I am by myself in the room now, but I can still smell him.
His sweat. His rotting teeth. The drink. I smell fear too. The hairs on my hand are standing up, as if rising to the fear with respect, saying, Welcome, sah, welcome, ma.
The rain outside is now stopping and there is no more thundering noise and everywhere is so silent, but there is the faint moan of a woman about to born a baby afar, a woman inside a deep, deep well, a dull trapping noise that fills my whole room with something thick that I am not seeing with my two naked eyes but I am feeling inside of my heart, and so I pick myself up and run to the main house.
* * *
First thing I see when I enter the parlor is Big Madam’s wig. It is hanging from one of the mirrors on the wall, looking like the skin of one dead bush-rat. Cushions are all over the floor, near the tee-vee, by the standing fan, around the feet of the sofa. Big Madam’s gold high-heel shoes are scattered here and there, her feather handbag is open, and lipsticks, eyeshadows, pencils, money, everything is crawling out from it.
Big Madam is sitting on the sofa. She doesn’t open her eyes when I enter, don’t even do as if she can hear me. She keeps her eyes closed, and with the tears running down her swelling face, I feel the block of bitter inside me begin to melt. There is blood around her mouth, and she is pressing the place near her jaw with shaking hands. She is moaning still, but not loud like before. Now it just sounds like she is breathing out noise with her mouth.
“Where is Big Daddy?” My whole body is dripping wet with rainwater and anger, the letter in my hand is a wet leaf. “Where is he?”
She opens her eyes, slow, as if her eyelids are too heavy, but she will not look at me. She looks drunk too, like she’s been drinking the drink of sorrow and pain.
“I have a letter, ma,” I say. “From Rebecca.”
“Rebecca is gone,” she says, voice dragging. “Gone—”
“I know, ma,” I say. “But she write something here. In this letter.”
I bring out the letter. The biro ink on the paper is changing color because of wet, the words fading in some parts. “I should read it for you?” I ask.
She shakes her head, opens up her hand, and I give her the letter. She stares at the paper, at the words in it, but I don’t think she reads it, her eyes are too swollen, nearly blind with pain. She puts the letter on her chest as if she wants to use the paper to wrap the pieces of her breaking heart, to pack it and seal it up.
“Chief has killed me,” she says after a long, long moment. She is not talking to me but to herself and the air. “I could understand the other girls, I tolerated them, I even took care of his mess. But this time, he went too far. Chief Adeoti, you went too far!”
I turn myself around and go to the kitchen. Kofi is not there. I fill a bowl with warm water and take a cloth. Back inside the parlor, I dip the cloth in warm water, squeeze it out, and then slowly begin to wipe the blood from Big Madam’s mouth, the tears from her eyes, the shaking from her hands. And at first, she struggles, but I hold her two hands tight until she slacks herself and closes her eyes, until she accepts that sometimes even the strongest of people can suffer a weakness.
I sing the song my mama was teaching me when I was growing up in the village, the same one I was singing when I was first coming to Lagos, and when I check, Big Madam’s eyes are still closed, but this time, she is snoring softly, so I pluck the letter from where it has floated to the floor, and go to my room.
CHAPTER 52
Fact: About 30% of businesses registered in Nigeria are owned by women. The continued growth of these businesses, which is critical to sustaining the economy, is largely hindered by limited access to funds and by gender discrimination.
Chale, what the hell happened in this house last night?”
Kofi is standing in front of my room door, blinking as if somebody slapped his head with a big plank of wood. “What’s going on?”
I couldn’t sleep all night.
My mind felt like it was inside the washing machine, tumbling and tumbling, until this morning when Kofi knocked the door of my room, freeing me from the tumbling of the mind.
“The living room was in a state when I got in this morning,” Kofi says. “Big Daddy is not home, and Big Madam looks like she got hit by a lorry. What happened?”
“Where did you go?” I ask, keeping one hand on the door, the other holding my nightdress. Kofi didn’t ever behave to me in a bad way, but after yesternight, I cannot be talking to any man without fearing he will jump on me.
“Big Daddy gave me some time off,” he says. “Last night, he asked me to take a break, to go away for the night. Since Big Madam was at the hospital with her sister, I took the opportunity to go and see my old friends at the Ghana High Commission. To be honest, I was skeptical when he gave me some time off, but I was so tired from cooking for Big Madam’s— What happened?”
“Nothing,” I say.
“Chale, talk to me. Did Big Daddy come here?” His face falls, and he presses a hand to his chest. “I should have known when he insisted I should go away for the night. Adunni, talk to me. Why are you just standing there and staring? What did he do to you?”
“Nothing,” I say. “What do you want?”
“Did he rape you?” Kofi asks, his voice climbing high. “Did that imbecile rape you?”
The word “rape” sounds like a knife-cutting, a stabbing, a word I never heard of in my life, but I know I am not needing the Collins to check the meaning.
“He didn’t rape me,” I say, voice soft. The memory of it is still giving me shivers, still causing my heart to bang in my chest. “Big Madam opened the door before it happened.”
Kofi spits on the floor. “Kwasea. God punish him.”
“Did Rebecca go to school?” I ask. “How was her English? Was she sharp in the brain?”
“Rebecca? She spoke good English but was very naïve for her age,” Kofi says. “Her former boss—before Big Madam—educated her. Sent her to a private primary and secondary school and even took her on holidays with the family. When the woman died, Rebecca came here to work. Why are you asking?”
“Nothing,” I say. If Rebecca was a wise girl, she will know that Big Daddy cannot marry her and keep her in the same house with Big Madam. She will know the man was telling lies. Now I know that speaking good English is not the measure of intelligent mind and sharp brain. English is only a language, like Yoruba and Igbo and Hausa. Nothing about it is so special, nothing about it makes anybody have sense. “Do you have a sample of anything she write?” I ask. I want to be sure so that Big Daddy will not say it is somebody else that write that letter. I want to be sure that Big Daddy will suffer for Rebecca because Bamidele didn’t suffer for Khadija.