The nigerwife, p.13
The Nigerwife, page 13
“I don’t know the country,” she said with a smile. “I’ve only really been here in Lagos, but I like it, I guess. I’m still here after seven years.”
“And you, Kemi—how do you find our country?” Yohanna asked playfully.
“How do you find it?” retorted Kemi. “I’ve been here longer than you. You’re the JGB here.” The visiting friend held out his hands. “It means Just Got Back,” she explained. “So how does it compare to LA, Yo-Yo?”
“LA was great. Beautiful.” He closed his eyes briefly and smiled. “But, oh well, I’m Nigerian for better or worse.” He shrugged. “It’s my country and my cross to bear.”
“Hardly a cross being the son of a powerful man,” said Nicole.
“A toast to the sons of powerful men, then,” said Yohanna, his eyes steady on her. “Refill your glasses. Go on.”
They all raised their glasses a little uncertainly. “The luckiest of men.” Down the champagne went. Yohanna’s smile was sour. Now he grabbed at his vape like it was an asthma inhaler.
“Well, perhaps we will come to Abidjan to look at the art there,” said Kemi, indicating herself and Nicole. “Nicole is going to start working for me at the Wura Gallery.”
“What do you know about Nigerian art?” Yohanna asked rudely.
“She’s just a pretty face,” said Kemi. Nicole rolled her eyes. “But I will teach her.”
“Do you even know Peju Alatise from Ben Enwonwu?” Yohanna asked skeptically.
“I know Peju Alatise,” Nicole said. “There’s one on Elias’s wall.”
“Oh, yes. You two are spending a lot of time together.” He looked over at Elias, who shrugged.
“She will know her art soon enough,” said Kemi, patting his knee. “She won’t be a South London heathen forever.” She laughed.
“Maybe I should go into art too then,” said Elias playfully.
“Me, I can’t buy everyone’s art,” joked Yohanna.
A little later, Kemi and Nicole found themselves alone by the balcony.
“Don’t mind Yohanna’s jokes,” said Kemi.
“I don’t care. He can say what he likes. And I don’t know anything about art. I’m only doing this job for you.”
“Well, it works out for you too. You get more time outside of the compound. You’ve got an excuse now to mess around with Elias. Sow your oats.”
“Ugh. That’s gross.”
“Yes, sorry, only men get to do that. We’re ladies. We have to act chaste and virginal. Fuck that. I’m liking this new Nicole. We even got you out of that awful ankara.”
Nicole said nothing.
“You know, you’re just starting out, but who knows, the art market is growing. You could make a career out of it if you want to. You could make a lot of money. Enough to support yourself.”
“I doubt that’s gonna happen.” It cost a lot more money to live in Lagos than it did in London. The cost of generators and diesel had to be factored in on top of the unreliable electricity. That didn’t include the investment in the generators themselves. Water came from a borehole in the compound, filtered and pumped up to all parts of the house, maintained by a full-time plumber. To rent a decent two-bed flat on Victoria Island would set you back about $50,000 per year, not including a 20 percent service charge. Tonye had laid it out for her when she had suggested they move to their own apartment away from the Oruwari compound. Then there were private school fees for the children, much cheaper than the UK, but still several million naira per year. The cost of imported SUVs, staff, medical insurance, flights. Food if you wanted to eat anything other than pounded yam and local croaker fish. You also had to grease many bureaucratic palms just to exist.
“I mean, Tonye would still have to support you. He couldn’t let you starve.”
“Big assumptions.”
“Maybe. Look, girl, when I marry Yohanna, you’ll have nothing to worry about. I’ll make sure you’re good.” She pumped Nicole’s shoulder theatrically, then went back to Yohanna, settling next to him on the sofa. He draped his arm across her shoulders and she intertwined her fingers with his, but then he looked over at Nicole and stuck his tongue out in that horrid way he had on the boat. No one else seemed to notice. Nicole quickly went to stand beside Elias. He hadn’t registered anything.
