Beauty's Story Page 3

  All of a sudden, I was not only technically orphaned at age five, I’d also become a mother. And for a long time, I couldn’t hold my baby sister, even though for the past few months I’d been looking forward to her arrival. I couldn’t look into Beauty’s beautiful lake-like eyes without wanting to scratch them out. And everyone said how beautiful she looked (and she was cute) and how lucky Dad and I were to have her. And they asked me to be a big girl. But I didn’t want to be a big girl. I wanted my mummy and my daddy. I wanted all I had before Beauty came and took them away from me. And I wanted to hurt her as she had hurt me. Sometimes, when no one was looking, I would pinch her ear lobe or pull a strand of her curly chestnut hair. She was naturally a crier anyway so no one suspected anything. They just fussed over her which annoyed me even more…

  I thought I had outgrown all of that. But when Ash turned up with her feisty little balled-up fists and powerful diaphragm that belted her displeasures – which seemed to be many – it all came crashing around me again. This was Beauty all over again, and I couldn’t handle it. I was convinced she was sent to punish me for what I did to Beauty as a baby (though I never told anyone this), and I was scared that I might hurt my baby in some way.

  And so it was that I couldn’t bear to touch Ash. Beauty mothered her (and Josh) for those first few dark months. I couldn’t stop weeping. My milk production apparatus wouldn’t stop churning, yet this nightmare of a child wouldn’t suckle, wouldn’t stop hollering… a lot of that period is still very hazy. But I recall the paralysis that alternated with deep gut pain… the same as I feel now after speaking with Aunty Mary on the phone.

  I cannot afford to lose my daddy. Not just yet anyway. We’ve got to find a way to have him moved into a private hospital. We’ve got to actually act on the plan to go home for a holiday one year – this summer has to be it, and I want Josh and Ash to see my dad on his feet, not gowned in a hospital bed – and certainly not in a box.

  I will not cry.

  I must get rid of the shakes before the children return.

  Better still, I should go and see Beauty.

  I opt to take the back roads – I don’t really feel like smiling at anyone. I’ve got to find a way to see that Dad survives this. How I wish I’d pursued my dream of studying medicine. Maybe if he hadn’t given up his studies, he’d have been in a better position to have prevented this. What causes a stroke anyway? Could it have been avoided? How soon can he be cured? Can he be healed? Aunty Mary says he can’t speak on the phone right now. I’ve got to hear his voice again. That voice that used to sing my name, that used to soothe me to sleep, that used to duet with mine… I want my dad back. I want my daddy.

  My head is spinning and the tears flowing freely by the time I slump beside Beauty on her sofa. For the first time ever, we cry in unison through our cuddle.

  When it eventually subsides, I hold Beauty at arm’s length, looking into her watery splotchy eyes. I say, “Forgive me, Sis. I have a confession to make.”

  I don’t know what she expected but a flicker of fear flittered through her face. I hold her closer. “I’m really sorry, I used to hate you.”

  Her relief was tangible. “Is that all?” she sighed.

  “Seriously.”

  “Well, you were mean to me sometimes – I don’t think I’ve recovered from your feeding my feather boa to the vacuum cleaner – but then you were always protective of me, terrorising all potential bullies… and I’ve always admired you… thank you.”

  I choke up again. “See how gracious you are. But I blamed you in my heart for Mum’s death. And to me, Dad died with her – he was never again the father I used to know… and now he’s laid up in hospital and we are thousands of miles away…”

  After the next wave of waterworks, it was Beauty who disengaged first. “So tell me, big sister, when did you stop hating me?” Her eyes held no reproach, just curiosity.

  So I told her.

  It was when she planted the seed of the idea for us to run away from home in Warri and return to Nan in the UK. I was 18, and Beauty nearly 13. It took us about a year to carry it out, but that was the best year of my life as it was. We were to lose Nan a few months later – she never recovered from Grandpa’s passing, but we were not to know that at the time.

