Seeds of Plenty (11 page)
Chapter 15After a few weeks of avoiding each other, Winston left again for the bush. She had no idea if she would ever see him again. Suddenly, she didn’t care. If he didn’t care, then she would do the same.
But she felt her solitude acutely as the days passed slowly, the only sign of life in the room the sound of the ticking clock. She fidgeted with last year’s issues of British Vogue from January and February, winter clothes that she would never wear or buy. She only had these two issues, and she flipped through them over and over again, imagining these girls living a glamorous life in Paris or Rome, places she had never been.
An unopened invitation sat on her coffee table. She usually ignored these polite dinner invitations from her compound neighbors. But that morning, she tore open the cream envelope and read the invitation written with blue fountain pen. It was from the Scottish couple, her neighbors. She knew they were Ayo’s close friends. She picked up the phone and told the Scottish woman that she would be attending tomorrow night’s dinner. The woman sounded surprised.
She spent all afternoon getting ready for the dinner party. She put her long, black hair in rollers, so it would cascade down in curls. She carefully laid out all her clothes on her bed, trying to decide which dress was the most flattering. She settled on a slim-fitting, purple batik dress she had sewn herself out of material from the market. She had heard the Swedish translator had returned to Europe, her contract work finished.
Sylvia gave her children a bath and wrapped them in their towels, giving them a hug. They smelled of Lux soap and that sweet, powdery scent of babies. They were so young, they wouldn’t remember any of this.
“Mama’s going out to dinner tonight,” she said.
“Where you going, madam?” Patience said, coming into the bathroom and looking over Sylvia’s tight-fitting dress.
“To the neighbors. The MacDonalds.”
“Oh dey go be Ayo’s friends.”
“How do you know?”
“My friend Virginia works for them.”
“Oh, right,” Sylvia said, realizing the house staff knew more about the compound residents than the residents themselves. She realized she couldn’t hide anything from Patience. They each knew the other had a crush on Ayo.
“You say hello to him from me, you hear?” Patience said, slightly jealous, as if she knew why Sylvia was so dressed up tonight. Sylvia and Winston, raised by servants, were used to conducting their entire relationship or non-relationship in front of the servants. Patience knew everything.
“I will,” Sylvia said, knowing full well Patience would get a report on the evening from this friend Virginia who would likely be serving drinks at the party.
Sylvia walked into the MacDonald’s house, the identical floor plan as hers. The living room was full of the mostly British crowd on the compound. But she didn’t see Ayo among them. What if he doesn’t come? She suddenly regretted coming. She panicked at the thought of having to endure an evening with people that didn’t really care for her. The crowd stared as if surprised to see her at the party. She didn’t know what else to do, so she studied the museum-like walls and shelves in the living room. They were full of Nigerian wood statues of mothers with large breasts holding children and large oil paintings of marketplaces or village scenes in oranges, yellows, and reds. A house girl, dressed in a white uniform, asked her if she wanted a drink.
“Are you Virginia?” Sylvia asked.
“Yes, madam.”
“Patience says hello.”
Virginia smiled. “What do you want to drink, madam?”
“Bitter lemon,” Sylvia said. She stood waiting, pretending to study one of the paintings.
“I’m surprised to see you here,” Ayo said, coming over to her.
She looked up at him. He smiled warmly at her. No one had smiled at her all day, at least not like that. But the smile was a warning to her because of the way it made her feel.
“I shouldn’t have come,” she said. “These people…” She trailed off with a nervous laugh, the kind that hung off the end of her sentences when she felt on edge.
“Don’t mind them. Just a group of English blokes and their silly wives. How are your children?”
“Well, thanks to you. I’m indebted to you again.”
“No debts. I didn’t do anything.”
She felt his hazel eyes speaking to her. She and Ayo exchanged polite niceties, but their eyes conversed on a more profound level. She felt this invisible conversation in her heart—a connection, an understanding acknowledged only by eye contact. She held onto this moment and all that it promised.
An English woman came over, breaking the spell between them. She was in her mid-thirties, blonde and attractive, but the edges of her eyes were beginning to show the aging effects of the African sun.