“They say Los Angeles is the city of dreams,” he said, looking down to the never-ending traffic scene below. “But I more think Lagos is.” He leaned over the glass railing. “We are a city of dreamers.” He pointed down to a man hailing a taxi, then a girl kissing her boyfriend good-bye. “Many of us came here, or our parents did, full of dreams. But sometimes I think we are drowning, dreaming we are swimming. And it’s just our dreams keeping us afloat.”
“What do you dream about?”
“I dream about you,” he said. “You are my dream. You’re the most beautiful, amazing person I’ve ever met.”
“Be serious.”
“I am. I dream that we are in a relationship. That I wake up and you’re already there. That whatever happens, we are together.”
“Kemi doesn’t think we can have any kind of relationship.”
“Oh yeah?”
“She said you can’t do anything for me.”
A bitter little smile played about Elias’s lips. “Look, don’t let Kemi get in your head. I know she’s your friend, and she thinks she’s got it all worked out, but she doesn’t know anything.”
“What do you mean by that?”
He drew himself up. “Kemi is definitely someone drowning, thinking she is swimming. She inhales the fumes and thinks she will soon be driving the car. None of it means anything. Yo-Yo won’t marry her.”
“How can you know that?” asked Nicole, shocked. She wished she hadn’t said anything.
A bark from Yohanna broke their moment. They looked over to see him waving a hand at them impatiently. Elias looked at Nicole. “Because we all have our masters. Even him.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
NICOLE NAVIGATED the crush of people spilling out of the white-walled gallery onto the waterfront, where the younger set, mostly Kemi’s crowd, congregated, enjoying the lower evening temperatures. Their champagne-tipped voices and the buzzy house music carried over the lagoon into the lavender-tinted sunset. The real money mingled inside, where paintings adorned every spare wall and were strategically displayed on easels. Suited businessmen—in groups of white or Middle Eastern faces—and heavily perfumed madams in flowing kaftans and Hermès sandals moved quickly past the artworks with sold stickers to pause in front of one that was available. Nicole recognized several society people: Prince Balogun, chair of the polo club; Auntie Em, the film producer and broadcaster; billionaire Kolo Sekoni; and others. More sold signs started to appear above the paintings. The glamorously dressed female ushers, an essential feature of any Lagos event, adorned the doorways, greeting guests or moving through the crowd with mini sliders and spicy breaded shrimp on sticks.
Nicole’s first evening had gone well so far. She had made a sale, even if it was one of the cheaper paintings that had gone fast. When Kemi had mentioned her doing this a few weeks ago, she’d been skeptical, but was thankful now for her friend’s urging. Kemi was right. People seemed to seek her out in the gallery as if the black, asymmetrical Issey Miyake dress Kemi had lent her suggested something about her knowledge—which was still next to nothing, despite Kemi’s coaching.
“I’m looking for something for my reception area,” Mrs. Faremi had said. “Something very wow.” She had been easy to sell to, being as clueless as Nicole herself. Nicole had ushered her to a Peju Alatise, the same artist who hung in Elias’s living room. This was a mixed-media piece of beaten gold leaf against a black background, with an upper estimate of 4.5 million naira, betting that if Mrs. Faremi was anything like Mother-in-Law, she would want something gold and eye-catching.
Mrs. Faremi had peered at the card on the wall. “Every night they sleep, they sleep they dream of nothing. What does that mean? I hope it’s nothing ritual.” Once assured the wording was meaningless, just a clever title, Mrs. Faremi had been quick to buy. “Make sure it’s delivered tomorrow morning because I’m traveling soon and I want to know it is with me,” she had huffed, the gold on her wrists jingling as she gestured for emphasis.
Kemi patted Nicole on the back as she passed by with her own client. “Doing well,” she whispered encouragingly.
Wrapping up with Mrs. Faremi, Nicole was pleased at Kemi’s praise. She’d felt she had something to prove ever since Kemi’s overfed cow comment. But she also enjoyed feeling a little like the old Nic again. The one who stood on her own two feet and worked hard.
