Читать книгу Welcome to Lagos - Chibundu Onuzo - Страница 16

9

AHMED’S PARENTS’ MARRIAGE WAS strong, incongruously so. His father read widely, understood the foreign stock market, conversed with ease. His mother and her friends wore matching clothes to weddings. His parents were rarely seen outside together but in the domestic space they were courteous, loving even, attentive to how many spoons of sugar and how many cubes of ice. It worked for them, especially after the death of his sister.

Morenikẹ’s smile sketched outlines on the edges of his memory but he could never recall his sister’s face without the aid of a photograph. From her pictures, he knew she had been angular with bulging eyes, but the presence of those few hanging photos had not been a reproach to his childhood.

Ahmed wished she were alive, if only to shift the weight of his parents’ disappointment. He had left his good job in England. He was not yet married. He insisted on carrying on with this ridiculous newspaper project.

“The media mogul has arrived,” his father said as he walked into their living room. “What will he drink?”

Once a month, for his mother’s sake, he spent a Sunday afternoon with both of them.

“Bọla, stop teasing him,” his mother said.

“I’m not. I read the damn paper. I saw the piece on Chief Momoh’s alleged oil rig. Why did it take you so long to get to it?”

“We were gathering material.”

“Is that so? Perhaps you should rename yourself The Stale Journal.”

“Bọla, leave the boy alone.”

“I’m just giving him some paternal advice. If he’s going to try and embarrass my friends, at least be the first to the story. What are you drinking?”

“Star.”

“We only have Guinness.”

“Guinness, then. I’ll get it.”

“No. You’re a guest now. We see you once a month, so we have to be on our best behavior or your mother says you’ll stop coming.”

His father brought the bottle on a tray to him with a slim glass, setting it on a side stool.

“Dearest, what about you?”

“Orange juice. You know we shouldn’t be drinking so close to Ramadan.”

“Live and let live, Mariam.”

They drank in silence, his father tapping his feet as he sipped his port. When their glasses were empty his father stood.

“Right. Lunch should be ready. Let’s not keep the newspaperman waiting.”

As always, there was too much food. The table was heaped for guests that would never arrive: his dead sister, her imaginary husband, and their six obese children. The chairs were stiff-backed, with wrought copper arms uncomfortable to rest on. On the walls were paintings, trite European landscapes in greens and blues, and in the corner an aquarium bubbled softly, the pale fish darting behind its glass walls. He would have preferred to eat in the living room but his mother liked to create an occasion, complete with gold cloth napkins and heavy silver cutlery brought from storage each month.

“You remember Layọ Adenuga?” she said when they had begun eating.

“No.”

“You do. You went to primary school with her. Short, a bit chubby, very light-skinned.”

“Vaguely.”

“She got married last week. Such a beautiful wedding. Her colors were burnt orange and magenta. It was so difficult to find matching shoes. Your wife better pick simple colors.”

“Who will let their daughter marry this newspaperman? He’s not trained for this. He’s an amateur and it damn well shows.”

Ahmed would not let himself be goaded today.

“When is your next wedding, Mum?”

“Da Silva and Ajayi. Hundred thousand naira for five yards of aọ ebi. These people want to empty our bank accounts. But you know how close Mrs. Ajayi and I are. I can’t refuse.”

“Yes, this is what your mother spends our retirement funds on.”

His father seemed relieved that he had not risen to the bait. For the next hour, conversation continued with little to disrupt it. At five o’clock Ahmed pushed his chair back from the table.

“Until next month, then,” his father said, shaking his hand and leaving the room. His mother walked him to his car, his trunk full of yams and plantains from her kitchen. He would give it all to his neighbors once he got home.

“Don’t mind him. He just wants you to do well.”

“Yes. I understand.”

“Will you come with me to the Ajayi wedding? You know your father always leaves me to go on my own. And you never know, you might meet someone.”

He had been stunned by these society weddings when he first moved home, dazed by the towering cakes, free champagne, fresh European flowers, chocolate fountains, and ice sculptures as cold as the unmarried belles, aloofly desperate, sitting stiffly in their new clothes and lacquered faces, waiting for a “hello” from a prosperous-looking, preferably unmarried man before they would let themselves thaw. And when you stepped outside for a smoke or a phone call or to talk more deeply to the pretty bridesmaid, you would see the small economy that had grown around the spectacle. There would be beggars waiting for crumbs, touts watching your car, photographers pointing out your pictures taken that day, men selling money in bundles, freshly minted naira to spray on the couple, cash littering the dance floor, the happily ever after turned into a capitalist boom.

“I can’t make it. And you won’t be on your own, Mum. You’ll have all your friends around you.”

“You’re a snob. That’s your problem. Why can’t you marry one of my friends’ daughters? Poor people’s children marry themselves all the time, so why shouldn’t rich people do the same?”

“We don’t have the same interests.”

“What interests? Is it newspaper? I’ve told you, Rẹmi Okunọla’s daughter has moved back and started a magazine. Let me introduce you. Her mother can bring her to the wedding.”

“You didn’t like my last girlfriend.”

“She had dreadlocks, for goodness’ sakes. And she was Igbo and you could hear it when she spoke.”

“Don’t start that.”

“I don’t have anything against Igbo people. Mrs. Eze is a perfectly charming and—”

“Drop it, Mum.”

“Well, even if it’s the gardener’s daughter, just bring someone soon. All I ask is she has a degree and knows how to handle a—”

He opened the door and got into his car. Disdain from his father and this biting prattle from his mother. Sometimes his one visit a month felt too frequent.

“Wait, before you go, how are things at work? You know we can never talk seriously when your father is around.”

“Fine, thanks. We’re trying to see how we can monetize our website. Traffic on there is encouraging.”

“Just make sure there’s no accident.”

“Where?”

“In the traffic that you’re talking about.”

“Yes, Mum. We’ll try to keep away from accidents.”

“You had better, ọkọ mi.”

“Your husband is waiting for you inside the house.”

“Then hurry up and bring our wife so I’ll stop calling you that.”

“I’ll see you soon.”