himself.”
“Shit.”
“What’s the problem? You said I should be nice to him.”
“I said you should clear things up. I didn’t say you should bring him into this further.” My mother pinches me and I keep my mouth shut, but my body is shaking. Someone lays a kind hand on my shoulder, thinking me overcome with emotion. I am; just not the kind they think.
“Let us close our eyes and remember this man, because the years he spent with us were a gift from God.” The voice of the priest is low, solemn. It is easy for him to say these things because he did not know the man. No one really knew him.
I close my eyes and mutter words of gratitude to whatever forces keep his soul captive. Ayoola searches for my hand and I take it.
* * *
—
After the service, people come to commiserate with us and to wish us well. A woman approaches me; she hugs me and will not let go. She starts to whisper: “Your father was a great man. He would always call me to check up on me and he helped with my school funds…” I am tempted to inform her that he had several girlfriends in various universities across Lagos. We had long since lost count. He once told me you had to feed the cow before you slaughtered it; it was the way of life.
I respond with a simple, “Yes, he paid for a lot of fees.” When you have money, university girls are to men what plankton is to a whale. She smiles at me, thanks me and goes on her way.
The reception is what you would expect—a couple of people we know, surrounded by people we don’t remember but at whom we smile all the same. When I have some time to myself, I go outside and place another call to the police station to ask when they will return my car. Again, they give me the brush-off. If there was anything to be found, they will have found it by now, but the man on the other end of the line does not appreciate my logic.
I return in time to see Aunty Taiwo on the dance floor proving that she knows the latest steps to the latest hits. Ayoola is sitting in the middle of three guys, all of them competing for her attention. Tade has already left, and these guys are hoping to replace him for good. He had tried to be supportive, to stay by her side throughout, as a man should; but Ayoola was far too busy flitting this way and that, soaking in the spotlight. If he were mine, I wouldn’t leave his side. I tear my eyes away from her and sip my Chapman.
MAGA
“Aunty, a man is here for you.”
Ayoola is watching a movie on her laptop in my room. She could be watching it in her room, but she always seems to find her way to mine. She lifts her head to look at the house girl. I sit up immediately. It must be the police. My hands are cold.
“Who is it?”
“I don’t know him, ma.”
Ayoola shoots me a nervous look as she gets up from my bed, and I follow her out. The gentleman is seated on our sofa, and from where I stand, I can see that it is not the police and it is not Tade. The stranger holds a bouquet of roses in his hands.
“Gboyega!” She rushes down the steps and he catches her in one arm before swinging her around. They kiss.
Gboyega is a tall man with a protruding belly. His face is round and bearded, and his eyes are small and sharp. He also has at least fifteen years more life experience than Ayoola. If I squinted, I suppose I could see his attractiveness. But first I see the Bvlgari watch on his wrist and the Ferragamo shoes on his feet. He looks at me.
“Hello.”
“Gboyega, this is Korede, my big sister.”
“Korede, it is a pleasure to meet you. Ayoola tells me how you take care of her.”
“You have me at a disadvantage. I haven’t heard about you at all.”
Ayoola laughs as if my comment were a joke, and she waves it away with a flick of her wrist.
“Gboye, you should have called.”
“I know how you like surprises, and I just got into town.” He leans over and they kiss again. I try not to gag. He hands her the flowers and she makes appropriate cooing sounds, even though