Where Women are Kings (8 page)

The church was beautiful, the pulpit filled with gospel singers, the floors clean enough to eat off, the Nigerian congregation pressed into their neatest clothes. When we first met him, Akpan shook Bishop’s hand so enthusiastically I thought he was hurting the poor Bishop, but he simply laughed. ‘Welcome! Welcome!’ he said. ‘I’m Bishop Fortune Oladipo Jerusalem Pilgrim at your service, sir! If our Muslim brothers and sisters can have their Mecca, then why can we not?’

Akpan had laughed and lit up like a star. He’d taken home a card, given to him by the Bishop, and Blu-tacked it to the wall above our bed:

Bishop Fortune Oladipo J.P. (The Doctor of Souls).
Owner and Manager of Deliverance Church,
41 Hill Street, Deptford –
where the Devil is
NOT WELCOME.

Fighting Evil with God-Given Powers
by Bishop Fortune Oladipo
is for sale at £4.99 from Evangelical Book Shop,
London SE5 7RY

We attended that church all the time, Elijah. We were so impressed by the four-wheel-drive cars parked outside, the
flash of the Rolex watches coming from the men in the congregation. The Bishop impressed us the most: he wore a different silk suit every time we saw him, and had a reputation for exorcising evil spirits.

‘He has a private jet,’ one of the congregation, a smart man, whispered during the Sunday sermon. He always wore a waistcoat, and Akpan always nodded to him. ‘He uses it to fly back to Nigeria whenever he feels like it.’

It didn’t surprise me at all, Elijah. My own Uncle Pastor was a miracle maker, and so he was, by then, a famous man, and also very rich. He owned four television sets as big as wheelbarrows, a fleet of Mercedes, and had his suits imported directly from Italy. It was Uncle Pastor who’d paid for our large house and school uniforms, as Baba’s mechanic’s salary was barely enough to cover Mummy’s cooking pots, and my grandparents were too old to work. Uncle Pastor performed miracles at Guaranteed Success Ministries. His sermons were a concert of the greatest music ever played. The Holy Ghost Night Programme at Guaranteed Success Ministries attracted people in their masses, falling over and around each other; even though the church was as big as an aircraft hangar, there simply was not enough floor space. The women who did not have room to jump down on to the floor would complain loudly. They were so dramatic, the women of my childhood church. And Bishop reminded me of them, those women, of my Uncle Pastor, of my family.

It must be strange to you, Elijah, that we were so impressed by such a wealthy man of God, but we were. In Nigeria, there were pastors who had their own television channels, a fleet of Mercedes, private jets, bodyguards, and were millionaires – some actually billionaires. They were more popular than movie stars, or pop stars, more popular than kings and
presidents. They wore the finest clothes – imported, fine Italian silk suits, or designers such as Dolce and Gabbana, Gucci, Moschino – and their shoes were one hundred per cent crocodile skin. They were smart and shining, those men, groomed so far that the Rolexes on their wrists didn’t even appear to shine in comparison. And I don’t mean my Uncle Pastor, although he was famous and had a congregation of millions, but some of the others had their own recording studios. They were so famous that people, women usually, fainted and screamed and queued through the night to get glimpses of them speeding past in their new-series BMWs. These men are the reason that BMW brings out the new series in Lagos before any other place. They know wealth like I could never understand.

Elijah, it is common knowledge how pastors make their wealth, how they take ten per cent of their congregation’s earnings, how the congregation has to give this ten per cent, these alms, to maintain the upkeep of the church. It is tricky to explain this to you when you’ve only known England, and the churches filled with six people at best on a Sunday, and terrible singing. Elijah, the Nigerian church is the pastor, and who would want to belong to a church that did not have enough faith in God to keep their pastor well? Every Nigerian knows that this money will come back tenfold. I have seen it with my own eyes, time and time again. And the reality, Elijah, is that when you are so poor you have to step over the dead bodies on your way to market as you cannot take on the funeral costs of a stranger, when you are that poor, Elijah, the dream of two Ferraris is just as reachable as the dream of good roads to drive them on, or food for all your neighbours, adequate healthcare. You get what you put into this world, and prayer is no different.

I explain all this to you, Elijah, so that you understand a little bit. Being English now, it will be hard for you, but I pray that one day you will find yourself in Nigeria and at church and see the pastors preaching, and the millions listening and literally throwing money at the pastor’s feet – money they don’t have, they cannot afford. But if you follow those people home you will understand something more; for how can they afford not to?

