Refuge (25 page)

‘Don’t you be worrying no more,
ma cheri
. Your man Sunday is here. It will be all right. Give me the money.’

Abayomi turned to Sunday, nodding in resignation. ‘Be careful with it,’ she said as she pulled the envelope out of her pocket and thrust it into his hands, placing her palm on top of his fist. She looked at him solemnly. ‘I am trusting you, Sunday. Tell Ifasen … tell Ifasen that I am sorry. Tell him I was here, that I waited, but they would not let me in. Tell him I was here but I had to go. I have to see Mandla …’ She kept talking, willing Sunday to listen and understand, as if he were a conduit to Ifasen himself. ‘Tell him I will see him tonight.’

‘
The leech that does not let go even when it is filled dies on the dry land
,’ Sunday said in Igbo. Abayomi glared at him until he giggled. ‘Okay, okay, don’t worry. Sunday has it under control,
mai sista
. Sunday’s your man. No worries. No worries. Sunday and the money will be here.’

But when Ifasen was called up from the court cells below, just after lunch, the courtroom was almost empty. Two anxious-looking mothers were clasped together, waiting for their pickpocketing sons to emerge. Only one other man was in court, seemingly asleep beneath his skew cap. The trip in the truck had left Ifasen feeling sick and he swayed on the top of the steps before the court orderly shoved him into the accused box. When the man recognised Ifasen from the scuffle the week before, he decided to stand watch nearby. Ifasen looked over his shoulder, scouring the courtroom for Abayomi. Somebody must call her from outside, he thought anxiously. He tried to attract the attention of one of the mothers, but they were too preoccupied.

‘Mr Obeyi!’ A voice boomed and Ifasen spun around. Magistrate Julies sat behind a looming façade, flicking his pen between his fingers. ‘Court proceedings happen in my court in front of you, sir, not behind you. There is nothing for you there. So please face the front.’

Ifasen nodded apologetically, still feeling his head being pulled inexorably to look towards the back. It was inconceivable that he had been abandoned.

‘Right, charges please.’

The prosecutor pushed her glasses up her nose before shuffling around her desk to hand up the charge sheet to the magistrate. He read through them slowly, grunting to himself from time to time. Ifasen heard a noise as someone entered the courtroom and strained his eyes sideways, trying to catch a glimpse of the door. An elderly woman rustled her shopping bag as she settled onto the hard bench. The flabby orderly picked dandruff from his hair. After a period of silence, the magistrate put down the documents and nodded to the diminutive prosecutor.

‘Your Honour, the accused is charged with attempting to deal in narcotics, resisting arrest and failing to obey the lawful command of a member of the South African Police Service.’ Ifasen thought he detected an emphasis on ‘South African’ but the woman’s face remained impassive. He half-expected the magistrate to laugh at her screechy statement, but he, too, was unmoved, turning his attention to the accused.

‘So, Mr Obeyi. Not so obedient, are we then?’

The shrill prosecutor smiled to herself, but Ifasen frowned, unsure of the meaning of the magistrate’s comment.

‘Now, you do not have a lawyer, do you, Mr Obeyi?’ the magistrate continued.

Ifasen looked around at the back of the courtroom again, but the small audience had not changed.

‘Front, please, Mr Obeyi!’ Again the voice roared and Ifasen almost lost his balance as he turned back to the bench.

‘No, sir, it seems that I have no lawyer today.’ Ifasen put his hands behind his back to lend further seriousness to his answer, standing at attention like a soldier.

‘Yes, well, that comes as no surprise to this bench.’ The magistrate scribbled something on the papers in front of him. ‘All right, Mr Obeyi. You are charged with serious offences, offences that come before this court all the time. However, you’ll not have to plead today; you’ll be given an opportunity to employ a lawyer to represent you. Now I assume you want bail?’

Ifasen nodded.

‘Well then,’ the magistrate continued without breaking, ‘where do you live?’

Before Ifasen could respond, the prosecutor’s voice grated in his ears: ‘Address given, Your Worship, is Flat 605, Marconi Flats, Main Road, Sea Point. No fixed place of employment.’

Ifasen looked at her and then back at the magistrate. ‘Well?’ The magistrate tapped his pen on the desk.

