Prologue
She was a mermaid—queen of song and sea, goddess of the gill-bearing vertebrates, mistress of the hearts of men.
Only she quickly realised that in these waters, the one creature that could flourish was Mami Wata; and Mami Wata was as far from the fabled mermaid as a creature could be. There was no shimmering fin, no haunting singing voice, no glossy skin—instead a mouth crowded with dagger teeth, hands that were deformed and decaying, features that were hard to look at but impossible to turn away from. Monife had had little interest in Mami Wata, but in the end, when they found her body, she would be likened to the eerie creature.
The water was cold. And terrifying in the darkness. She was alone because Elegushi beach was not a place you went to at night. In the blackness, the beach had a completely different atmosphere; without the DJ blasting music or kids kicking up sand, it was joyless. Even in the daytime, most Lagosians stayed well away from the water; they were always surprised and a little awed when Monife wandered into the frothy waves in some skimpy bikini with her arms held wide open and her braids flying wildly behind her. Strangers would call her back, afraid for her safety, afraid to be witness to some tragedy they imagined was about to take place. But she had always, always returned to shore.
The tragedy was here, now, with her wading into the cold, thrashing waters. No. The tragedy had already happened, and this was simply the inevitable consequence. She thought of her mother, but the thought did not soften her resolve. She had left a brief note—she hadn’t had the words. Besides, they would know why; and if they were unsure, her cousin could enlighten them.
She was doing her very best to think of anything but Golden Boy. She didn’t want her last thoughts to be of him. She had already surrendered herself to him in her life; she didn’t want to surrender to him at the end also. But she was neck-deep now and she hoped his heart would shatter into a million glittering, self-pitying pieces. He would swallow his pain whole, and perhaps he would choke on it.
It was impossible to tell where her tears fell as the waves washed her clean. She was being swept further and further away from the shore, from her home, from her life. She was terrified, but she reminded herself that the worst had already happened, she only had to give in.
PART I
Ebun
(2000)
I
“Gone too soon,” the pastor had said, and she thought it the understatement of the century. Gone too fucking soon.
The weather was all wrong. It was rainy season; at least it was supposed to be. She would have welcomed dark clouds, thunder, a perfect storm. Instead, the sun was relentlessly bright and the sky was crystal clear. She fanned herself with her hand; it did nothing to relieve her discomfort. Off in the distance, she could hear the beat of a gángan, the trumpets and the joyous chorus that accompanied it—the soundtrack was all wrong, too.
Someone grabbed her hand and a small moraine of soil was poured on to Ebun’s palm. She stared at it, momentarily forgetting what she was supposed to do…oh yes—sprinkle it on the pine prison that housed the body of her cousin. She released soil over the coffin and watched it scatter. Beside her, her mother wailed.
It was done. It was done. And Tolu was already walking away. She watched him step on grave and grass as if there were no difference between them. He had barely spoken to her mother and herself, and when he did, it was “yes,” “no,” “okay.” Her mother had ascribed the behaviour to grief, but Ebun knew it was condemnation.
The drums were getting louder, the singing more frenzied. She was starting to believe the gbin gbin gbe of the gángan was taking place within the walls of her skull, but then a gathering of people paraded by, led by musicians. They were straight-backed, dressed in Ankara aso ebi, chatting, some even laughing and skipping over graves as they exited Ikoyi Cemetery; oblivious to the wretchedness a stone’s throw from them. Whoever it was the jubilating group had buried had likely reached their twilight years, probably had children and grandchildren and possibly died in their sleep. Not so Monife. She was, is…was only twenty-five.
Ebun looked around and saw Mo’s mourners were beginning to melt away. They mumbled goodbye to one another; some exchanged hugs. Mo’s father was soaking in the sympathy and accepting condolences as if they were his due. She stayed out of his way, lest she speak her mind. Tolu had had a similar idea—throughout his sister’s funeral, he’d stayed ten feet away from his father at all times.
She was tired and her feet hurt, so she left the cemetery as quickly as her distended belly would allow. When she got to the car, she realised the keys were with her mother. She was forced to wait under a sun that was dry-eyed and unfeeling, the sweat running down her forehead, into her eyes, down her neck and her chest. She wiped it with her hand, but it kept on coming. Her discomfort must have been shared by the baby, because the kicks came hard and fast. She was worried she would faint, so she carefully sat on the ground, under the shade of a palm tree.
How quickly life changed. The note, searching for Mo, receiving word that a body had been found, burying her…it had all transpired in the course of ten days; but it had felt like a millennium. She waited for the tears to come, as she had done since she got the news of Mo’s death, if only to relieve her of the lump in her throat and chest; but there truly was no peace for the
wicked.
“Ebun. Ebun.” She looked up. Her mother was standing over her, eyes raw from crying. “Are you okay?”