“Hello, darling,” the English woman said to Ayo, her hand brushing his shoulder. “You need a drink. Here’s your favorite.” She handed him a scotch.
He smiled at her too, Sylvia noticed. Not as warmly, she thought, but then again there was a familiarity between the two of them that made her suddenly jealous. She didn’t know why she should be jealous, he wasn’t even hers to possess in that way.
Ayo sat down to dinner next to her. The two of them were the only non-white people in the room. But being half-English, he seemed to be at ease with the company. The Scottish wife had made a British colonial version of the local chicken peanut stew, laying the buffet table with many little bowls of toppings—coconut flakes, juicy fresh pineapple chunks, grated cucumber, slices of banana, diced tomatoes, freshly roasted peanuts.
Sylvia turned to Ayo. “I want to come…and volunteer at your clinic. I have no training in nursing except that I’ve always wanted to be one since I was a girl. I don’t know if that counts for anything.”
“Enthusiasm is all you need. But it’ll be difficult, painful even at times. I’m not going to deceive you.”
“I know. I need to do something. With my life.” She didn’t explain she needed to do something with him.
“When can you come?”
“Anytime. Next week.” She hoped she didn’t sound too desperate.
“Next week it is then.” Then he added, “Make sure your driver brings you and come only in the daylight hours. To be safe.”
“I’m glad you don’t think I should be trapped in the compound.”
“No, of course not. You have to live your life. But still, take precautions.”
“I don’t know if it matters. They were here inside. I’m about as safe out there as I am in here.”
“There’s some truth to that.”
***
After dinner, the men poured scotch and port. Sylvia got up and thanked her host. It was still early, but since she had come alone, it didn’t feel appropriate to stay too late.
“You walked here, dear?” said her host, the red-haired, freckled Scottish woman. “I can’t have you walk home alone. No, that won’t do at all. I’ll find someone to…” She turned and scanned the room quickly, her eyes settling on Ayo.
Sylvia followed Ayo out the door, stepping into the humid night air. They strolled down the quiet streets of the compound. The air smelled like wet leaves decaying after the rain. They walked in between the shadows of the acacia trees and flattened, dead frogs lying on the road.
“Glad to get out of there. You saved me this time,” Ayo said. She had dreamed of this moment, walking alone in the dark with him. She felt fireflies flitting around in her stomach, burning the edges, the glow of pain and anticipation.
He stopped for a moment in the road and looked up at the stars. “I love this sky. Only in Africa.” He took a deep breath. “I missed it when my Mum and I moved to the UK after my parents got divorced.”
“I’ve never seen a sky quite like this before,” she admitted, having grown up in urban Asia.
She looked up and studied the night sky. The stars were crisp and bright. Looking up at the sky from the equator and away from city lights, a silent chorus of previously invisible stars took the stage, a visual orchestra. She felt the tension in her body ease slightly. She and the night had an uneasy relationship. She had spent most of her nights awake with crying babies since she had come to Africa.
They walked down the paved driveway to her house, past the dark silhouette of the bamboo bushes. She thought she heard the snakes rustle in the grass.
They came to her door, and she turned to him. He was standing so close to her. She had this sudden urge to touch the outline of his face. She didn’t know what was going on between them, but she knew it had started on that very first day. She was afraid, but she was also grasping for it. Insects covered the dim lamp above them, blindly drawn to the light. Their corpses rained down on her, scorched from the heat. Ayo reached out and brushed them away, touching her hair. She looked up at him, his hand on her hair. Suddenly, an image flashed through her mind of Ayo and her lying naked on the white terrazzo tile floor of her house. The picture was sharp, life-like, as if it was about to happen or had already happened. Their bodies left a faint imprint of perspiration on the cold tile floor.
Shaking, she quickly turned to open her door. Her keys fell. She could hear the loud
clink
as they hit the ground. He picked up the keys, and as he gave them to her, their hands touched. Neither of them said anything. Then, she went inside and closed the door.
Chapter 16In November 1976, Sylvia walked into Ayo’s clinic, unprepared for the stench of disinfectant mixed with unwashed and perspiring bodies. She hadn’t been to the clinic since Lila had been bitten by a snake three years before. The memory of the place brought a confusion of feelings. It was where her daughter had fought the onslaught of the snake spirits, yet it was also the place she had fallen for him.