‘Yes.’ Ifasen was not sure what else he should say. He opened his mouth to say something more, to explain who he was, how he came to be a refugee in a foreign country, that he had a son, that he was married and how he loved his wife. But the sterile confines of the courtroom seemed no place for such admissions. It seemed that just uttering such disclosures might somehow destroy them. He closed his mouth and shifted from foot to foot.

‘Well, what do you earn?’

Ifasen frowned again at the question.

‘What
money
do you make?’ the magistrate repeated, slowly formulating each word.

‘I am a schoolteacher. I was born and educated in Kano. Then I taught at a school in Lagos and then in Ab—’

‘Mr Obeyi, I am not the slightest bit interested in what you did before you graced the shores of this fine country of ours. I don’t care if you were the King of England before you got here.’

Again the prosecutor smiled to herself, staring down into her lap. Ifasen felt he should mention her disrespect to the magistrate. But the man seemed weary and uninterested.

‘What I want to know is what you earn in this country and how you earn it – in this country – other than apparently selling drugs.’

‘I sell toys and things on the road,’ Ifasen answered. ‘And I don’t sell drugs,’ he added bravely.

He knew that he needed to explain to this man that his wife earned ten times more than he did, that her income was stable and significant. But how could he even begin to explain to them what she did for a living – the unspoken manipulation and abuse that brought in their weekly earnings, that bought their food, paid for the child’s nappies? How could he describe his pride in his wife and his simultaneous daily humiliation, holding her tightly at night and trying not to imagine how her day had played itself across her body?

Ifasen looked up at the magistrate, feeling hot tears welling up from under his eyelids.

‘Well,’ the magistrate responded coldly, ‘that’s all not very impressive now, is it? You sell trinkets on the side of the road. You don’t have a fixed place of employment. Your address is some arbitrary flat in a run-down Sea Point drug den. Tell me, do you have any money here today to offer as bail, money that you can actually pay today?’

Ifasen turned to the gallery. This time the magistrate did not chastise him, giving him a moment to sweep the empty benches imploringly.

After a while the magistrate said, ‘Mr Obeyi, I will take that as a no. In the absence of any proof of earnings and given the inability to pay any given amount of bail, I have no choice but to refuse bail at this stage. Date for trial hearing?’

The prosecutor jumped to her feet. ‘March 17, Your Honour.’

‘Matter postponed to March 17. Accused is remanded in custody.’ Before Ifasen had a chance to ask the magistrate what had happened, his arm was gripped by the orderly and he was led, two steps at a time, back down to the holding cells. He started to protest but the orderly held a chubby finger up to his lips. The stairs smelt of antiseptic and were still damp in places. He tried not to step on the wet patches as he was hurried down to the cells below.

The orderly handed Ifasen over to a policeman and then shuffled back up the steep stairs. Ifasen tried to ask the guard a question, but the man just shook his head. He took a fistful of Ifasen’s shirt and escorted him down a long passageway. He stopped at a closed door and kept holding Ifasen tightly while he negotiated the keys. The metal door crashed loudly against the wall and the keys clanged as the policeman unlocked the thick grate. Ifasen was thrust into solitude again, the dark sealing the space between him and the walls.

R
ICHARD SAT IN
his car, waiting for Abayomi to come out of the building. He felt foolish sitting double-parked in the street in his shiny Mercedes. A vendor wearing a Yankees cap came up to him and offered him cigarettes. He did not open his window, waving the man away from the coolness of the interior. A couple walked past, arm in arm, pushing a baby’s pram. The woman’s hair was long and thick, a shining black mass that shimmered as she walked. Her partner had the bulging arms of a bodybuilder and a handsome, square face. They presented a beautiful picture, made all the more so by the tiny pram the man was pushing in front of him, held with one massive fist. Richard was surprised to see them turn into the entrance of the run-down apartment block, stepping over the debris that littered the foyer. They did not try the elevator but simply lifted the pram up the stairs, working together.

A young woman in white hot-pants emerged from the shadows and sashayed over to him. When she tapped on his window, Richard tried the same trick as with the vendor, but she leant forward, her loose top falling forward to reveal small, pointed breasts and the sweep of her stomach. She wagged her finger at him and made a rolling motion, gesturing to him to open the window. Laughing despite himself, Richard pressed the button and the window slid down. The woman was pretty, her hair Afro-bushy and her make-up expertly applied. She smiled, displaying perfect white teeth beneath her tender lips.