What a question. She struggled to rise from the ground, so her mother helped her up. They got into the Beetle. She hoped they would drive in silence, but her mother wanted to talk.
“It was a nice service, wasn’t it?”
“Mmm.”
“I think Monife would have felt loved.”
Love was what had gotten Monife buried six feet under. But Ebun chose to keep her true thoughts to herself.
“Yes, she would have,” she replied.
II
Her mother dropped the car keys into a glass bowl on the console table in the hallway, among the kobo coins, lint and someone’s bangles. The keys clinked against the glass and the ensuing echo tricked her into thinking that the house was empty. But alas, she soon made out the gentle murmuring of women talking quietly, as if intent on not waking any ghosts.
She could guess why they were here—Aunty Bunmi hadn’t attended the funeral because it was considered taboo for a mother to bury her child; and since it would have been unwise to leave a grieving mother alone, a few family members must stay with her. Ebun understood all that, but she couldn’t bear the thought of seeing any more people, so she began to head for the stairs. “Ebun,” her mother said. “You have to go and greet your aunt.”
She was about to make an excuse, when she noticed something was off. On the wall to the right of the console she was looking at five framed photographs, where there used to be eight. The missing photos had all featured Mo—Mo holding her university certificate, Mo beaming at the camera with the shadow of the beach in the background, Mo with one arm around Ebun’s shoulders and the other around Tolu, pulling them tightly to her.
She took a couple of steps back and scanned the wall on the left side of the console table. It was missing the picture of Mo, Tolu and their mother awkwardly posed, and the picture with Mo in her role as bridesmaid.
“What’s happened to Mo’s pictures?” she asked, as calmly as she could.
Her mother looked up at the wall and sighed, scratching her forehead with a long nail.
“I…If this is what your aunt needs, maybe it’s for the best…”
Ebun could tell her mother had not been a part of the picture-removing committee, but Kemi’s words only fuelled her anger.
“Ebun, where are you going?”
Ebun hurried through the dismal corridor to the east wing. The way was narrow and dim, not unlike walking through a tunnel. A little creativity—lowering the walls around the courtyard that divided the Falodun home into two wings, or adding windows—would have made the house a little less claustrophobic; but then again, the iroko tree at the centre of the courtyard would probably have blocked out all possibility of natural light. She opened the east living room door to meet a collection of photographs so large that they rose almost to the ceiling, with the oldest of them devoid of colour. Some dated back all the way to the matriarch—Feranmi Falodun. She searched for her cousin, but here too all trace of Monife was gone. Ebun felt a buzzing in her head. It was bad enough that Aunty Bunmi had not been there to lay her daughter to rest, but now they were pretending Mo had never existed in the first place.
She wanted to scream. She did not know what had possessed her aunt, nor did she care. She would march up to her and demand that—
“Ebun.” Her mother was in the doorway, blocking her exit. “Ebun. Today is not the day.”
Kemi was small, only five foot—the height of a child. And considering the fact that she was always on some diet, she was
was probably the weight of a child. It wouldn’t be hard to shove her out of the way.
“Mummy, please. Move.”
“Ebun.”
“I just want to talk to her.” A part of her was fizzing at the thought of being angry at someone other than herself, being able, just for a moment, to release the tightness in her chest.
“Please,” her mother said, but Ebun pushed past her and headed for the west wing. She took the shortcut, through the courtyard, past Sango. He was camouflaged by the shadows; all but the creepy eyes that followed her. She ignored him and entered the west wing corridor. Behind her, she could hear the hurried steps of her mother’s heels against the terrazzo floors.
“Ebun. Ní sùúrù.”
She ignored her mother’s appeal for calm.
“Aunty Bunmi!” she shouted as she approached the west living room. “Aunty Bunmi!”
The door opened as she reached it, and Aunty Bunmi stood in its frame. She was dressed in a plain skirt and blouse, not unlike her headmistress garb. Her eyes were swollen and her lips trembled. She was flanked by Grand-Aunty Sayo, Grand-Aunty Ronke, Mama G and Mama G’s obscenely large breasts. Of course Mama G would be there, whispering fictions into Aunty Bunmi’s ear. Ebun dragged her eyes from the mamalawo, choosing to focus her attention on Mo’s mother. She should have curtsied for the older women before her, and she hoped they noticed she had not observed the custom.
“Where are her pictures?” Her voice was low, slow and deep.
“Ebun,” her mother pleaded, “this is not the time.”
“Where are they?” she asked again.
room. The four women were essentially trapped and withering under her gaze.
Aunty Bunmi lowered her eyes. She would not give Ebun the fight she needed.
“It is best this way,” began Mama G. “Or her spirit might linger.”