Even though it was only nine in the morning, and the clinic had just opened, the reception overflowed with women and children waiting for the doctor. Sylvia was surprised how full it was. The triage nurse sat at a wooden reception desk writing away in a spiral notebook.
“I’ve come to volunteer. I’m a friend of Ayo’s,” Sylvia said to the nurse.
“Oh yes, madam, we’ve been expecting you.” The nurse handed Sylvia a white nurse’s uniform. “You can put this on in de bathroom.”
Sylvia nodded. She wondered where Ayo was, but she could hardly expect him to greet her. She went down the hall to change into the starched white dress. She couldn’t understand why nurse’s uniforms were white when the job to be done entailed the deeply-staining colors of sickness and death. How did they keep their uniforms clean? She thought it must be a special challenge for nurses. Dress them in white to see how quickly they can mess up their uniforms. What was the point? Who had thought of this ridiculous idea? She pinned the hat on her head and went back out to the reception.
“There you are,” Ayo called from down the hallway. “You look like you’ve been a nurse your whole life.”
She turned around and half-smiled, feeling like an imposter in the uniform, in his clinic. She wasn’t really here to save lives. She was here to save her own life, she knew that. Even he probably knew that.
“I see you’ve met the triage nurse,” he said, walking up to her.
“Yes.” She looked up at him. He reached out and adjusted the hat on her hair.
“Why these hats?” she asked with her nervous laugh as his hands touched her.
“God knows,” he laughed. “My donors send the uniforms. I just make everyone wear them, so we look like the real thing.” He finished pinning her hat on correctly. “Right, ready for your job?”
She nodded and followed him to the wooden reception desk.
“Sit here and write down the symptoms of the patients as the triage nurse examines them.” He handed her the worn, spiral notebook.
“That sounds easy enough,” she said, sitting down at the wooden table. She looked at the last entry recorded in the notebook.
Taiwo, 6 month old infant, fever of 102 F, diarrhea, possible dehydration. Other twin deceased.
Maybe it wasn’t going to be that easy. She knew they were more than words on a page.Ayo left to do his rounds. The morning passed quickly and she didn’t see him again. She kept writing down what the triage nurse said.
Femi, five years old, vomiting, fever, signs of malnutrition.
The little boy had the telltale bloated belly.Suddenly, a bleeding woman came in, carried by two other female relatives. “She just had baby, but de bleeding it no stop,” one of the women said. The triage nurse grabbed Sylvia, “Stop writing. Come wit me.”
The relatives carried the bleeding woman to the operating table.
“Help me undress her,” the nurse said to Sylvia. “Quickly!”
Sylvia fumbled, trying to untie the women’s wrapper dress, which was wound many times around her waist. The nurse turned to prepare an IV.
“Cut it, quick,” the nurse handed her a pair of scissors.
The women’s green wrapper was soaked in blood. “Get Ayo now,” the nurse barked. “Tell him de woman is hemorrhaging.”
Sylvia found Ayo in one of the patient rooms.
Ayo did not say anything when she told him, but his expression revealed his fear. He went quickly into the makeshift operating room and shut the door. Sylvia went to the bathroom to wash her hands. She looked down at the rusty red spots on her uniform and tried to wash the blood out with soap. It was hopeless and it was only the beginning of the day. She returned to writing down symptoms in the spiral notebook.
***
After several hours, Ayo emerged from the operating room. He looked exhausted. There was blood on his coat, his gloves, and even on his shoes. She didn’t want to ask what had happened. She saw the answer on his face.
“Let me wash up,” he said. “Let’s get some lunch.” It was two o’clock. Neither of them had eaten yet.
They sat down in his clinic’s noisy cafeteria with plates of jollof rice, chicken, and plantain.
“She travelled over thirty kilometers to reach us, she almost died in a slow-moving canoe en route,” Ayo said. He pressed his fingers between his eyes, closing them for a brief moment. “If she had come earlier, she would have lived.”
“You did your best,” Sylvia said, not knowing what else to say.
