The Other Side of Truth (3 page)

HUNCHED UNDER THE BLANKET
, Sade heard Joseph clang the metal gates behind them, locking away the single-story white house in the compound that was home. Joseph had known them all their lives and they had not even said good-bye.

Sade tried to imagine what they were passing. Leaving. The avenue of palms and the giant-leafed plantains clustered at the corner. She and Femi used to believe that the street-ghosts hid behind them. Then Mr. Abiona’s grocery table under the spidery almond tree, with tins, bottles, pots and boxes stacked high like colorful acrobats balancing on each other’s shoulders. Whatever Mama ran out of—soap powder, matches, shampoo, palm oil—Mr. Abiona managed to produce it with a knowing smile. Sade would have liked to say good-bye to him too. She had seen him this morning, his cheeks squashed between his hands. His mouth open. Speechless. He was one of the first people to come running from outside…to see Mama lying in the driveway. He must have heard the shots. Perhaps he had even seen the gunman’s car speeding away.

Already Femi was squirming, although the journey had
hardly even begun. Uncle Tunde was slowing the car down, stalling, turning a corner. They must be entering Adeniyi Jones Avenue, passing under the
DR. MEYERS MILK OF MAGNESIA
billboard. It was a joke between them to force each other to stretch their mouths wide open as they passed under the gigantic blue bottle tippling out its creamy contents. The dull drumming of traffic was now louder, punctured by sharp hoots, blasts and voices. They must have joined the streams of cars, trucks, motorcycles and cyclists thrusting their way to and from the city. Had they passed the trestle tables where Grandma’s friend, Mama Lola, sat with her pyramids of oranges? Whenever Grandma came to stay, the two old ladies spent hours sitting there together, chatting in Yoruba about everything under the sun. In between, Mama Lola served her customers. They had been friends since childhood, but Mama Lola looked far more wrinkled, older and bent. “Poor Mama Lola,” Grandma often said. Sorrow had entered her home like a thief in the night. Having lost every one of her children, she was forced to sell oranges to earn a living. But now Grandma had lost her own child too. Did she know yet? Who would tell her? Would Mama Buki have to carry the bitter words in her mouth? Grandma would surely know as soon as she saw Mama Buki. Sade could just imagine their grandmother’s eyes misting over, her furrowed skin crumpling.

Whenever would they see Grandma again? Sade pressed her face against her knees, her body shaking with each jolt through the floor of the car. She and Femi were like two pebbles rattling in a tin, about to be flung away.

“Sade! Femi! Stay absolutely still! Police check!”

Uncle Tunde’s voice was taut as the car slowed down. They had been going faster. They must have left the jostling city streets and were traveling on the open road out of Lagos. Femi’s fingers grazed Sade’s arm under the blanket. She grasped his hand. The engine rumbled as the car shuddered almost to a halt, then revved up again. The police must be letting them through. Femi pulled his hand away.

“Well, that’s Number One!” muttered Uncle Tunde, like a grim sports commentator. But he was calmer than Papa would have been. Police were always setting up roadblocks and Papa’s anger simmered like pepper soup. The last time he had driven them to Grandma’s they had been stopped more than twenty times on the road to Ibadan. Sade and Femi played a game. Who could spot the naira note as the policeman’s hand swept expertly past that of the driver in front? Mostly taxi drivers with minibuses full of passengers had to pay up. Usually the policemen stared rudely at Papa, sometimes demanding to know where he was going, but they never actually demanded money. Something in his manner must have warned them. But when Papa had driven on, his anger would erupt as he fumed about the daylight robbery of innocent people. Mama would place her hand gently on his shoulder.

“Don’t give yourself a heart attack, Folarin. That would please them.”

Mama. Mama under the bedspread with crimson-soaked flowers. Mama under the blinding-white sheet. Mama who read Papa’s article out loud.

“Every day we are robbed under our own noses. And it’s no use complaining to the police. Why? Because they are the robbers.”

“Do you really think they will let you get away with this, Folarin?” Mama had said.

“The bully only gets away with it because others let him. They’ll have to lock me up before they shut me up.”

Yet Mama had never told him not to write.

Uncle Tunde was slowing down again.

“Don’t move, children! This one has a torch.”

The car lurched to a halt and Sade heard the window being rolled down. She held her breath and hoped Femi was doing the same.

“I’m late, officer. My mother is coming to the airport now. I must be the first one she sets her eyes on. You know how it is with mothers!” Uncle Tunde laughed lightly, his tone smooth and polite.

