Ннеди Окорафор - Lagos Noir

“Cecilia!” Mr. Adewale calls.

“Saaah.” Cecilia hastily dries her hands against her apron and hurries to the breakfast room, straightening and pulling down her skirt as she goes.

“Where are my eggs?”

“Is coming, sah!”

“And toast? What’s taking you so long? Hurry up!” He claps his hands quickly.

“Sorry, sah. I’m coming just now.”

Cecilia scurries back to the kitchen, relights the burner, and starts frying the onions. She pauses for a moment, listening to make sure nobody’s coming, then spits into the bowl of eggs. She beats swiftly before pouring the eggs into the pan. While the omelet cooks, she serves the akara and cuts the toast into triangles. When everything is ready, she wipes her brow with two fingers and flicks the sweat onto her employer’s plate. Added seasoning for his coming up behind her yesterday and squeezing her breasts while she was removing a cake from the oven. She ought to have thrown the hot pan at his feet.

Mr. and Mrs. sit silently over the remains of breakfast. Beneath the table, Mrs. Adewale fingers the unwanted bulges that pad her waist, and with her other hand helps herself to a third piece of toast, regardless. Mr. Adewale momentarily returns to thoughts of his neighbors before drifting back to more pleasant thoughts of his current love — Nadia.

Upstairs in her bedroom, Tinuke throws herself onto her bed, and with muffled cries pounds the mattress with both fists. “I can’t take it, can’t take it!” she sobs, eventually sitting up. She unzips her jeans, flings them to one side and puts on a skirt, wipes the tears from her face, and stares at her seventeen-year-old self in the mirror. Just a few more weeks, she reminds herself. Just a few more weeks.

Mr. Adewale eyes his daughter, now back at the breakfast table, dressed in more sensible clothing. He reaches over to squeeze her shoulder, but she pulls away. Let her be then. He remembers her as a little girl, the way she used to sit on his lap and eat from his plate. He used to carry her around on his shoulders, play tickling games, and tell ijapa tales of the clever tortoise outwitting all the other animals of the forest. The stories made her laugh, and for a while she took to calling herself Ijapa, hiding behind furniture and then jumping out to shout, Boo! Not anymore though. Now she seems wary of him. Accuses him of being too strict. But if you were to see her ample breasts and the way her buttocks move so seductively in tight jeans... He sucks his teeth.

Everyone in the Adewale household understands that when it’s time for Mr. Adewale’s swimming lesson, they’re not allowed to watch, so they do. The gardeners peep through the purple bougainvillea by the side of the house, while Cecilia watches from the conservatory. They see him looking silly in his knee-length shorts tied with a drawstring that disappears beneath a bulging stomach. They watch as he lowers himself gingerly into the water, holding onto the handrails as though his life depends on it, until both feet are firmly planted in the shallow end. The water cuts him off below the chest, and he stands for some moments with arms held high above the water, shaking as he eyes the pool’s inflatable life buoy for reassurance. The gardeners laugh at the sight of the boss looking foolish, although it’s Nadia who interests them the most. When she stands in the shallow end, water glistens like jewels on her bare shoulders and swishes around her waist beneath her large breasts. The workers have heard that the latter may not be real, that Master may have paid for them to be just so. People with money can afford such things. Her skin is light and even lighter in places normally covered by clothes. When she swims, her long brown hair fans out behind her. She allows Master to cling to the edge and tells him to kick, but he has trouble with this maneuver and the goddess must hold him stable under his tummy. The gardeners laugh again, imagining what must be happening down there in the aquamarine pool. Cecilia looks on with disgust while Mrs. Adewale, herself a former mistress, observes in anger from the balcony of the upstairs bedroom.

Tinuke is the only one not watching her father flail around in the water. She’s messaged a friend, changed back into jeans and a halter top, and sneaked away. Sami waits for her outside the front gate in his father’s Range Rover. They drive to the Eko Hotel where Sami buys drinks and they sit outside beneath a parasol. They chat, but mostly just smoke while Tinuke stares at the pool. “Wish they’d both drown,” she mutters, thinking of her father and his latest girlfriend.

“Forget about them,” Sami says, standing up. “At least you’ll soon be back at boarding school, at least your father has the money to send you away!”

“I don’t care about his money,” she snaps, wishing Sami didn’t have to bring everything back to money.

“Look, we’ve been here for hours, let’s go to the beach,” he suggests, trying to cheer her up.

“Not now.” She sighs, standing up. “Shit!” she whispers.

“What?”

Tinuke indicates with a jerk of her head.

“Shit,” Sami mumbles, turning to see the fat man striding toward them. Mr. Adewale glares angrily at the table with the bottles of beer, the half-eaten suya, and the empty pack of Marlboro Lights.

“Get out!” he shouts.

Sami backs away, but not before Mr. Adewale grabs him by the shirt and slaps him. Sami yelps in pain.

“Daddy!” Tinuke screams, wishing her friend wasn’t such a wimp, such a little boy.

Mr. Adewale takes his daughter and marches her past the hotel guests, back to his car. The driver, thinking he and the radio were all there would be for the next few hours, is dozing when Mr. Adewale arrives and flings his daughter across the backseat. In his rage, Mr. Adewale forgets that he’s brought Nadia to the hotel and left her waiting by the bar.

“Never,” he shouts at Tinuke, “will I see you with any stupid boys again, behaving like a tramp and a whore! And from now on, there’s no more going out! You hear? You hear?”

“Leave me!” she cries.

“Did you fuck him?” he shouts.

The driver glances in his rearview mirror, his eyes widening at the look of fury on the girl’s face as she leans forward. What he doesn’t see is how hard she’s squeezing her legs, her hands futile against her father’s hand, thrust between her thighs.

Back at the house, Mr. Adewale storms past the gardeners and the security guards who look away sheepishly, knowing they too will suffer for this.

“Leave me alone! Stop dragging me!” Tinuke screams, wriggling from her father’s grip.

“Come back!” he shouts, as Tinuke runs, clutching her face where he’s just slapped her. “Go outside and clean the pool. From now on you’ll stay at home. No going out and no returning to England! No more boarding school for you. You’re staying here, where I can keep my eye on you.”

“No way, I’m not staying!” Tinuke screams, running to her room and locking the door behind her.

An hour later, the house is quiet. Mr. Adewale, barely able to stand after the afternoon’s exertions, lies down. Mrs. Adewale watches him as he starts to snore, kisses her teeth in disgust, then returns to thoughts of what to wear for the evening prayer meeting. She cannot decide what is most likely to impress her new pastor. Straight-laced or seductive? Cheap or expensive? The church has just launched its sacrifice drive, requesting congregants to give at their highest level — in naira, dollars, pounds, or euros. Failing that, people can donate their cars, houses, or land. And seeing that she has helped the pastor redesign the pledge forms, she knows she must be careful not to dress too flamboyantly.