“Korede, Ayoola, come and greet my guest.”
We trooped down obediently. The guest was already seated, and my mother was offering him delicacy after delicacy. He was important. We knelt down, as was customary, but he waved us back to our feet.
“I am not that old o!” he cried. He and Father laughed even though we could not see what was funny. My feet were hot and itching, and I wanted to go back to the cool of the air conditioner. I switched from foot to foot, hoping my father would dismiss us so that the men could talk business, but Ayoola was transfixed by the visitor’s cane. It was studded from top to bottom with different colored beads. Its brightness drew her eye and she went closer to examine it.
The man paused and watched my sister over the rim of his teacup. Seeing her up close, he smiled—but it was not the same smile he had lavished on us earlier.
“Your daughter is very beautiful.”
“Really,” my father replied, cocking his head.
“Very, very lovely.” He moistened his lips. I grabbed Ayoola’s hand and pulled her a couple of steps backward. The man looked like a chief, and when we went to the village for Christmas our maternal grandparents always kept us away from chiefs. Apparently, if a chief saw a girl he liked, he would reach out and touch her with his bejeweled cane and she would become his bride, no matter how many wives the man already had; no matter if the girl in question wanted to be his wife or not.
“Hey! What you doing?” Ayoola whined. I hushed her. My father shot me a dark look but said nothing. The way the visitor was eyeing her triggered an instinctive fear inside of me. The visitor’s face was moistening with sweat, but even as he wiped his brow with his handkerchief, his eyes did not leave Ayoola’s. I waited for Father to put the man in his place. Instead, Father leaned back and stroked the beard that he took great pains to maintain. He looked at Ayoola, as though seeing her for the first time. He was the one man who never referred to Ayoola’s stunning features. He treated us both exactly the same. I was never given the impression he was even aware of how gorgeous she was.
Ayoola shifted under his gaze. He rarely looked at us closely, and when he did, it never ended well. She stopped resisting my grip and allowed me to pull her to me. Father redirected his gaze to the chief man. His eyes twinkled.
“Girls, leave us.”
We didn’t need to be told twice. We ran out of the main living room and shut the door behind us. Ayoola started running up the stairs, but I pressed my ear against the door.
“What are you doing?” she hissed. “If he catches us—”
“Shhhh.” I caught words floating through the door, words like “contract,” “deal,” “girl.” The doors were thick oak, so I couldn’t hear much else. I joined Ayoola on the stairs and we went to my room.
By the time the sun went down we were out on the balcony, watching the man get into the backseat of his Mercedes and be driven out of our compound. The fear that had been stuck in my throat receded, and I forgot about the incident with the chief man.
FAMILY
Muhtar and I are talking, about the blandness of the food here, the coarseness of the sheets and tall tales of his past students.
There is a knock and Mohammed enters the room, interrupting us. He mumbles a greeting at me, then beams at Muhtar, greeting him in Hausa, to which Muhtar enthusiastically responds. I did not realize they had made each other’s acquaintance. And I have never seen Mohammed smile so…freely, at someone other than the nurses who fight over him. Their barrage of Hausa relegates me to the position of other and, five minutes in, I decide to leave; but before I have a chance to announce my intentions, there is yet another knock on the door.
One of Muhtar’s sons comes in, trailed by a fresh-faced girl. I do not know the names of his children—it hasn’t seemed important. But I can tell this is the older one; he is taller and has a full beard. He is thin like his father; they all are, like reeds in the wind. His eyes fall on me. He is probably wondering what a nurse is doing making herself comfortable at his father’s bedside, tracing the rim of an empty cup with her finger.
Mohammed empties the wastebasket and shuffles out. I stand up.
“Good morning, Dad.”
“Good morning…Korede, you are leaving?”
“You have a guest.” I nod toward his son.
Muhtar snorts and waves his hand. “Sani, this is Korede, the owner of the voice in my dreams. I’m sure you won’t mind her staying.”
The son frowns with displeasure. On closer inspection, he does not look as much like his father as I thought. His eyes are small but wide-set, so that he looks permanently surprised. He gives a stiff nod, and I sit back down.
“Dad, this is Miriam, the girl I want to marry,” he announces. Miriam lowers herself into a tsugunnawa out of respect for the man she hopes will be her father-in-law.
Muhtar narrows his eyes. “What happened to the last one you brought to meet me?”
His son sighs. It is a long dramatic sigh. “It didn’t work out, Dad. You’ve been out of it for so long…” I should have left the room when I had a chance.
“I don’t understand what that means. Hadn’t I already met her parents?”
Miriam is still kneeling, her right palm cupping her left. The two men seem to have forgotten that she is still here. If this is the first time she is hearing of another woman, it does not seem to register. She glances up at me, her eyes empty. She reminds me of Bunmi. Her face is round, and she is all curves and soft flesh. Her skin is even darker than my own—she comes close to the color black that we are all labeled with. I wonder how old she is.
“I have changed my mind about her, Dad.”
“And the money that has been spent?”
“It’s just money. Isn’t my happiness more important?”
“This is the madness you tried to pull while I was sick?”
“Dad, I want to begin the arrangements, and I need you to—”
“Sani, if you think you are getting a dime from me, you are more foolish than I thought. Miriam, your name is Miriam, abi? Get up. I apologize, but I will not sanction this marriage.” Miriam stumbles to her feet and then goes to stand beside Sani.
Sani scowls at me, as though I were somehow to blame for this turn of events. I meet his glare with a look of indifference. A man like him could never ruffle my feathers. But Muhtar catches the exchange.
“Look at me, Sani, not Korede.”
“Why is she even here? This is a family matter!”
The truth is, I am asking myself the same question. Why does Muhtar want me here? We both look to him for an answer, but he seems to be in no hurry to provide one.