“Oga, open de door! Wetin you carry for back?” The policeman barked.

“Oh, it’s only rubbish at the back, officer!” Their uncle’s voice rose on the word “rubbish,” as if enjoying a joke. “I threw the blanket on top so my mother won’t complain that her son is untidy!”

“OK, OK. Carry on!” The policeman was impatient.

“Thank you, officer. Very understanding.”

The engine stormed into life again.

As soon as they had left the roadblock behind, Uncle Tunde instructed them to throw off the blanket and to sit on the backseat.

“Did you give him money, Uncle?” Sade asked, her heart pumping rapidly.

“Never you mind. That could have been nasty! If he insisted on looking, we would have been in big, big trouble.”

“He would think you were kidnapping us!” Femi muttered, sniffing. He brushed his arm across his eyes. Had he been crying? He wriggled on the seat, stretching his legs, and turned away from Sade.

The lights of Murtala Muhammed Airport sparkled in the distance. Usually it was exciting coming out to the airport, especially in the evening. The main building glittered in layers like an enormous ocean liner out in the middle of an indigo sea. Thousands of invisible messages could be shooting at any moment between the great funnel-shaped control tower and invisible planes somewhere up there in the sky. But tonight Sade felt none of that excitement, only her stomach twisted and knotted. At this moment, someone in the control tower was preparing to direct the plane that was going to carry her and Femi far away from home.

Even at night the car park was as busy and noisy as any street market. They joined a winding stream of cars that eased their way through the crowds, who were hustling back and forth with bags and boxes. Having found a parking space, Uncle Tunde told the children to wait. He would go first and find the agent and Mrs. Bankole.

“I don’t want to go, Sade,” Femi blurted, as Uncle Tunde merged into the shadows of the crowd. “If we run away now, we’ll miss the plane! They can’t make us go!” The gleam from
passing headlights lit up little rivers of tears trickling down his cheeks.

“We can’t do that, Femi! Papa doesn’t want us to go—but it’s best.”

Femi snorted and started fiddling with the handle of the door.

“If you run away, Femi, Papa will have to go to the police and then they’ll get him!”

Reluctantly Femi withdrew his hand. Sade’s words subdued them both, as if another blanket had been thrown over them. In silence, they watched the currents of people swirling by.

When Uncle Tunde opened the door, a short woman with mango-shaped cheeks stood beside him. Her green headscarf and dress glinted in the beams from an overhead lamp.

“Come out, children. This is Mrs. Bankole.”

“So, you two will be my children!” The lady formed a little smile with lips that glistened a deep purple. Mama never wore lipstick.

Mrs. Peacock! Sade thought. She imagined a fan of feathers swooping up behind the lady. She loved making up names for people and, normally, this would have been a joke to share with Femi. But Papa’s words rang in her ears.

“Until you are safely there, your surname is ‘Bankole’ and you must only use the names in the passport.”

Sade tried to force the fanciful picture from her mind as they stepped hesitantly out of the car.

Both children held back as Mrs. Bankole stretched out her hands. Her wrists jingled with gold bangles and her
chubby fingers were heavily ringed. Her nails matched her purple lips.

“Oh but you have to look the part!” A man in a pale suit, with a pink handkerchief flowering out of the top pocket, emerged from behind the lady. His cream jacket bulged out well beyond his legs.

“If you look out of place that will make trouble for everyone, including your father.” His eyes narrowed as if to pin them down. He spoke briskly and his words carried the jagged edges of a warning. He was clearly the man who had fixed this all. The agent.

“It’s very true, children. I’m sure you understand!” Uncle Tunde’s voice carried a touch of the urgent pleading that Sade had heard him use earlier with Papa. It was different from his ordinary voice and not at all like his “court voice” when Papa had taken her to see his older brother at work. They had sat in the gallery and Papa had explained how Uncle Tunde was pleading for his client to the judge. His words and manner had been so confident. But now, did she detect uncertainty—even a hint of desperation—behind his words?

“It’s only for one night—until Mrs. Bankole hands you over to your Uncle Dele. Don’t forget your bags at the back.” Uncle Tunde turned away, almost brusquely, as if not to let them see the concern in his eyes.

Slipping on her rucksack, Sade saw her uncle draw Mr. Fix-It aside and hand him a fat envelope. With his back to passersby, and partly shielded by Uncle Tunde and the car, Mr. Fix-It rapidly began counting through the wad of naira notes. In the flickering light, his stout forefinger jiggled at the
speed of a fox pawing back earth around a rabbit hole.