We began to settle, enjoying living in our own private world, talking to each other until late in the night, whispering across a pillow. Akpan removed any of my worries. When I first saw a red car and noticed the men inside it looking up at our balcony, Akpan convinced me I was imagining it. He pulled me towards him and kissed my worries gone, a kiss for each worry.

‘There’s nobody there.’ He looked out of the window and down into the street below, where I’d seen the red car and noticed something black pointing upwards. A camera? Why would anyone photograph our flat?

‘Honestly, there’s nobody there.’ Akpan stroked the back of my neck with his fingertips. ‘My love, you worry so much. Even if there was a car following us, I have all the correct documents. They are after that childminder. In the UK they have to be registered so the government can take most of the money. Please try not to worry.’

‘I’ll try. I don’t want you to worry about my worrying!’

We laughed, and how I loved him. I loved him so. I read my notebooks to Akpan while he slept, sending the words of Nigeria and God into his dreams. I recited psalms and Egyptian love poetry. Elijah, you were inside me by then, but Akpan did not know. It was a secret between you and me and God. I could feel a soft warmth running through me,
God whispering to my body. I spoke to you all the time, sang songs from my own childhood. I felt like an old woman and a young girl all at once; everything looked so clear, even the grey colour of England seemed beautiful. Akpan and I made love all the time. Elijah, your very first foundations were strong, and I hope those early months of strength will help. When the wind blows hard, as it surely will, I pray you will only shake a little.

It was a gloomy day. Not cold, but with a wind that whipped up around Nikki’s face, blowing her hair in all directions. The kind of day she loved most: a Wales-weather day, as she always told Obi. Good for growing. She looked upwards. It might rain but she didn’t mind being outside, even then. This was the best bit. Assessing the dogs for rehoming; watching and analysing and sometimes treating their behaviours; the way she gained their trust; how they went from being scared, ears down, flinching, to jumping and running towards her excitedly. It was remarkable how quickly they improved with the right sort of care and attention.

Nikki had fallen into charity work, starting in the office in the fundraising department, full of glamorous colleagues with perfect hair. Everyone was friendly but she’d found herself taking lunch breaks with the animals instead of her colleagues. A few courses and a lot of experience later, and Nikki was a valued member of the rehoming team. She still attended all the fundraising events, which was how she had met Obi, but her heart was outside with the dogs. She smiled as she remembered the night she and Obi had met. It was at the Dorchester Hotel, every bit as opulent and luxurious as she’d imagined, and Nikki had for once taken the entire afternoon to get ready. She’d worn a long, backless, jade-green
silk dress and the highest heels imaginable, and tamed her hair into submission before arriving a fashionable ten minutes late. Nikki had always been able to talk to anyone and was more than happy circulating, a glass of champagne in her hand, cool and composed when she thought of the dogs and how much money she’d be able to raise. And then she’d seen him. A tall, strong, handsome man with the smoothest skin and widest smile, dressed in a petrol-blue suit. He’d smiled at her and suddenly she’d felt nervous. Nikki threw back her head and took a mouthful of champagne, and somehow it had ended up going down the wrong way, and she was spluttering and coughing and making noises that sounded barely human and there he was, the handsomest man in the room, patting her on the back of her backless dress, his skin on hers.

The Staffy at her feet barked and yapped and spun around in circles, chasing his tail. She focused and was back in the training yard, the grey day wrapped around her. Instead of a silk dress, she looked down at her muddy boots, the thick dog weaving between them. Nikki laughed. ‘All right, little one,’ she said. ‘What an excited boy you are!’ And he ran at her and jumped up knocking her off balance until he could get a good lick of her face.

‘Nikki! Phone call!’

She pushed him away and wiped the slobber from her cheeks. Still laughing, she went into the office to answer the phone. Sometimes Chanel phoned her with some drama or other, but the voice wasn’t Chanel’s.

‘Nikki? It’s Ricardo. I’m so sorry to bother you at work, but I knew you’d want me to. I wonder if you’re home this evening?’

Nikki’s heart began thumping so hard it hurt. Why would
he phone? Was there a problem with their application? ‘We can be. Is everything OK?’