‘Hello,’ she said engagingly. ‘My name is Sophie. What is your name, nice man sitting in your nice car?’ She batted her eyelids and pushed her face closer to Richard’s. He became aware of her body heat.

Her manner was so direct that he found himself unable to dismiss her. ‘Richard,’ he answered meekly. He was afraid that she would strut around the car and climb in the passenger door or, even worse – his heart quickened – open his door and climb across him. She pulled down the edge of her loose shirt some more, making sure that Richard had the full view of her torso.

‘Come on, baby, come with me and I’ll make you feel all better. Come with Sophie, baby.’ Richard wanted to turn up the air conditioning but he couldn’t reach forward without bringing his face closer to hers. He shrank back, pushing his head into the headrest.

Then with relief he saw a statuesque figure striding across from the building. ‘Gettaway you,’ Abayomi shouted before launching animatedly into a language Richard had not heard before. The effect was immediate: Sophie withdrew from the window like a snake retreating into its hole. She moved quickly, walking backwards, her eyes thin little slits of resentment.

Abayomi climbed into the passenger seat, her long legs extending beneath the dashboard. The car filled with her distinct scent, and Richard felt a wave of blissful excitement wash over him.

‘Hello,’ he said, turning towards her. ‘I think we’d better get out of here before I get into more trouble than I can handle.’ He looked back towards Sophie’s retreating figure. As he engaged the gears, the young prostitute stepped up onto the opposite pavement, still walking backwards. Feeling a safe distance from her competitor, she promptly lifted her top, displaying a smooth belly and pert, brown breasts. Richard could not suppress a gasp and nearly stalled the car as he tried to accelerate away.

‘Do try to concentrate,’ Abayomi said drily. ‘You will make us have an accident in your fancy car.’

‘I’m glad that you saved me from her. She was quite … formidable,’ he replied, laughing. But his passenger seemed unusually tense.

‘Her name is Otunla. She is seventeen.’

Taken aback, Richard looked up again at the pavement; the young woman, almost his daughter’s age, had vanished. ‘But where is her family?’ he asked.

‘Her family? Her family is in Lagos.’ Abayomi seemed surprised by the question, but offered no further explanation.

‘So she came here to look for work?’

‘I suppose you could put it like that,’ Abayomi said. ‘Her family sold her when she was fourteen. She was the only thing they had of any worth, so they sold her to a wealthy businessman. He sold her to another man when he got bored, and that man brought her here. Now she works for him.’ She paused, as if thinking. ‘Yes, she is formidable. Desperate people are formidable, because they cannot afford to lose.’ She looked out of the window as they turned into Beach Road, clearly wanting to end the conversation.

The sea churned, the leftover anger of a windy night. A Hassidic couple, with several children, walked along the beachfront promenade. The man’s black suit made Richard feel prickly with sweat. He leant forward to increase the fan speed. Abayomi was wearing a bright headpiece made from yellow-and-green cloth, folded into a tight scarf. It made her seem even younger and gave her an air of sporty toughness. He found it difficult not to look at her and to keep his eyes on the road. He looked in his rear-view mirror and caught sight of the gecko stuck on the inside of the back window. He felt a surge of self-consciousness and hoped that she had not noticed it; the playful toy now seemed silly.

He had been gratified, but surprised, when she had phoned him again, inviting him to come and see the ‘real Africa in his city’. Her cousin on the Yoruba side of the family had given birth to a boy, she told him. There was to be some kind of ceremony at her uncle’s house. Though the phone call had again intruded into his other life – he had been driving Raine to a dance class when he answered – he had said yes without hesitation.

He wondered now, as they drove in silence, whether the invitation had been intended as a reward for his legal advice. Perhaps, he thought cynically, he was simply a means of transport. Yet, he was unable to banish the feeling that she cared for him. He was grateful that the series of traffic lights was green and he could pretend to be concentrating on driving. He turned onto Somerset Road in Green Point, passing the Italian delicatessens and Portuguese fast-food outlets. He tried to catch her eye but she kept looking out of the window.