So it was Mama G’s idea? She could kill her. She had no idea why her aunt thought it appropriate to have a mamalawo here at this time, but if the woman could not hold her peace, Ebun would happily bury her on the family grounds. At the very least, she would make her regret meddling in their business. And then she would find Mo’s pictures.
Ebun took three steps, aiming to close the gap between herself and the women before her, when she felt a gushing release from between her legs. She looked down at the puddle of water, bright against the floor. “Shit,” she said, and then burst into tears.
“Ebun, ṣé kò sí?”
“I…” But she couldn’t get the words out. She tried to breathe but couldn’t stop crying. If she could have gathered the water pooling at her feet and shoved it back up into her vagina, she would have done; because it was early yet, her baby wasn’t due for another five weeks. But her grief and her fury must have stirred the water in her womb, and now the baby was pressing against the wall that was meant to keep her safe. It was too early.
She would lose her child; and on the day she had buried her cousin. Call it fate. Call it karma. She squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t follow that train of thought. Her mother was shouting.
“What?! What?! What is it? What has happened?” asked Grand-Aunty Sayo. They were still far enough away that they hadn’t seen. Ebun placed a palm on the wall and tried to calm herself.
“She has wet herself,” her mother confidently informed them. Ebun tried to regulate her breathing. Her baby would be okay. She had to be.
“She can’t have wet herself, Kemi.”
“Are you not seeing what I am seeing?”
“It is her water. Her water has broken.”
Aunty Bunmi’s words were firm. She touched Ebun’s arm with a cool hand, steadying her, then she pulled her into the living room, leading her to an armchair. Five sets of eyes peered at her.
“It can’t be her water. It’s not time yet!” her mother shouted. No, it wasn’t time yet. Perhaps Ebun was about to learn what it felt like to lose a child.
Her aunt’s sombre eyes met her own for a brief moment. Then they both looked away. Ebun thought about the anger she had felt mere moments ago. What had she really thought she could say to the woman? All she felt now was a wave of tiredness. She spotted Sango’s dark shape disappear behind the couch.
The women were debating what to do. Grand-Aunty Ronke suggested she should lie down, close her legs and the baby would relax. Her mother was pacing back and forth, speaking in tongues, and Ebun instinctively looked around to locate one of her cousins so they could share an eye-roll; and then she remembered—Mo was gone and Tolu wanted nothing to do with her.
“Maybe Mama G can…” began Aunty Bunmi.
Ebun shook herself. She had no intention of giving herself over to a mamalawo and the spirits she entertained. This was her child and she would fight for her soul.
“Just get me to a hospital.”
III
They told her to push. Push.
As if it was easy; as if they weren’t asking her to surrender herself to death.
She heard someone give a guttural cry, and then realised that she was the someone. She had been right to fear this pain. She didn’t think she would survive the experience. A voice told her she was doing well, but it was as though she were submerged underwater and the voice was trying to reach her from the surface. The words had no meaning. She breathed. She pushed. She felt the head crowning. She screamed, and it was over.
They lowered the baby into her arms, naked and crying. She stared at the child that she had nurtured for seven months—the cause of her acid reflux, the endless blood-thinning injections, the sickness, the absent-mindedness. Here she was, her daughter, in the smallest and most fragile of packages. Her skin pillowy soft against Ebun’s own. The crying subsided. They took their breaths together. Her daughter’s eyelids flickered open, and the eyes were boundless and familiar. Ebun was engulfed in a joy that was so concentrated it felt like grief. Nothing would ever matter as much as this child.
“Beautiful hair,” a nurse exclaimed as Ebun ran her fingers tenderly over her baby’s scalp. The statement was true enough. Her daughter’s hair was already thick and coily; likely to become long and resilient, soaking up moisture and defying gravity.
And then the moment was over. They whisked the baby away, to check that her organs were fully developed and she would be able to survive on her own.
When her daughter was returned to her, Ebun saw that her eyes were heavy with sleep. Eyes that reminded her of Monife—wide-set and downturned. She gave in to her own desire for rest. This was a moment steeped in all that was good. She didn’t have to think of anything else.
IV
The ward was dark, but she could sense that there was someone in the cubicle with her. It was Ebun’s second night in the hospital, and she had been moved to a room divided into two by a fragile curtain—leaving her with a space just wide enough to accommodate a bed, cot and solitary chair. She opened her eyes and waited for them to adjust.
She could make out a figure approaching the cot where her baby slept. At first she assumed it was her mother. But her mother was short, with wide hips, and this woman was tall and slender. Besides, her mother had gone home to sleep. A nurse? But surely a nurse would say something.
She felt panic blooming in her chest. The figure was moving towards her child with what she could only imagine were bad intentions. What else would explain this creeping about? She wanted to shout, but she was still groggy, weighed down by the various drugs keeping her from feeling pain. Her body would not do the thing she most wanted it to do, which was get up and protect her baby. She tried again to call out.