  I was about five when we went to Warri. Beauty was a baby. Aunty Mary took us under her large warm wings and devoted herself to our welfare, nursing Dad back to health. A couple of years later he’d got married and within five years Rosa (whom I hated calling Mum but was smacked if I didn’t) had given him three girls. I was pleased to have been shipped off to an all girls’ boarding school for my secondary education.

  This was where I really began to realise how much I’d lost, how different I was and how adrift. I was grateful, however, that Beauty didn’t come to join me there. She couldn’t bear the thought of being away from home, and Dad, of course, obliged her.

  While at school, I recall girls telling of their various experiences of circumcision. For the most part, even though it was the done deal, many were not told until they were taken to the venue. And yes, they were fussed over afterwards and showered with new clothes and food, celebrating their welcome into adulthood, yet it held no appeal for me. And as I grew older, my dread of being tricked into being mutilated took on a life of its own. During one Christmas, I thought I needed to talk to Dad about this and get his assurance that Beauty and I would be exempt from this practice.

  However, although he said he could sympathise with my position, he wouldn’t guarantee that we would be spared as it was a necessary part of our culture.

  Then, one day, our little orphaned cousin, Onome, who lived with us came back from a trip to the village with Rosa, extremely subdued. A few days later, lots of people came visiting, and she was elegantly dressed in traditional attire of a single English wax wrapper and matching blouse, with a light headscarf. Some of the visitors seemed to be suitors or their family members. She didn’t speak much, mostly sat demurely, greeting politely and answering questions directed her way, without herself asking any. I personally took a positive dislike to all of the visitors that day – but no one was asking my opinion, not even Dad.

  That night, in the girls’ bedroom that we all shared, I heard Onome crying. And when she eventually fell asleep, she thrashed about, screaming, “Leave me alone, let go of my hands… my legs are hurting… you are hurting me!” When I managed to shake her awake, she looked dazed, disorientated and scared. I asked if I should get our parents, and she shook her head. I asked if she wanted to talk about her nightmare, and she shook her head. I asked if it had to do with the circumcision. She nodded. And wept… and she wouldn’t let me cuddle her.

  The next morning Beauty whispered to me, “If we don’t get away, this will happen to us.” She was right. And that was when I began to plot our exit… which ultimately resulted in another broken heart for Dad.

  “But for Theo,” Beauty offers quietly, “he would never have forgiven us.”

  We look at each other through red and swollen eyes, and know, without speaking, that we have to go home to see Dad.

  May 2001

  Ashleigh (aged 11)

  Mum speaks on the phone a lot now to her Aunt Mary. I wish she would speak to me. She looks so sad. I wish I could help her. She tries to be strong. And when I ask what the matter is, she tries to lighten up and smile saying, “Oh it’s nothing.”

  But it is something.

  It’s not to do with her work this time.

  It’s not to do with her boyfriends – or lack of.

  It’s not directly to do with money.

  It’s something to do with her dad.

  At least she has a dad. She knows him. Can talk to her Aunt Mary about him. And to my Aunty Beauty.

  I know my dad is somebody called Nick. Mum wouldn’t talk to me about him. Even Josh doesn’t want to talk about him. He says he doesn’t want to know, and that we are better off without anyone telling us what to do.

 
Are we? I think somebody needs to tell Josh what to do, and that ‘somebody’ isn’t me. He isn’t listening to me. If he would, he wouldn’t be skimming from Mum’s purse, getting me to be a look-out on his shoplifting sprees or hanging out with them no good Sam and Jerry.

  Although he still wouldn’t let me walk with him into school, he has protected me from the likes of Sam and Jerry, including the girl versions – Trace and Scary Spice. So I am not bullied. Ignored largely. But that’s about it. I keep to myself, and hang out with Josh when he has time for me – which is really about me doing his dirty jobs for him.

  I can’t snitch on him.

  Mum can’t see him.

  Nick won’t see him – or me for that matter. Actually I should have said Dad but it doesn’t quite sound right.