It was a much busier event than she had expected. Quite nerve-racking. Usually when she attended such things, she drank a lot of wine and chatted with friends. Kemi, of course, was in her professional element, moving confidently between the VIPs in her white pantsuit and heels, negotiating in a hard-nosed way, but still very relaxed about the whole thing, smiling all the way.
“Kilode? Or should I say wagwan, Miss Jamaica?”
She turned. It was Yohanna, wearing an ugly double-breasted jacket in houndstooth. He smiled mischievously, pointing to a nearby artwork. She hadn’t seen him since that night at the Kuramo Waters almost a month ago.
“Could I get some assistance with this piece?” he enquired with mock earnestness.
Nicole looked around for Kemi, but she was ensconced with a group of foreign clients, so Nicole walked across to the painting. It was a very large piece, two meters across and a meter high, with images made out of panels of carved and etched wood and an overall cosmic effect.
“Is Elias with you?” she asked.
“No, we’re not conjoined twins.” Grinning and looking her up and down, Yohanna seemed to find the fact of her working there hilarious. “Nice dress. Now for your sales pitch.”
“So this is the, erm—” Nicole flipped through the booklet in her hands with summary information on each of the artworks.
“El Anatsui,” Yohanna said smugly before she could find it.
“Yes, thank you. Duve by El Anatsui, mixed media on wood panels.”
“Well read,” he said, slow-clapping with those big hands of his. “But I can see that for myself. Can you tell me something that’s not written on the card next to the painting?”
“You want to know about the painting itself, or…?”
He rolled his eyes. “About El Anatsui. Why is this an artist I should invest in?”
Nicole looked around for Kemi in desperation. “Kemi probably knows more about his career path than I do.”
“But she’s busy sucking up to the Italian ambassador.” He jabbed over his shoulder to Kemi’s group. Nicole wondered if he was jealous. He leaned forward. “Maybe we should go to Abidjan and talk about it there.”
“Stop being a knob,” said Nicole. She tried to move off, but he put a hand on her arm.
“Now, now, this isn’t good business.” His voice was brimming with laughter. “You wouldn’t want me to complain to the gallery owners about your poor customer service, would you?”
He sounded like he was joking, but Nicole wasn’t sure. You never knew with Yohanna. Tonight was her first big test and she didn’t want to let Kemi down, so she decided to humor him and looked at the pamphlet.
“El Anatsui is a Ghanaian sculptor who has spent much of his career here in Nigeria. He’s known for his bottle-top installations, recycled from aluminum. His work has been shown all over the world.”
“Good. I’m liking the sound of this.”
“He had a showing at the Biennale in Venice some years ago.”
“I know. I attended.”
“Oh, so you know all about him,” said Nicole. “You’re just torturing me.”
“Of course I know. I’m an art investor. I’m testing you. If you want to get yourself out of trouble next time, don’t worry about what you know or don’t know. It’s not rocket science to win at this game. The market is still so new, if you can afford to invest in artwork at this level, you’re pretty much guaranteed to make money no matter what you buy. Six years ago Ben Enwonwu was selling for less than ten thousand dollars. Now he’s over a hundred thousand.”
Nicole nodded.
Yohanna shook his head. “You do at least know who Ben Enwonwu is now, right?”
“How did you get so interested in art anyway?” she deflected. “Do you paint yourself?”
He looked surprised. “Me? Paint?” He shrugged. “Once upon a time, yes. When I lived in LA. Just for myself. Funny, you’re the first person to ask me.”
“What sort of painting did you do?”
“Self-portraits mostly, but distorted—so you wouldn’t know it was me. Like perhaps I would take a photo of myself and cut it into random pieces, then reassemble them wrongly, or paint myself but changing some of my features, my nose or my hair or my clothes.” She saw that Yohanna enjoyed talking about his art. His face opened up, and he spoke of LA as if it was somewhere he’d much rather be. She imagined him in a Hawaiian shirt that fluttered open at a beach party, sipping on a lurid cocktail, surrounded by Kardashian types. Happy and carefree, not so in his own head. She guessed Nigeria was tough for him in some ways. Unlike Kemi and Elias, who were excited to be in Nigeria, trading on their strengths, he’d been dragged back under family duress that seemed to bring out the worst in him.