“Nurse. Nurse.” But the words were just a croak. Her throat was dry. Perhaps the other new mother would hear her, but no one responded to her cry.
Her heart rate quickened as the figure neared the cot. She could begin to make out that the woman was wearing an oversized shirt, revealing long legs, bare feet, a thin link chain glinting on the right ankle. Suddenly she recognised the thick hair and the bowed legs. It was Mo. Mo was here, not in Ikoyi Cemetery, in a wooden box covered by soil, but here in the cubicle with Ebun and the baby; bending over the crib, lifting the baby and peering at her face.
“Mo. Please. Please,” Ebun begged, even though she couldn’t have said what it was she was asking. She used her hand to hold on to the bed rail, and pushed herself up. Then she swung her feet to the floor and tried to stand. She immediately crumpled, hitting the ground hard, so she began to crawl, dragging herself to the cot.
If Mo was aware of Ebun, she chose not to show it. She was cradling the baby and rocking her gently. Neither of them made a sound. As Ebun inched closer, she noticed that Monife was wet, the T-shirt clinging to her body, her hair heavy and glossy over her shoulder. “Please,” she tried to say again. Mo lifted her head slowly, and a single drop of water rolled from her hairline and fell, catching the dim light, landing with a small splash on the baby’s forehead—
Ebun woke up in her bed with a start, her heart hammering. She looked around frantically; the ward was dark and silent. She found she could lift herself from the hospital bed and shuffle to the cot, where her baby slept peacefully. And Mo was still buried six feet deep, fifteen miles away. It was only a dream. The wall between the living and the dead was impermeable; she had no reason to be afraid. It was only as she turned away from the cot that Ebun realised her foot was wet; she was standing in a small pool of water.
V
There was the time before Monife, and the time after.
The time before was slow, dreary, but most of all, it had been so very lonely. Ebun had lived in the Falodun house with her mother, who would disappear for hours at a time in search of husband number four or selling imported jewellery to the wives at various upscale Lagos clubs, leaving her eleven-year-old daughter with a list of chores to complete and not much else. Ebun had been a thin, melancholic child, who would diligently follow the instructions she was given, then wait for her flamboyant, laughing mother to come home and regale her with her adventures. She had no friends, as she found the art of making friends laborious. And she didn’t have the creativity to entertain herself. Those hours waiting for her mother to return were spent in a state of inertia; she wouldn’t have been able to say what she had done with the time.
But all that changed the day Kemi’s sister arrived on their doorstep with her two children and eight suitcases in tow. Ebun watched from between the banisters of the east staircase as the sullen sixteen-year-old Tolu and the winsome fifteen-year-old Monife dragged their baggage into the Falodun home. She watched as her mum and aunt embraced, but she refused to move from her eyrie.
cousins? Come and say hi.”
Of course she remembered them. They were the cousins that lived in England. They had crisp accents and a weird aversion to the heat. They had visited two years ago, and had been unable to hide their contempt for her home and for Nigeria. But here they were again. She had gleaned from her mother’s loud phone conversations that Aunty Bunmi’s husband had a new family and his old family had nowhere to go.
“Ebun, don’t make me say it again.”
Ebun stood up, hesitated, one foot ready to step down, but instead she turned and ran off to her room. She could only hope that when she reappeared, they would be gone. She was accustomed to these ad hoc visitors at their home—her half-brothers, who made it clear her presence was unwelcome; her father, who showed up to fulfil all righteousness; and the odd suitor for Kemi, asking Ebun awkward questions about school. Ebun slid behind doors, huddled under chairs and beds, and waited until whoever was visiting had left.
But this time, when she came out of her hiding place, her cousins were still there. And they were there the day after, and the day after that.
—
The trauma of being abandoned by their father was plain to see in Tolu’s behaviour. He was curt and dismissive. He would lock himself in his room and only make an appearance for food.
But Mo, Mo was different. Mo was a candle in the perpetual gloom that had been Ebun’s existence, with her made-up games, and her penchant for rolling her eyes theatrically at Ebun whenever their mothers did something embarrassing—which was often. Then there was the way she would listen to Ebun with her head cupped between her hands, staring into Ebun’s eyes. For years, Ebun did her best to imitate Mo—her gravelly voice, her large cursive writing, the music she listened to and her effortless dancing. If Monife noticed her efforts, she chose not to say anything. Except “I always wanted a little sister.”
Monife had been the catalyst for Ebun’s heart to start beating again, so she hadn’t been prepared for the bursts of sadness that would hit Mo and plunge the whole household into a state of crisis. There was no way to predict when it would occur. Mo would become plagued with insomnia, she would stop eating, she would stay in bed and pull the duvet over her head, saying little and doing even less. Whatever unfathomable place she had gone to, Ebun would gladly have followed, but she was left on the outside. ...
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