip to Harrods next weekend. That Gucci croc-skin bag is calling me.”

   “The 5K one? With bamboo handles?” Green Eyes say.

   “5K what? Dollars?” Football Head ask.

   “Pounds, baby,” Thin Woman answer. “UK pounds. I’ll be rocking it for Senator Ladun’s fiftieth. Got my shoes from Harvey Nicks last month. It’s a stunning pair of six-inch red bottoms. The perfect match.”

   Honest, honest, these rich people have a sickness of the head. Because why anybody will wear red buttocks on their feets? Who own the red buttocks? Maybe this night I can check The Book of Nigeria Fact, maybe it will tell me why rich people of the Nigeria are wanting to wear red buttocks as shoe.

   “Gucci is so not my thing,” Green Eyes say. “You know how long I waited for my Hermès Birkin? Eight bloody months. I swear, nobody in Lagos has that bag. By the way, I heard Lola’s husband got his side-chick pregnant. She’s expecting twins.”

   “Can we please discuss the fund-raising for the Ikoyi orphanage?” someone ask, but before I can check who it is, Thin Woman say, “I knew it would happen! I knew it. I warned Lola, didn’t I? I told her to organize some boys to beat the bleach out of the chick’s skin, but she was quoting scripture, saying God will fight her battles.”

   I keep carrying the tray around, hearing them talk and talk about the shopping, about buying costly bag and shoe with dollar money and pound of money, and about one husband giving side-chickens pregnant.

   I reach the last woman. She is standing by herself in one corner, looking like she lost and find herself here by one kind accident. She is wearing t-shirt, pink color, with blue jeans-trouser, white canvas-shoe on her feets. She look more young than the other womens here, with her slim, egg-shape face and skin the color of a roasting cashew nut. Her head is full of plenty tiny twists, like a million millions of them, some of it is hanging in front of her face, the curly tip of it bouncing on the round top of her nose, and the rest of it is pack up in a band at the middle of her head. There is no makeups on her face—only red lipstick on lips which is looking like the cherry in the middle of the plate. There is one earring inside her nose, a spot of gold to the left of her nostrils.

   I hold the tray for her, and she give me a smile, show white teeths with iron gate around it. “We are women,” she say in her honey voice. She is talking whisper, but it is loud for me to be hearing her. “Don’t mind them.”

   Honest, honest, her voice is doing music inside my ears, and I am just feeling something in my belly, like I want to be singing. Laughing. I take my eyes from her face, keep it on her white canvas-shoe, on her short, thin legs inside the blue jeans-trouser. She pick the meat, fingers small, nails short and neat. “Thank you,” she say.

   Thank you.

   That is something I don’t ever hear in this house. I look her face, blink. Why is she saying thank you? For just holding tray? For nothing?

   “Thank you,” she say again, with that music voice. “I certainly hope you enjoy serving your madam Florence.”

   “Kind of you,” I say. “To say thank you to me. Nobody have say thank you to me since I leave Ikati.”

   “It’s okay,” she say, touching my shoulder, gentle. “Go on now.”

   The touch is like electrics on my body. I shock, drop the tray, the stick-meat scattering the floor by my feets.

   “Are you all right?” the woman say.

   I look all the stick-meats, the remaining six of it on the floor, and all I want is my mama. I want her to not be dead, just for two or three minutes only, so she can bring herself come here and tell Big Madam to not beat me, or maybe she can magic and hide me until all the meats is no more on the floor. Or maybe she can—

   “Don’t cry,” the woman say. “Here, let me help you get those. Step back a bit so I can—”

   “No, no,” I say, wiping my tears. “I get it myself, ma.”

   As I bend to pick the first meat, I feel a quick cold air, and something heavy is landing on my head as the honey-voice woman is shouting, “Florence, what the hell?” and I want to tell her that yes, my head is very hell, because it feel as if my head is frying inside a fire, burning, burning, burning, and I am thinking the ceiling have come down and crash on top my head, but when I look up, I see Big Madam. She is holding one leg of her red shoe, and before I can say another one word, she smash the shoe right inside the middle of my head.

 

 

CHAPTER 30

 


        Fact: Zamfara state in northern Nigeria was the first to make polygamy legal, in 2000.

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