Everything Good Will Come (22 page)

In a bizarre household arrangement that appeared incestuous to me, Brigadier Hassan's wives were trying to recruit her as a third wife. They knew their husband had a number of girlfriends and thought that if he had to remarry, it would be to someone who wasn't liable to sit around the polo club chukka after chukka, wearing expensive sunshades. Sheri found polo boring. Their daughters liked her. She was less than ten years older than the eldest and would never tell if they visited boyfriends. They had all attended finishing schools in Switzerland, and their marriages were to be arranged. Their father also thought they ought to remain virgins until they left his house. The eldest claimed that horse riding stretched her. Meanwhile, he was taking Sheri to Paris, to Florence, first class. Sheri, who had trouble remembering: “That place in Florence with the gold market,” “that street in Paris with the shops,” “that watch, starts with P? Exactly, Pathetic Philip.” I could remember every single trip in Europe, even the names of each poxy pensione I'd stayed in, and if someone had bothered to buy me an expensive watch, I would at least try to remember.

Where two cultures diverged Sheri had chosen which to follow. Her grandmother, Alhaja, had seen to that. A woman widowed in her thirties, Alhaja headed a market women's union and earned enough to educate her children overseas. She was disappointed when her son ended up with a white woman, but she raised Sheri herself so that no other wife would mistreat her. When the other wives did come, they would worry more about Alhaja's rage than their husband's. She would visit their home, if she heard they were fighting. There, she threatened them. Her son had had a white woman, and he would get rid of two squabbling Africans in no time! She would go to the houses of her daughters if their husbands beat them. The husbands would end up begging her. When she learned about what happened to Sheri at the picnic, she visited each of the boys' houses with a mob in tow. The mob started with the watchmen, or whoever was unfortunate enough to open the gates. They broke down doors and windows. As they went for furniture, Alhaja went straight for the boy's crotches. She wasn't letting go until their mothers, fathers, their grandparents even, lay flat on the floor to beg her granddaughter. After, she visited her medicine man to finish what was left of their lineage.

Sheri was her grandmother's true daughter. I once tried to explain the Tragic Mulatto syndrome to her. She said it was nonsense. All sorts of people tried to find their identity. Why was the mulatto tragic? There was nothing tragic about her. At the Miss World contest, a girl from Zimbabwe told her the word “half-caste” was derogatory; “colored” was what Sheri would be called in her own country. Sheri said she didn't care what anyone called her. In the Yoruba- English dictionary there was a whole sentence to describe her: “the child of a black person and white person,” and it suited her fine.

It wasn't always that clear to her. She was eight years old when, fed up with a boy at school who laughed at her features, she ran home one afternoon and cut off her hair, trimmed her lashes to stubs and rubbed brown shoe polish on her face. Her grandmother Alhaja found her standing before the mirror and ordered her back to the boy. He was singing that Yoruba song, “I married a yellow girl” when Sheri grabbed him. “I beat him up,” she said. “Then I emptied his school bag on his head and pushed him into the gutter. I will never forget his name. Wasiu Shittu.”

Like a proper Lagos Princess, nobility surfaced once you got in her way. A fist fight? A person would have to kill Sheri first before she let it rest. Drop an insult? Yes, she would, as fast as she was provoked. Chop a person down in three glances heads, torso, and legs. In no time, if they turned their noses up at her. And whoever they were, she was about to give them their life history: “From where are you coming? From where?”

Still she wouldn't eat pork. And every morning when she said her prayers with a scarf wrapped around her head, she had a humble expression. The humblest she would have all day. Haughty and bored it would be from then on. The kind of haughtiness that came from being a favored child and the kind of boredom that came from not having enough to do.

I avoided her brigadier altogether, catching only the smell of his cigars and finding it strangely seductive. I imagined him according to the stereotype: dressed in a long white tunic with a Mao-style collar, gold cufflinks, fat diamond watch on his wrist. His hands would slip in a handshake. His trousers would flap around his ankles. His feet would be small in his leather slippers. Absolutely no conversation. He would not be used to talking to women. Not that way.

But I dared not say a word, not even about his drinking and smoking as a strict Moslem. I was living in his apartment, the very place I'd urged Sheri to move out of. Whenever he was visiting, I would go swimming at Ikoyi Club, and she was pleased. “Forget that stupid artist,” she said.