“Kemi and Elias didn’t mention you painted,” she said.
His face closed up at the mention of them, and the sarcastic look was back. “What would me painting have to do with either of them? They’re not interested in my artistic inclinations.”
“Then they’re stupid.”
He laughed. “You don’t know how things work, do you? How long did you say you’ve lived here? Do you think they also like you for you? Nothing to do with wanting anything you have?”
Nicole crossed her arms. “So, buying anything then?”
Yohanna seemed to find her about-turn amusing enough to play along. “Let’s see how generous I’m feeling. How much is it?”
“Eighteen million naira.”
Yohanna shrugged. “That’s a little steep. How about a discount?”
“No discounts for sons of billionaires,” she quipped.
“Well, then, how about something extra?”
“Something extra?” Nicole frowned.
He leaned in again. “Come back to my beach house. Just you and me this time.”
“What?” She took a step back.
“I feel like perhaps we got off on the wrong foot that day we met. Things could have gone differently. I didn’t expect you to hit it off with my boy so quickly.”
“What do you mean? I don’t understand. Hit it off with Elias? We’re just friends.”
“Just friends?”
A smile played about his lips as he waited for Nicole’s response. She crossed her arms, waiting for him to clarify what he meant.
“Anyway, I’m just joking,” he breezed finally, looking around the room as though suddenly bored. “And I do like the artwork. Let me see what else is here and I’ll come back to you.”
He turned abruptly and walked away, leaving Nicole shaking her head. He poked fun at her, yet sought her validation. He was a jerk, but they had these surprising moments of deeper connection. And then there was Elias. Were they really just friends as she’d claimed? It felt like they were becoming something more, but she couldn’t visualize the finished piece.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN CLAUDINE
After
PENNY WAS laughing as she answered the phone. A high-pitched cackle signaled to Claudine that Mummy was in the room with her. So much for all their initial bawling. Life had gone on without Nicole, without her. She remembered that was how they had been after Jackie died too. Moved on swiftly, hardly mentioning her again. When you are already broken, what is one more crack?
“Oh, hey, Claud. Mummy, it’s Claud. Any news?”
“What’s going on there?” asked Claudine. Her heart suddenly ached for the comfort of the old sofa and the sharp scent of jerk chicken.
“Watching Desmond’s. Remember Desmond’s? I forgot how funny that show was. I’m crying real tears.”
“You’re always crying about something.”
“God, that show brings back memories. And we used to joke about how our Michael was exactly like Michael Ambrose from the show. Always taking everything too seriously.”
Claudine tried to think back, but the memories seemed so far away. “No, I—” Another peal from Mummy interrupted her. She could imagine Mummy’s pendulous breasts jiggling like jelly on a plate. She hadn’t heard her laugh like that since—well, a long time. “Turn it down, I can hardly hear you.”
The television went off abruptly.
Penny sighed. “So, what’s up?”
“Has Mummy been attending her doctor’s appointments?”
“Yes.”
“What about the medication? Two tablets a day, one in the—”
“Claud, it’s getting done, tek it easy nuh. You don’t have to sound so suspicious. I can tek care of my own mother.”
“I’m just checking, because I know how you stay.”
“What do you mean, ‘how I stay’?”
“No need to bristle up. I’m just saying.”
There was a brief silence—a mini standoff.
Finally Penny said, “So how are you doing, Claud?”
“I wanted to ask you something.” Claudine hesitated. “Was I a bad parent to Nicole—you know, overall?”
“A bad parent? How you mean?”
“I was talking with Tonye, and he implied Nicole didn’t want anything to do with us because of me.”
“You and Tonye had an argument?”
“He turned on me. I found out they’ve told the police to keep things hush-hush and I said that’s not good enough. Then he said, why am I here, Nicole wasn’t that close to us, she never spoke about us.”
“What a cheek. I hope you set him straight.”
“It kind of upset me—you know?”