Once again, Mrs. Bankole held out her ringed fingers. This time, reluctantly, Sade and Femi each took a hand.

“You are now my daughter, Yemi,” she confided to Sade. “She will be thirteen next month. The thirteenth of December. You will remember that?”

Sade did not reply. The lady’s hand felt slightly damp and sweaty and Sade winced at the thought of touching any of her jewelery. Mama only wore one simple wedding ring.

“And—by good fortune—my ten-year-old son is the same age as your brother! So, young man, you are Ade—and your birthday is March the first. You had better learn that.”

Femi looked as if he wanted to worm himself away. He glared at his feet. Even when Uncle Tunde said good-bye and promised that Papa would be with them soon, Femi refused to raise his head.

TWO POLICEMEN IN BLACK BERETS
were chatting to each other at the entrance to Departures. One rested his hand on the gun tucked into his belt, his fingers drumming lightly on the handle. Mr. Fix-It had trundled Mrs. Bankole’s large maroon suitcase behind them. He pushed it to her now. Mrs. Bankole juggled with a matching small maroon box and a mock leopard-skin coat.

“This is as far as I come,” he said smoothly. “Have a very pleasant journey, Mrs. Bankole.”

Then he beamed at the children.

“Well, Yemi and Ade!” he rolled their names loudly. “Be good now and make sure you don’t give your mother any trouble!”

Mr. Fix-It extended his hand to pat each of them lightly on the head. Sade had to restrain herself from flinching as his fingers brushed her hair. She saw Femi jolt, gritting his teeth. But when she glanced at the policemen, they were still busy talking.

Inside the building, people in khaki uniforms with black berets were checking cases and tickets. But before they had
even reached the queue, a figure in a sunny yellow
agbada
staggered backward, almost stumbling over Mrs. Bankole’s suitcase. A man with a telephone held to one ear was kicking Mr. Sunny Yellow and swearing!

“Eh, eh, eh!” Mrs. Bankole’s voice rose, but stopped swiftly. A large baton hung from the waist of the man with the telephone. Security! Mr. Sunny Yellow somehow swiveled upward in an arc, curved around and ran off. Jutting his jaw out scornfully, Mr. Security returned to his conversation.

When it came to their turn, Mrs. Bankole heaved the maroon suitcase on to the platform. Sade thrust their small brown holdall alongside it. Not bothering to compete with the surrounding noise, Black Beret pointed to Mrs. Bankole’s case and imitated the turning of a key. He appeared bored as he observed her jeweled fingers struggle with the lock. But as soon as she pulled back the lid, he signed to her with a quick somersault of his hand. He wanted her to take everything out. Mrs. Bankole said nothing but slipped a bangled hand into the side of her case. Sade thought she glimpsed the corner of a naira note. After withdrawing her hand, Mrs. Bankole busied herself with her handbag. Sade watched the man’s arm now slither like a snake down the same side of the suitcase. Then casually, he lifted a few clothes before indicating with a tiny jerk of his head that Mrs. Bankole could close the case. His closed palm wove its way skillfully into his trouser pocket and when his hand reappeared, it was open and signaled to the woman officer next to him. No words passed. She slapped labels on to both pieces of luggage. As if completing the silent dance, Black Beret and his companion swung the suitcase
onto a conveyor belt behind them. The little brown bag followed and within seconds both had disappeared through a dark hole in the wall.

A narrow gate led to a couple of tall desks and more khaki uniforms. Three gleaming brass buttons crested the shoulder of the man waiting for them. Again no words were exchanged as Mrs. Bankole produced her passport. Brass Buttons’s eyes rested briefly on each of them before dipping down to study the little book and his computer. Mrs. Bankole’s glittery-green
buba
rose and fell steadfastly until Brass Buttons finally flashed back the passport, nodding them on.

“What’s that?” Femi broke his silence. His eyebrows and forehead puckered with suspicion.

Ahead of them, a woman in a blue uniform was sweeping a thick black rod up and down people who had stepped through a metal door frame. It looked like some magic ritual.

“It’s to stop people smuggling,” Sade said.

“But we’re being smuggled,” Femi whispered fiercely in her ear.

Mrs. Bankole swung around, her face issuing a stern warning.

“Ade, my boy,” she said. “Take off your rucksack. Put it there. For X-ray.”

Femi folded his arms as if he hadn’t heard.

“Please, F—!” Sade stopped herself. Right behind them stood a man in dark glasses. He was wearing a flowing white
agbada
with a pattern of staring jet-black eyes. Sade slipped off her own rucksack.

“Shall I help you, Ade?” she offered softly.

