It wasn’t long after that that Mother began to rely on Ambien.
RESEARCH
I stare at Gboyega’s picture on Facebook. The man who stares back is a younger, slimmer version of him. I scroll through his pictures until I am satisfied that I know what kind of man he is. This is what I gather:
One well-dressed wife and three tall boys: the first two are now schooling in England, while the third is still in secondary school here. They reside in a townhouse on Banana Island—one of the most expensive estates in Lagos. He works in oil and gas. His photos are mostly of holidays in France, the U.S., Dubai, etc. They are every bit the typical upper-middle-class Nigerian family.
If his life is so blandly formulaic, I can see why he would be intrigued by Ayoola’s unattainability and spontaneity. His captions go on and on about how wonderful his wife is, and how lucky he is to have her, and I wonder if his wife knows that her husband seeks out other women. She is good-looking in her own right. Even though she has birthed three sons and has left her youth behind, she has maintained a trim figure. Her face is expertly made up and her outfits flatter her and do justice to the money he must spend on her upkeep.
I have been calling Ayoola nonstop for half a day, trying to figure out where the hell she is. She left the house early in the morning and informed my mum that she was traveling. She didn’t bother to tell me. Tade has been calling me just as much and I haven’t answered. What am I to say? I have no idea where she is or what she is doing. Ayoola keeps her own counsel—until she needs me. The house girl brings me a glass of cold juice while I continue my research. It is burning hot outside, so I am spending my day off in the shadows of the house.
Gboyega’s wife is not active on Facebook, but I find her on Instagram. Her posts about her husband and children are endless, broken up only by pictures of food and the occasional opinion on President Buhari’s regime. Today’s post is an old picture of herself and her husband on their wedding day. She is looking at the camera, laughing, and he is looking lovingly at her. The caption says:
#MCM Oko mi, heart of my heart and father of my children. I thank God for the day you laid eyes on me. I did not know then you were afraid to speak to me, but I am glad you overcame that fear. I cannot imagine what my life would have been like without you. Thank you for being the man of my dreams. Happy anniversary bae. #bae #mceveryday #throwbackthursday #loveisreal #blessed #grateful
CAR
The police return my car to me—at the hospital. There is nothing subtle about their black uniforms and rifles. My fingernails dig into my palms.
“You couldn’t have returned this to my house?” I hiss at them. From the corner of my eye, I see Chichi sidling closer.
“You better thank God we dey return am at all.” He hands me a receipt. A torn piece of paper that has my license plate number, the date it was returned to me and the amount of 5,000 naira on it.
“What is this for?”
“Logistical and transportation costs.” It is the younger one from the interview at our house; the one who was stumbling over himself for Ayoola’s sake. His demeanor is not so clumsy now. I can tell he is ready for me to make a scene. Armed and ready. For a second, I wish Ayoola were beside me.
“Excuse me?!” They cannot be serious.
Chichi has almost reached my side. I cannot prolong this conversation. It occurs to me that they chose to drop it at my workplace for this exact reason. At home, I would have had all the power. I could simply demand that they leave my compound. Here, I am at their mercy.
“Yes na. The cost of driving your car to and from our office is 5,000 naira.”
I bite my lip. Angering them is not in my best interests; I need them to leave before they attract more attention. Every eye on either side of the hospital doors is on me, my car and these two geniuses.
I look at my car. It is dirty, covered in dust. And I can see a food container on the backseat. I can only imagine what the boot will look like. They have soiled my entire vehicle with their filthy hands, and no amount of cleaning will remove the memory of them.
But there is nothing I can do. I reach into my pocket and count out 5,000 naira.
“Did you find anything?”
“No,” admits the older man. “Your car dey clean.” I knew I had done a thorough job. I knew it would be clean. But hearing him say the words makes me want to weep with relief.
“Good morning, Officers!” Why is Chichi still here? Her shift ended thirty minutes ago. They return her cheerful good morning with a hearty one of their own. “Well done o,” she tells them. “I see you brought my colleague’s car back.”
“Yes. Even though we are very busy people,” the younger policeman stresses. He is leaning on my car, his fat hand on my bonnet.
“Well done. Well done. We are grateful. She had to be managing her sister’s car since.” I hand over the money, they hand over my key. Chichi pretends she hasn’t seen the exchange.
“Yes, thank you.” It hurts to say this. It hurts to smile. “I understand you are both very busy. Don’t let me keep you.” They grunt and walk away. They will probably end up hailing an okada to take them back to their station. Beside me, Chichi is practically vibrating.
“Nawa o. What happened?”
“What happened to what?” I head back to the hospital, and Chichi follows.
“Why did they take your car na? I noticed since that you did not have your car, but I thought maybe it was with the mechanic or something. But I did not think the police had it!” She tries to whisper “police” and fails.
As we walk through the doors, so does Mrs. Rotinu. Tade is not in yet, so she will have to wait. Chichi grabs my hand and drags me into the X-ray room.
“So what happened?”
“Nothing. My car was involved in an accident. They were just checking it, for insurance purposes.”
“And they took your car away just for that?”
“You know these police. Always working hard.”
HEART
Tade looks like shit. His shirt is rumpled, he needs to shave and his tie is askew. No singing or whistling has escaped his lips in days. This is the power Ayoola has, and when I see Tade’s suffering, I cannot help but be in awe of it.
“There is another guy,” he tells me.
“There is?!” I’m overacting, my voice comes out as a squeak. Not that he notices. His head is down. He is half sitting on his desk, with his hands on either side, gripping it tightly, so I can make out the flexing and extending, the working together, the rippling of his body.