A Bit of Difference (16 page)

“They won't see it that way. All they know is Nigeria, corruption, 4-1-9, Internet crime. It's embarrassing.”

“It is.”

“And Elizabeth made more sense. Of course the women would want to do business. Of course they would. Business is what we do in Nigeria.”

“We do.”

Is she talking too much? She can't get away from the idea that she has failed the women, but not enough to disregard the irregularities she noted at WIN. She takes another sip and winces. The Cointreau is too concentrated for her.

“Your father's five-year memorial is on Sunday, isn't it?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“How are the preparations going?”

“Fine. Everything is fine.”

“It's good that we do that, remember those who have died.”

She finds the idea of a five-year memorial artificial. She remembers her father when she smells a combination of whiskey, cigars, aftershave and perfume: the “grown-up party” smell. Or when she hears the music he listened to: his Ray Charles, Dave Brubeck and Dvořák. In her teens, they argued over music. “Who is this Teddy Pendergrass?” he would ask. “Have you heard Otis Redding?” “Who is this George Benson? Have you heard John Coltrane?” He pitied her because she didn't appreciate juju music. “Children of nowadays,” he used to say. “You have no roots. You go any way the wind blows.”

She would love to find his Bally slippers again, knowing that all he had to do was think where he last left them before asking her to look for them. And to watch Wimbledon on television with him. Every summer he was in London in time for Wimbledon, knocking things over while cheering and getting names wrong (“Matilda Navratilova”).

“How old is your daughter?” she asks.

“Fourteen.”

“Is it just you and her?”

“Her and me, that's it.”

“Fourteen. People say thirteen is the tricky age, that you're still adjusting to the whole teen thing at thirteen.”

“Which is why I have no intention of complicating her life further by making her a half-sister or stepchild.”

He seems to be addressing someone else and this agitates her. They are talking too much about family.

He puts his glass down. “I have just put you off, haven't I?”

“No, no.”

“See me. I have white hairs all over my head. No more raps.”

“Some of us are not interested in being stepmothers, wicked or otherwise.”

He smiles. “I didn't mean you.”

“Please,” she says. “I meet someone I like. Why would marriage be a consideration?”

His expression reminds her of the boys she chatted up as a teenager. They knew bad girls didn't talk as much.

“What?” she asks. “You're underestimating me? I've had many men. I'm a very passionate lover.”

He laughs loud and claps, causing people to turn around.

She retaliates. “Isn't it dangerous for you to leave a teenager at home on her own this late with armed robbers prowling?”

“She's with her cousins.”

“You might want to pick her up soon,” she says, reaching for her glass.

“Her cousins are in Lagos.”

“So there is no reason to run home tonight.”

“No.”

She crosses her legs. It is not as if she has misinterpreted him or vice versa. She imagines his skin against hers, his hands, his tongue and hardon. Her desire is insistent, almost jeering. Why the small talk? Why not now? She gave up her virginity when she had no more use for it. Losing her virginity was like discovering her hair was not her crowning glory.

She is heady from the Cointreau, but more so from the thought of having a safe indiscretion. A security guard in the lobby gives her the same meddlesome look she encountered when she sat down. That can happen in a Lagos hotel, but here there's also Sharia law, which can make men act in overzealous ways.

“What if security stops us?” she asks.

“Who, these ones?”

“It's me they are watching, not you. Weren't there riots here when the Miss World contest was supposed to be staged? The fatwa on the journalist and all that?”

“
Haba
, things are not that bad.”

“Who says?” she asks. “Don't they sentence women to death for fornication in these parts?”

“No one would dare sentence a woman like you.”

“That's good. I don't want to be disgraced meanwhile.”

“My house is not too far.”

“I can't go to your house.”

“Why not?”

“I said I can't go to your house.”

“I asked why not?”

“How do I know you're not a killer?”

“Can't I kill you here?”

She laughs and slaps her thigh.

“I will speak to the front desk,” he says.

He finishes his brandy. She abandons her Cointreau and goes ahead of him, so as to be sure she won't be stopped.

z

In her room, she takes off her sandals and rubs her feet. They are smooth enough. Her clothes are padlocked in her suitcase and her makeup is in a bag. She hides her night cream with vitamin C and ginseng.

He knocks on her door moments later and she lets him in. He says the service in the Hilton is better than he expected. She admits she has never had Cointreau before.

“Neither have I,” he says.

“I didn't like it much.”

“Why drink it, then? Let's see. Let's see here.”

He kisses her, tasting warm and of brandy. He smells of an unimaginative sandalwood deodorant.

“I like your hair,” he says.

“Why?”

“It's all yours. Those fake hair extension things, you get in there and it's like shrubbery underneath.”

“What kind of women do you meet in that brothel of yours in Lagos?”

“What?”

“My bra is padded. That I fake.”

He runs his hands over her to check, searches under her top and unfastens her bra. She slides her hand down to his zipper.

“Stranger,” he murmurs, when she finds him.

They undress by the bed. Bra off, she wriggles out of her panties to distract him from her back view. He is not flawless, but his stomach is tight and his arms are toned. He could be a cyclist. She has always been attracted to athletic-looking men.

He turns away to roll his condom on.

“Why do you have to do that?”

“I don't want to shock you.”

“I've seen bigger.”

“Are you nervous?”

“Me? Why?”

“You can't stop talking.”

He pulls her toward him and kisses her breasts until she aches.

“What next?” he asks, against her lips.

“Straight sex,” she says.

He obliges. Her toes curl and she could shout from relief. Sex feels, tastes and smells better with a stranger. They lie on their backs exhausted.