“My best isn’t enough.” He banged the table with his first. “These mothers need to come to the clinic for the birth and even before that. Babies and mothers are dying for reasons that could be easily solved medically, umbilical cords tangled around their necks or breech babies, things that a C-section would easily solve. Instead, they stay home and come here when it’s already too late.”
She felt his pain, this burden of his. All that he did sometimes amounted to nothing at the end of the day. She sensed the futility of it slowly eating away at him. Suddenly, she wanted to be here for him, cushion him from the hard realities of his work. She reached out and touched the side of his face.
***
Her life settled into a rhythm of sorts over the next six months. She went to volunteer at the clinic two or three times a week. Winston didn’t object. After all, it was what he had always wanted her to do. He was probably glad she was keeping herself occupied and freeing him up to do his work in peace. Although she sometimes felt nervous leaving two-year-old Thomas and four-year-old Lila with Patience, she had to admit Patience was much more capable than she. After all, it was
she
that had left the children alone in the car, not Patience. She was still frightened of the man with yellowed eyes, fearing he would strike at any moment, and she was glad now of the round-the-clock security guards. Still, she refused to be a prisoner in her own house. It felt good to get out to town, to do something useful with her time at Ayo’s clinic and to be near him.The work at Ayo’s clinic was grueling, she could not deny that, but it was better than sipping coffee with unfriendly ladies on the compound. For her, the benefits outweighed the costs. She could work side by side with Ayo, the cure for her own ailment. She thought of her own diagnosis in the triage notebook:
Sylvia, age twenty-six, dizziness, insomnia, possible lovesickness.***
As for Winston, he was gone more than ever before. He would be out in the bush for three weeks at a time, returning home for barely a week before he had to leave again. Ever since the juju doctor’s spell, she felt a renewed coldness and distance in everything he did. One evening when he returned home from a trip, he brought back a small drum. The children were in their pajamas, getting ready for bed when Winston arrived. But seeing the gift he had brought, Sylvia let the children come out to the living room to see their father. She hoped the gift was a sign of some sort, a sign that he still loved his son.
Winston’s normally taut jaw muscles relaxed a little when he saw little Thomas.
“Thomas, look what I bought you. It’s a talking drum,” he said.
“Talks?” Thomas said, wide-eyed.
Four-year old Lila sat slightly apart, watching. Winston hadn’t bothered to bring anything for her. Sylvia sensed a darkness descend upon her daughter; the same inky blackness had shaded Sylvia’s heart as a girl. She knew what it felt like to be the daughter who was shunned. She went over and sat next to Lila, putting her arm around her.
“The seller kept following me, halving the price several times, so eventually I had to buy it from the poor man,” Winston said to his wife. Why would he tell her this, she wondered? That he only bought it because he pitied the vendor? What about pitying his poor son, she thought angrily?
Thomas tried to play the drum, making a loud, chaotic sound.
Winston frowned and abruptly said, “That’s enough. Time to go bed, children. It’s late.”
Thomas looked dejected, craving a kind word or hug. When he had been a baby, Winston had been so affectionate toward his son. Sylvia knew Winston had deliberately pulled himself away from his son. Why did he have to do this? He was becoming an absentee father who was never around, and even when he was home, he hardly spent any time with his son, holing up in his study. She had given him a son as a gift, and it felt like he was returning it, regretting it.
Sylvia took the children down the hallway to their bedrooms.
“Thomas, you played the drum so well,” she said, tucking him in bed. She hugged him tightly, showering his face with kisses to compensate for the lack of love from his father.
Then she went to Lila’s room to say good night. Lila was waiting for her, still sitting up in her bed.
“Why is my hair brown and not black like Thomas?” Lila said, point blank. “Is that why Baba likes him better?”
Her daughter had already made the connection between her looks and her father. Lila was four years old now and precociously becoming self-aware of her different looks. Sylvia didn’t know what to say. She was torn. She didn’t want to keep secrets from her daughter. But then again, could Lila keep a secret? Children were known to blurt out things in public.