‘Well, it’s nothing to get excited about yet, but there is a child I wanted to discuss with you. A lovely boy who needs an extra-special family. But, as I said, this is very early days, so don’t get too excited.’

Nikki listened to all the words that Ricardo said, and looked out of the window at the Staffy jumping up and down and spinning round and round like her heart. Ricardo spoke for another five minutes but all Nikki could hear were the words ‘there is a child’ over and over again: Thereisachildthereisa childthereisachildthereisachildthereisachildthereisachild.

*

Later that evening, they looked out of the window and watched Ricardo’s car pull up outside, the car window open and techno music blaring out for a few seconds before he switched the engine off. They watched Ricardo walking up the path towards the house wearing the widest-brimmed hat Nikki had ever seen and it took effort, even with all the stress and importance of the visit, not to laugh. It stretched out either side of his head like an umbrella and, as Ricardo neared the door where they stood, Obi squeezed her hand hard, and coughed. Obi was holding his stomach in, trying not to laugh. If he burst out laughing, she would be so angry. Everything rested on this visit.

‘Hello, my loves,’ Ricardo said, reaching an arm out from the shade of his hat. ‘Thanks for seeing me today.’

‘Hello. Come in.’ Nikki stepped backwards to allow Obi and Ricardo to move through the doorway. She had already laid out cookies and cake, juice and a pot of tea in the living room. Ricardo followed her, sat down and whipped off the hat in one movement.

Underneath the hat, Ricardo’s hair was blue.

Nikki and Obi stood looking at him for what seemed like ages, and quiet filled every corner of the room. Nikki tried to speak but no words came out. Obi started to laugh, holding his stomach with his hand: a real belly laugh, without any attempt to hide it. Nikki wanted to cry. How she loved Obi, and how she felt like killing him sometimes. But part of her wanted to burst out laughing too.

‘Oh, this,’ said Ricardo, beginning to laugh too, while rubbing his hair. ‘I do apologise. It’s much brighter than I’d intended.’ He laughed again and all Nikki could hear was two men giggling like children, and she imagined her happiness hovering in the air between them, like a hummingbird, too fast, too small for them to notice.

‘But, seriously – I must look very unprofessional. I’m a very professional person, honestly! It was supposed to wash out. Still, you should never believe the packet … Doesn’t always do what it says on the tin!’ Ricardo threw back his head, his laughter punctuated by snorts every few seconds.

‘Right,’ said Obi, sitting down eventually, after he had stopped laughing, ‘would you like some tea?’

‘Lovely,’ Ricardo said.

Nikki sat on the chair opposite, trying not to look at the electric-blue hair or the giant hat on the back of the sofa, like a satellite dish. She tried to focus on the image of a child, of them as parents.

Ricardo drank some tea and ate three pieces of cake, dropping crumbs all over himself. Nikki could almost hear Obi’s thoughts:
We can’t trust a man who looks like this, with blue hair; how is this man a practising social worker
?

‘Like I said, there’s a child, and I must tell you that I think you’d be a very good match for my lovely Elijah. I’ve brought
the paperwork with me to go through it, but I’m afraid it’s not been done in great detail. But, of course, I can fill you in on the details. He really is a lovely little seven-year-old boy. Of course, there are plenty of things for us to discuss, factors that may affect his future behaviours.’ He paused. ‘He’s had very challenging behaviours in the past. He might have been involved in a fire – even trying to hurt one of the other foster children in his last placement.’

Obi’s face was neutral. But, even then, Nikki swore she noticed the corners of his mouth turning upwards.

‘He’s had some terrible experiences, but he appears to be resilient. He has suffered, though, a great deal of trauma, multiple moves and abuse – both neglect and physical – and his birth mum has a history of mental-health difficulties, some of which may be genetic. I know this is a lot to take on board, and we weren’t considering adoption for Elijah at all; we were looking at long-term fostering. However, he’s done so amazingly well in therapy that we think he would do well in a family environment. With the right family, of course. In terms of contact, it’s currently letterbox only but ideally we’d like twice-yearly face to face. The birth mother has been encouraged to start writing letters but we’re not sure how that’ll go. If they’re too age-inappropriate or disturbing in any way, we’ll keep hold of them and make sure he gets them when he’s older. Meanwhile, I’ve asked if she can send cards or write more age-appropriate, general letters. Anyway, let me tell you about the boy, Elijah, my lovely Elijah.’