“You taste good,” she says.

“You too.”

“I should have had your drink.”

“I should have had Lucozade.”

“This one,” she says, guiding him to her other breast.

“Sweet woman.”

“Sweet man.”

She shifts until she is on top of him. He shakes his head.

“No?” she asks.

“You'll have to be more passionate than that. I can't feel you with this thing on.”

He reaches for her shoulders to turn her around. She is not comfortable in this position, but she moves with him until he withdraws unexpectedly.

“What?” she asks. “You still can't feel anything?”

“Wait.”

“What?”

“I think… I think we've had an accident.”

She pushes him away, jumps out of bed and runs into the bathroom. Now that she is there, she doesn't know what to do with herself. Wash? Pee? Puke? She leans over the sink as he walks in, not caring that she is naked under the bathroom lights.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“No! Are you sure?”

“Yes. It must have been…”

It must have been the position they were in. His face appears lopsided in the mirror. Both their faces appear lopsided. She steadies her breathing as she remembers him joking about being a killer.

“Have you been tested?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Three months ago.”

“Why?”

“I'm on my own. I have a child to raise.”

“Why should I believe you?” she asks.

“I don't lie.”

“Everyone lies about…”

Everyone lies about sex. He lowers the toilet seat after he flushes the condom down, then he sits. She can't imagine how he can make a sensible decision. His palms are pressed together. She wants to pray, but she is certain God has no hand in this. She wants to cry, but crying might mean she has reason to.

“Has this ever happened to you before?” she asks.

“No.”

“Why me?”

“Have you been tested?”

“I'd like to be sure of your situation first.”

“I'm okay. Are you? You should get tested. Do that, please, and let me know.”

She raises her hand. “I beg you. Let me think. Let me think straight.”

She is angry with herself, not with him. She can smell sandalwood on her skin and she is still wet. She crosses her arms when she remembers she is ovulating.

“Shit. I have to take the morning-after pill. Where will I find the morning-after pill in this place? Where will I find a frigging pill in this country that is not fake?”

“I know a good pharmacy. I will take you there, don't worry.”

“Are they open now?”

“Not until tomorrow.”

“Is there anything else we can take?”

“I don't think so.”

She thinks of the antiretroviral drug for rape victims. Isn't she more at risk as a woman? In the bathtub, she fidgets with the tap, talking to herself, “Shouldn't have done this. Acting so stupid…”

“Come on,” he says. “We're not children.”

She stamps her foot in the water. “I know! That's why we should have waited!”

“See,” he says, standing up. “I liked you immediately. I did. I could tell that some of the way you acted, you were putting it on, and yes, it was just a… but I saw you and I thought…”

She pulls the curtain, shutting him out. He is already speaking as if it is over. How dare
he
speak as if it is over?

“You'll be okay,” he says.

“What if I'm not?”

Her face itches. There is too much steam behind the curtain. The water covers her feet. This could have happened even if she waited, even if they were in love, even if they were married.

“Where is the pharmacy?”

“Not far from here.”

“Can you help me with this shower?”

He draws the curtain back. “Sure.”

“Turn the hot water down, please.”

He takes a shower after she does. When he comes out, she is dressed in her pajama top and lying on the bedsheets. Yes, he has been truthful; otherwise he would be gone by now. Finish. End of story. But he has to make sure she is not getting pregnant by him or worse. She eyes him as he dresses. He straightens his shoulders and buttons his shirt. Yesterday, she would have wanted any reason to know him for more than one night.

“Are you staying here till morning?” she asks.

“If you'd like me to.”

“Do you mind if I leave the light on?”

“No.”

“What is the A in your name for?”

“Akinyemi.”

“Which university did you go to in New York?”

“Columbia.”

“Where were you born?”

“Ibadan.”

“What year?”

“'62.”

“When last were you with someone?”

“A few weeks ago. Why?”

“I want to know. Are you still with her?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“She didn't think I cared enough.”

“Did you?”

“Not enough for her.”

“What happened to your wife?”

She doesn't expect an answer. He sits in the chair.

“She died. When my daughter was born.”

“Labor complications?”

“Yes.”

“It messed you up, didn't it?”

She wants to say she is still miserable about her father, but is that comparable?

He pats the arm of the chair, so she makes a show of smoothing his head indentation out of the pillow, telling herself she will take the pill tomorrow, she will get tested when she returns to London and she will be all right.

“Will you be able to sleep over there?” she asks, getting into bed.

“I doubt it,” he says.

But he does. In the purgatory hour while she is still awake. She has given up on praying and is willing the sun to rise. There isn't a sound outside. She hears him breathing and looks over to the chair. He is lying back and shielding his eyes.

z

The progestin pills are supposed to make her feel nauseous, but what initially sickens her is her interaction with Wale the next morning.

She gets up at dawn, drags the curtains apart and unzips her suitcase. He watches as she grabs her clothes. He stands up and goes to the bathroom. She hears the toilet flush. He comes out, pats his pocket and says, “I'll see you downstairs, then.”

She says, “Okay,” without looking.

She finds him in the restaurant drinking coffee. She orders tea.

“You look tired,” he says.

“I am,” she says.

From then on, they don't speak, and breakfast is silent but for the clinking of their cups against their saucers.

He drives her to the pharmacy in some sort of jeep—silvery. At junctions, they look in separate directions like a couple that has been together for too long. They get to the pharmacy and he offers to go in with her. She says she prefers to go in alone. She badgers the pharmacist, who assures her he doesn't sell fake drugs.

After she buys the pill, Wale drives her back to the hotel without saying a word. He drives too fast, which makes her get out of his jeep quickly.