  Maybe if what I heard Mum and Aunty B discuss is true, then we are in for a big family holiday to Nigeria this summer. It would be good if it actually happens. Get to see another arm of the family. Might do Josh some good, who knows…

  Would cost a bomb though… is why it hasn’t happened yet…

  CHAPTER 4

  July 2001

  Theo

  We were told at Police Academy Communications Class 101 that one of the worst aspects of this job/vocation/profession/life – call it what you want – is having to tell someone that their loved one has died. The basic template we were drilled to follow was to notify the bereaved:

  In person

  In time

  In plain language

  In pairs

  With compassion

  What they did not tell us was that the hardest and worst part ever was having to tell your own loved one that their loved one has died. And although this template was inadequate, it’s all I have to work with. Having said that, Aunty Mary’s words also rang in my ears: “You are not merely an in-law, but also our son. Please be careful how you tell them. Please look after them for me.”

  I’d promised her I would. That was two days ago. I’ve critically examined my options. If I told them separately, it made it more personal and each person would have the space to deal with it in their own way before coming together. However, that way, there was the risk of the one blurting it out inadvertently to the other which could be devastating. There was also the little problem of deciding which of them to inform first.

  Telling them together would mean they each heard it first-hand from me. At the same time…

  But, how do I go about showing compassion to my wife and to her sister at the same time?

  Washing the car was such a good stress buster. As was the vacuuming. And the mopping. And taking junk to the dump, and then cleaning out the inside of the car once again. Then the ironing, which I ordinarily hate with a passion…

  When Beauty came back from the shops and asked what the matter was, my heart missed two beats. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s a Saturday, it’s your day off and you’re not sleeping.”

  “Oh. I’m not too tired.”

  “I can see that. What’s with the marathon housework?”

  “Oh that. I thought to give you a hand as Rob and Daisy are coming round later.”

  “They are? I thought it was just Mel?”

  “Oh sorry, it must have skipped my mastermind,” I chuckled.

  Only, it hadn’t. I arranged it with them after she’d left home.

  She went ahead to reprimand me in her gentle way for being forgetful when it mattered most. Now, she said, she had to go back and get some more groceries to be sure there was enough for everyone. But there was enough for everyone – Beauty overshops as a rule – “Just in case,” she would say. It was still a job to convince her though that we had enough for a simple supper for us to just enjoy some quality time with one another.

  Beauty – a wiz in the kitchen even though I didn’t always admit it to her – did her magic with the pasta bake. She beamed with pleasure as I grated the cheese for the topping and shredded the lettuce, diced the cucumber and sliced the tomatoes.

  Sometimes I caught her eyeing me quizzically and I hoped she did not see through me into the very intents and purposes of my heart.

  When the doorbell chimed at 4pm, I knew before getting it that it was Daisy and Rob. I estimated that Melody would follow in another hour or so. I wasn’t wrong.

  As supper drew to a close, I found I had to make frequent trips to the bathroom. At one point, Rob squeezed my shoulder. To the others, excluding Daisy, he seemed to be saying to me, “Thank you for a lovely evening.” We all knew that Rob was a man of few words.

  When I couldn’t put it off any longer, I cleared my throat and put on my ‘official voice’ as I announced that I had something to say. Ensuring I made eye contact with each of them, I steeled myself on the inside as I pronounced, “Melody, Beauty, I’m sorry to inform you that your father has died.”

  You could have heard a pin drop.

  “Aunty Mary called a couple of days ago to say he went into a coma from which he never recovered. I’m sorry.”

  Another long, loud silence.

  “I’ve got to go.” Melody was at the door in an instant.

  “Hold on, please,” Rob called after her, “let me drive you home.”

  “No thanks, I’d rather walk.”

  “That’s okay, Daisy and I will walk with you.”

  “If you must.”

  After offering Beauty a hug and a kiss with their condolences, they were off. The sisters said nothing to each other.

  Did I miss the ‘in person’ aspect?