So she told her daughter a bedtime story instead. She sat down next to her on the bed and held her close. She told her that her mother’s family had Portuguese blood, an ancestor on a long-forgotten line, some clandestine love between a Chinese concubine and a Portuguese sea-faring merchant. That’s why she looked different because she was not entirely Chinese, which was the truth to some extent.
Lila sat there listening to Sylvia’s story, hugging her favorite, yellow stuffed elephant. Her large brown eyes widened as she took in the information. Sylvia looked at her sweet face, her little girl. Why had she lied to her? She would find out the truth one day and hate her for it, wouldn’t she?
Lila accepted Sylvia’s explanation for now. She was at the age when children were blank slates, sponges soaking up whatever their parents said. Sylvia’s explanation was further reinforced by the fact Lila was growing up in an international expat compound, surrounded by a shifting kaleidoscope of races. This helped blur the edges of her differences. Spicy Indian curries and
somosas
were served side by side with English roasts and potatoes; the lilting language of Hindi sang harmonies with the dissonant tones of German. People were different, she saw it all around her. She believed Sylvia’s lie because it made sense given the diverse children around her.***
In October 1977, after about nine months volunteering at Ayo’s clinic, he invited her to a small birthday gathering at his father’s house in town. They had become friends, colleagues now. It only seemed natural he would invite her. She didn’t think twice about whether it was appropriate for her to go.
She drove to the old part of town where the wealthy used to live during colonial times. Ayo’s father’s house had a wall around it lined with broken glass and a watchman asleep at the gate. It was a traditional cement house with a corrugated tin roof, intricate verandahs, and sun-bleached wooden shutters. The front door was made of ornately carved wood depicting scenes of fishermen and farmers. She walked through a small reception area that opened up onto a dirt courtyard with mango trees, scarlet bougainvillea, and an old African gray parrot. The house was rectangular, the rooms and verandahs overlooking a central courtyard. Ayo led her across to the main living room. She followed him, watching his broad shoulders, his arms swinging by his side. When he turned to look at her, she saw his profile, his long eyelashes, square jaw. She resisted the urge to reach out and touch the side of his face.
“Right, come sit in here. This is the only room that’s air-conditioned, I’m afraid,” he said awkwardly, running his hand through his short, curly hair. “Looks like the others haven’t arrived yet.”
She sat on the sofa, embarrassed. Even though they worked together at the clinic, somehow alone in his house, she felt oddly out of place like she shouldn’t be here. She shifted her bare legs self-consciously, feeling Ayo watching her. An old male servant came in and brought a Bitter Lemon soda for her, a cold beer for Ayo, and a bowl of plantain chips on a worn silver tray, blackened and dull from lack of polishing.
“My present,” she said, producing a bottle of scotch tied with red ribbon from her bag. As she handed him the bottle, their hands touched.
“Thanks,” he choked and stood up abruptly. He went over to the liquor glass cabinet at the side of the room.
He stayed standing by the glass cabinet as if keeping his distance for protection. “I wonder what the others are up to?” he said. “They should have been here by now.”
The others were the Scottish couple and another single Englishman, his close friends on the compound. Did he include her as a “close friend” now, she wondered?
“I like your house…it’s…like the traditional houses we used to have back in China,” she said, trying to break the uncomfortable silence.
“I love this house. I grew up in it,” Ayo paused, fidgeting as well. “My parents divorced when I was fifteen, and I had to move to the UK with my mum. I came back for the holidays, but I missed this place. The cold and gray of the UK was such a contrast with the heat and color here.”
They sat in the sparsely furnished living room, simple chairs with velvet cushions still in their plastic, but not because they were new. The plastic was ripped in places. It had become part of the furniture over the years. She looked around the room, trying to find a distraction to slow her heart down. The floor was a dark green terrazzo tile. On the bare white wall hung the larger-than-life smile of the current president, General Obasanjo, the picture updated constantly due to the rapid succession of generals and presidents. This particular picture had been replaced after the assassination of General Murtala Mohammed the previous year. The room had the customary television set even though most nights the local station only broadcast multi-colored stripes to the tune of the national anthem. There was nothing particularly African in the room. It was not like the European houses on the compound, crammed full of Nigerian wood carvings, paintings, and tapestries.