I swam regularly. My body pressed on. Then it seemed that my mind, which had been lagging behind, soon began to say, “Wait for me. Wait for me.”

I was swimming one evening when a tall man with legs like an Olympic swimmer joined me in the club pool. He dived in and paced himself fast. He made me feel slow and clumsy. Once or twice I crossed him in the middle of the pool, but most times we were at opposite ends. Soon I paused to rest in the shallow end. He came to a stop and rose from the water like something aquatic. “Hello,” he said.

His smile was the color of ivory. One side tooth popped out a little.

“You too,” I said.

He splashed water over his chest. “Would you mind if I told you something?”

“I would,” I said.

He tucked his chin in. “Why are you being rude?”

“Listen, I come here to swim.”

“So do I,” he said. “All I wanted to say was that you have mucus.”

“What?”

“Mucus. Hanging out of your nose.”

He pointed.

My hand clamped over my nose as he hoisted himself out of the pool. I shrugged and continued to swim. Fool, I thought.

I was walking up the stairs, two evenings later, from the changing rooms to the pool shower, wearing my swimsuit. He was walking down the stairs from the pool bar to the same shower.

“Sorry,” I said, in embarrassment.

I was usually alone in the pool in the evenings. The children, mostly expatriates, were gone. There were married couples at the pool bar, having soft drinks. Most of the activity was in the main club house, where beer and spirits were served, or in the squash courts full of the regular players. I never expected to see him again. He gestured like a cattle herder, I thought, to move me along.

“At least say thank you,” he said, when I didn't.

“Why,” I answered.

I stepped under the faucet with my backside to him, didn't even care if he saw my stretch marks. He wasn't perfect either. Good legs maybe, startling height, weakish chin, and his stomach could be tighter.

He made a sound, “hm,” as my father would, like a warning. Not as women did, stretching the sound and turning their mouths downward. That was the sound I made in response.

“Any time,” he said, as I walked away.

We swam as if we were each alone in the pool that evening.

Again I bumped into him. This time, in the main club house, after swimming another evening.

“Miss Rudeness,” he announced.

“I'm not rude,” I said.

He walked past and I turned on a whim.

“Excuse me?”

“Yes,” he said.

“My manners are mine,” I said. “You don't have to remind me of them, or my mucus for that matter. It has nothing to do with you. And whenever you see me, try not to say anything, if you really want to avoid an insult.”

He smiled. “Let it go. Let it go.”

“What go?”

“Bitterness,” he said. “It eats you up.”

I looked him up and down. “I see your mouth is sharp.”

“So they tell me.”

“What do you know about me? You know nothing about me. All I'm saying is, stop passing comments whenever you see me.”

“Let it go.”

We were both smiling now, except he was making fun of me. There was no need to be angry with him, I thought. He was a big fool.

“What's laughing you laugh?” I said.

He continued to smile and I wanted to shock him.

“Would you like to have a drink?” I asked.

He cupped his ear.

“I said would you like to have a drink?”

“I come here to swim,” he said.

“After you swim,” I said.

I pulled a face behind his back. I'm not afraid, I thought. Of any of you. If I want a drink, I will have one.

He joined me in the club house. We sat at the bar, while the bartender gave me disapproving looks.

Niyi Franco. He was a lawyer, though he was now a manager in an insurance company. His grandfather was a lawyer. His father and four brothers were lawyers. His mother retired from nursing the year he was born. He swam for Lagos State, and thought he would do so for the rest of his life. Then he cracked his head on a diving board, and his parents banned him from entering a pool for life.

“Africans can't swim,” I joked.

“I'm a Brazilian descendant,” he said, lifting his chin.

“My friend,” I said. “You're African.”

I told him about my recent experiences in court, saying little about my family. We walked to our cars together and it was hard to keep up with him because he took such long strides. This time we were talking about lawyer's wigs and gowns. There was much debate in the press about changing the uniform to reflect our heritage.

“We'll never change it,” he assured me.

“I hope we will,” I said. “Those wigs look terrible.”

“Thank God I don't have to wear one.”

“When was the last time you did?” I asked.

“A year after I graduated,” he said.