I am standing there, watching, as Big Madam enter the glass door, as a shock of cold air and singing voices escape and reach me.
“Why am I not following my madam into the church?” I ask the woman after the door has swallowed Big Madam inside of it. “Where will I find her when she finish? I don’t know anywhere in Lagos. I don’t want to lost.”
The woman stretch her lips into a quick smile. “Don’t worry, you will be fine. Follow me. This way.”
We cut to the far, far back of the church. She is walking on her red high-heel shoe as if the floor is a tightrope. We pass one path with a bush to the left and right of us, like a parting of short, full hair on a flat head. We reach a house. It is the first time I see a gray house in Lagos that make me think of Ikati. It has no paint or door or window. Beside it is another small house, with no door too. I smell the piss before I see the round edge of the white toilet bowl, the broken brown tiles on the floor. It look like they just builded this house anyhow and throw it to the back of the church, after they finish using all the money for the fine church in the front.
“That’s where the housemaid service happens,” she say, covering her nose with a hand, the red of her pointed fingernail pressing into her cheek. “There’s a problem with the toilet flushing system, but that’s on the queue to be fixed. Hopefully should be sorted out before next Sunday. Anyway, have a seat with the rest in there. The preacher will be here soon. We’ll come and get you after the service, okay?”
I step inside, see about five girls sitting on the floor, their head down. They all look the same age of me: fourteen, fifteen. All are wearing dirty dress of ankara or plain material with shoes like wet toilet paper, tearing everywhere. Hair is rough, or low-cut to the scalp. They smell of stinking sweat, of a body that needs serious washing, and they all look sad, lost, afraid. Like me.
“Good morning, everybody,” I say, trying to smile, to see if I can talk to one of them, to make a friend.
But nobody is answering me.
“Good morning,” I say again. “My name is Adunni.”
One of the girls look up then, hook her eyes on me. There is no kindness in her eyes. Nothing. Only fear. Cold fear. She say nothing, but with her eyes, she seem to be saying: You are me. I am you. Our madams are different, but they are the same.
I look around, see Chisom at a far right corner, pressing her phone. I forget the rest girls, walk quick to her. There is a white wire inside her ears, and she is nodding her head to a silent music and eating a chewing gum. She look happy in her blue church dress, black shoe, and clean white socks, and as I bend low in her front, I wonder if she is a housemaid like me and the rest girls here, or if Caroline is just having a different way to keeping her own maids.
“Chisom,” I say.
She blow a bubble with the chewing gum, use her tongue to kill it. Then she slap the floor near her for me to sit, pull out her earphones. “Skinny!” she say. “How are you?”
“Adunni is the name, but fine, thank you,” I say. “Is this your church?”
“No,” she say. “My madam goes to another church. We only came for the Women in Business program. Why are we sitting here? On the floor? I asked that usher with plenty pimples, but all she said was, ‘It is protocol.’ My madam said I should follow her and that she will complain after the service. What is ‘protocol’?”
“I don’t know.” I sit down and pull my knees up like the other girls. “Your madam is very nice to you,” I say. “Why?”
“Because she is a nice woman,” Chisom says, “and because me and her, we understand ourselves. I take care of her, and she takes care of me.”
“Like how?” I ask. Maybe if she tells me, I can try and take care of Big Madam, make her kind to me.
“I know things about my madam,” Chisom says. “Things nobody else knows. All her secrets, everything, I keep them for her. Me and her are more than madam and housemaid. We are like sisters. But you, and all these girls here? There is nothing you people can do to make your madams nice to you. Nothing. Most of them are just wicked, anyway.” Chisom put her wire thing back inside her ear, begin to snap her finger and shake her head.
I wait a moment, then elbow her. “Chisom?”
She pull out the wire, give me vexing look. “What?”
“That day at the shop,” I say, talking soft, “you said Rebecca was thin before, then she begins to get fat. Do you know what happened to her after she was getting fat? Why was she fat? Did she run away?”
“I don’t know,” Chisom says. “Me and her didn’t ever talk much, but when I saw her, she looked big. And when I saw her the second time after the first time, she was getting more big, then I understand.”
“You are confusing me, Chisom,” I say as one man enter the room. He is wearing suit like a worker, holding a big black Bible under his arm. “Hello, everybody,” he say, looking round with a smile at all of us sitting down. “I am Pastor Chris. Today we will—”
“Understand what?” I ask Chisom. My heart is beating so loud, it drown everything the pastor is saying. “Tell me, what did you understand?”
“Rebecca told me she was getting married,” Chisom says, whispering. “She was very happy, but seemed so afraid. Next thing, they say she didn’t come back home from going to the market one afternoon. But—”
“I said can we all rise up?” the pastor says, clapping his hand. “You two in the corner, stop chatting. Stand up!”
“Wait,” I say to Chisom, not even looking at the pastor’s face. “Who was Rebecca marrying?”
“I don’t know, but I think—” She cover her mouth. “Shh, the pastor is coming this way.”
* * *
I was not able to speak to Chisom again after that.
Her madam, Caroline, she came to find her in the middle of our own service and to take her to the big, fine church in front, and after the service, I stand beside the church gate and try to find her. I use my eyes to search all the women and men in their fine dresses, eating meat pies and laughing and talking about the church service, but I don’t see her and I don’t see Caroline too. I was thinking to maybe enter into the church building to keep looking for Chisom, when Big Madam pull me by my hair and drag me inside the car.
We are in the car now, driving home silent.
Big Daddy is at the back snoring loud, and Big Madam is on her phone talking to somebody about a “supply of organza material for two hundred wedding guests.”
When we reach home, Big Madam and Big Daddy climb out of the car, but I don’t climb out. I don’t want to enter the house. I want to stay here, in this car, and hide myself forever.