  I couldn’t help admiring Melody though. She was a specimen of a woman. Strong. Independent. Almost fierce. Okay, actually fierce but in a comely way. I sometimes wish Beauty had some of her fire.

  Beauty, up to 60 minutes after they’d gone, had said nothing. I didn’t know whether to hold her or to leave her. So I got busy tidying away the supper things.

  When she did speak it was to enquire, “When exactly did you know this?”

  “On Thursday morning. Aunty Mary called me.”

  “And why did it take you so long to tell me?”

  “I needed to get the timing right.”

  “I see.”

  She got up, went into the bedroom and shut the door behind her. I stayed out of her way for the rest of the night, wondering whether I did get the timing right.

  August 2001

  Melody

  Staring out of the window of the Boeing 727 flight number 9571 from London Gatwick to Murtala Muhammed International Airport, Lagos, I couldn’t help wondering why I’ve been unable to cry. Could it be because I’ve been very busy preparing for the trip, including having to decide whether or not to take Josh and Ash along? Josh didn’t seem to mind one way or another. Ash was curious to meet the Nigerian arm of her extended family. I’d have been more inclined to spend nearly £3k on tickets home for us three if the circumstances had been different. I don’t think I’ll be able to forgive myself for having put it off for so long.

  They both had their headphones on, tuned into whatever it was on the little screen in front of them. I’m sure I’ve been as absent to them these past few weeks as my dad was to me after Mum’s passing. I remember being so afraid then that I might get lost in the midst of so many people at the airport. I remember needing to use the toilet and having to go in alone. When I’d finished, the door wouldn’t open. Even though I called out, Daddy could not hear me because he wasn’t inside the ladies with me – he was out in the lounge with Beauty. And I thought they might leave without me, and I would have to live in the toilet forever. Thinking ‘forever’ was a long time, I folded my woollen red coat in half, placed it on the floor in one corner of the cubicle, sat with my knees pulled up to my chin and sobbed quietly.

  When eventually they knocked down the door, pulled me out and handed me to Dad who was holding a photograph of me in that same red coat, I could have kissed somebody. Instead, I stayed glued to Daddy’s leg until we boarded.

  Coming back to now, I consoled mys
elf that Josh and Ash were older than I had been then, and at least they had each other for company. That always comforted me.

  The heat slapped me square in the face, and I knew I was red because I was itchy. I’d forgotten to take my antihistamines. I’d been so caught up with ensuring that we had our anti-malaria tablets and yellow fever, typhoid and hepatitis vaccines that I completely forgot how unreliable my body system turned out to be in hot and strange places. Fortunately Boots the Chemist had some in stock and even though it was overpriced, I was desperate.

  As we approached the Customs and Immigration clearance area, my heart sank at the length and bulkiness of the queue. Rather than move forward towards a booth in a single file, it sort of shuffled en bloc. And there were too many people leaning over the barricade in front, from where officers pointed and called people forward in no systematic way that I could decipher. From time to time the crowd parted like the Red Sea while VIPs with their hangers-on rolled past, got vaguely checked and went along their merry way.

  Joshua spoke my thoughts, “How does this queue actually work?”

  “In mysterious ways,” Theo replied.

  I’d thought it strange that he’d chosen to travel in his uniform. Now he reached into his hand luggage and took out his hat. Donning it with one hand and holding on to Beauty with the other, he said to us, “Come with me.”

  “Excuse me,” he boomed, “excuse me,” and as the crowd looked up to him in his full regalia, they made way. A couple of men met us halfway. “Oga sir, welcome sir, do you need anything sir?”

  “Just a quick exit, I have an important meeting to attend.”

  “Yes sir.” They now turned to the crowd and commanded, “Make way! Make way!”

  All of a sudden we had two ‘town criers’. Within minutes, we had cleared customs, retrieved our luggage, and got escorted to the arrivals lounge where Aunty Mary was waiting for us with Cousin Daniel who was to drive us for most of the time we were home.