Femi swung the bag roughly off his back, just missing Sade before he slung it onto the conveyor belt. He was behaving like he did when he was overtired and no one could reason with him.

“Doesn’t he want to go on a plane?” drawled Mr. Agbada Eyes. His accent was American and the question was addressed to Sade, but Mrs. Bankole quickly intervened.

“Children of nowadays! They take everything for granted!” she exclaimed. “Airplanes are like fast cars to them.”

“Well, air power has sure helped make the world a smaller place. Just one big global village, ma’am!”

He swept a circle in the air with one arm, making the eyes on his
agbada
jiggle.

Once past the rod and the X-ray, Mrs. Bankole steered the children to a row of seats. Mr. Agbada Eyes followed them, keen to relate to Mrs. Bankole how this trip to Nigeria had been his lifetime ambition.

“Tracing my roots, ma’am! Finding out where we black folk in America come from, you might say!”

Mr. Agbada Eyes began to talk about stories of Africa that had been passed down through his granddaddy. Femi nudged Sade, pointing to the shops. Next to a window of cameras was an open kiosk with crocodile skins hanging down the side.

“Can…can we…look over there? We won’t go far.” Sade couldn’t bring herself to say a word like “mother.”

Mrs. Bankole hesitated, but Mr. Agbada Eyes laughed.

“Guess this old history is boring them!”

Mrs. Bankole’s purple lips wavered before reminding them to stay in sight.

Femi wrinkled his nose in front of the baby crocodile handbag. Its flattened head with crazy-paving patterns and sad empty eyeholes formed the front flap.

“It’s brutal! Killing a baby crocodile!” he announced, loudly enough for the kiosk lady to hear although she pretended not to. The lady smiled at Femi. Why did so many grown-ups pretend and lie? But not Papa. And that’s why Mama was…Sade slammed down the shutter in her brain.

“I think it’s horrible too,” she replied clearly. Next to the crocodile bag were carvings of animals and a cluster of wooden heads. Many of the heads looked quite similar until she noticed the pair in the far corner. She studied the faces. The carved pattern of the woman’s hair was so familiar. How like an older version of her own pair they were! Her own Oko and Iyawo…stranded…deserted…on her desk at home. Impulsive hot tears pricked and burned.

“I-I need the toilet,” she managed to whisper.

Behind the closed door, Sade crouched on the seat trying to contain the waves of sobs. Her hands over her mouth did their best to stifle them. But she was trembling as badly as one of those lemons that hung on so desperately when Mama shook the branch. Pulling the chain, she tried to drown her strangled cries.

“Yemi! Hurry up now! They have announced our flight!”

It was Mrs. Bankole, sharp as any peacock.

“I’m coming.” Sade’s lips mouthed the words.

“Yemi! Do you hear me? Yemi?”

Forcing her legs into action, Sade undid the lock.

“I felt sick,” she mumbled feebly.

For Sade, much of the journey was a blur. It was unreal. Yesterday evening she had been at her desk doing her homework. Like any other school night. Mama bringing her a chocolate drink before she went to bed, telling her that she shouldn’t stay up too late. Don’t worry, Mama, she had replied, Iyawo is watching. It was a joke between them. That Oko and Iyawo kept an eye on her for Papa and Mama.

But, tonight…What was she doing looking at those rows of wooden heads in an airport kiosk instead of at her own Oko and Iyawo? Who was this stranger, calling her Yemi, pretending to be their mother? Was this just a nightmare? Perhaps she would wake up in her own bed with Mama shaking her gently. “What’s wrong, my child?” she would ask. “A bad dream?”

Sade was vaguely aware of the flight attendant giving instructions about lifebelts and oxygen masks, of Femi fiddling with earphones and buttons, of roaring in her ears while she peered out into the night where shadowy shapes fell away beneath them. Somewhere, already far below, giant-leafed plantains were whispering under the lamplight at the corner and Mr. Abiona’s old wooden table was tucked away for the night underneath the almond tree. Somewhere, casuarina pines were spreading their needle-fine fingers against the sky and sending their scent into an empty room where a wooden girl with patterned hair watched over a vacant desk. But below them, all that could now be seen through the plane
window was a scattering of pinprick lights surrounded by darkness. Soon those too had become fainter until there was nothing.

It had been one of Sade’s dreams to travel on an airplane. Papa and Mama had promised they would take them one day. But it was not meant to be like this. Tonight she was spinning into the darkness of space, let loose from almost everything and everyone she knew, except Femi. And he too was slipping from her fingers.