Aminatta Forna - The Memory of Love

‘Dr Kamara, from engineering. A friend of yours.’

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Though I haven’t known him for long.’

‘No,’ he replied. ‘Of course not. Well, have a good evening.’

That same week my old friend Banville Jones invited me to a party on campus, and though at first I demurred, after another night home on my own the idea struck me as more attractive. On the Friday in question I popped my head round his door and said I would join him. There were more parties in those days. Or perhaps it just seems so to me now. No, I believe it was a time of parties. We were happy, at least we thought so. Rushing headlong into the open space. The euphoria was a long time dying. We partied through the curfews, arriving late and staying until dawn. Even when the curfews were over, because by then we were in the habit of it.

The space was crowded by the time we arrived, the party in full swing; people spilled out on to the verandah and into the garden, moving in and out of the light and shadows. On a low table, open bottles of Johnnie Walker and Bacardi, a bucket of ice.

Inside people shouted at each other, above the music and the laughter. In a corner next to the record player a few couples swayed, snapping their fingers. Banville Jones plunged ahead while I stopped a yard inside the door. The atmosphere in the room was hot and sticky; within a few moments the sweat began to rise on my upper lip.

Banville Jones and I had already left the campus for a few beers and it’s true to say I was already a little drunk by the time I arrived. I’d forgotten whose party it was. Not that it mattered. The crowd was drawn by word of mouth. Hearing about the party constituted its own invitation. I helped myself to a glass of whisky and squeezed through the crowd until I reached the patio doors. Insinuating myself into somebody else’s conversation seemed like an uphill task and I began to review my judgement in coming. I moved outside and stood with my back against the wall of the house, found myself in the glare of a light and moved away. A moth, dancing around the light, cast bird-sized shadows. I made my way towards the steps leading down to the garden. There was a weight in the air, heavy and metallic. The outline of the hills, like a crouching animal, lit by distant lightning. I could see one or two people I vaguely knew, but could not be bothered to expend the energy of saying hello. I took a sip of the whisky. A low verandah wall offered a prop. I placed my drink upon it. There was an abundance of women, and lazily I considered engaging one of them in conversation. I thought of Vanessa, of whom I had seen little since the evening at the Talk of the Town. My decision. She would have forgiven me, though it would have cost me the price of a new dress.

Beneath the overhang of a large shrub, I thought I caught sight of Ade, the distinctive block-shaped head. Yes, it was he. And next to him, Saffia! She was standing straight, like a schoolgirl, holding her handbag with both hands before her, no drink — at least none that I could see. It was impossible to tell, in that moment, whether she had just arrived or was on the verge of departure. My heart sprang ahead of me as I moved towards them taking careful steps, to disguise my condition.

‘Elias,’ she said, seeing me first of the two; her smile was open and happy. Ade pressed a hand upon my shoulder.

‘Hey, man.’

‘I didn’t know you were here,’ I said. I don’t know why I said that. Saffia was never one for small talk. I lit a cigarette, my hands shook slightly.

‘We were talking,’ she said, ‘about which one of your senses you would give up, if you had to.’

It seemed a reprise of our conversation at the Talk of the Town. ‘Hearing,’ I said immediately. And she laughed.

‘Yes. I believe that about you. But you wouldn’t be able to talk to people either, of course.’

I shrugged. ‘Sight, then. And you?’

‘Well, that’s what we were just discussing. I don’t seem to be able to give up any of them.’

‘Smell?’ I said. ‘It could even be an advantage at times.’

‘The smell of a flower, of the rain, of your own children. So much of taste is based on our ability to smell. So think what else you would be giving up. Anyway …’ She let the thoughts trail away. ‘We were just being silly. How are you, Elias?’

I replied I was well. At that moment Ade took the opportunity to move away and talk to another of the guests, leaving Saffia in my care, an unspoken thing, as though she were a precious object that required guarding.

‘Where is Julius tonight?’

‘He should be on his way.’

‘He let you come here alone?’ Irresistible, to take a swipe at one’s rival.

‘Ade came with me. Oh, you know Julius.’ She laughed lightly and added, ‘Or maybe you don’t. My husband has many strong points. Timekeeping isn’t one of them.’

And so we stood, making conversation against the barrage of noise, at other times simply watching the people around us. I fetched her one Coke and another. Of Julius there was no sign. Next to me, I felt her shoulders drop. Rain began to fall out of the black. To avoid a soaking, we moved indoors, where even more people were crammed into the room.

An argument started, between two men, one of whom was Ade. In a moment Kekura, who I had not even known was present, had waded in, on the side of his friend. I believe they were discussing the situation in Nigeria, where secessionists were seeking recognition for their illegal state. Ade thought our faculty should call a strike in support of our colleagues over there. I suppose Ade might have had some Nigerian ancestry, as suggested by his name, though I have no idea which parent or even which part of that country. The energy expended between them could have defeated the national armed forces of Nigeria, gesticulating and pointing at the ceiling, each participant raising his voice above the other in an effort to press home their advantage. In the corner the dancers turned up the music. I had sobered up quite a bit by then. I turned to Saffia and offered to take her home.

‘Actually I drove myself here,’ she said. ‘I could drop you off if you like.’

As we walked to the car, it began to rain hard. Windless, the water dropped vertically out of the sky. Saffia pulled a plastic rain scarf from her bag and tied it under her chin. The rain brought forth the smell of the soil, and lent a freshness to the note of jasmine in the midnight air, a reminder of our earlier conversation. As we walked, she talked about the university grounds, how they contained so many species of plants, some quite rare, others imported. She had been involved in cataloguing them, collecting specimens to be dried and labelled.

Inside the car the windscreen was opaque with condensation and our breath, the wipers working furiously. Beyond the gates the rain and the dark had driven people indoors, doused the oil lamps of the street sellers, cleared the rubbish and the pedestrians off the streets. She drove leaning forward to peer through the windscreen, as though she were peering down a well. At a crossroads we nearly missed a roadblock and the figure of a soldier swaddled in a plastic cape appeared before us. A flashlight and a tap on the glass. Saffia wound down her window.

‘Yes, sir. Sorry oh!’ I leaned across Saffia, smiled and touched my hat. I reckoned on a night like this he wouldn’t want to bother with us. It was a matter of speaking to him in the right way. I could make out nothing of his face, just a dark shape behind the glare of the torch. I was wrong. He was having none of it, irritated by the wet, I suppose, and the irksome nature of his duty.

Saffia handed over her documentation, and finding no satisfaction there, the man next wanted to search the boot. I told Saffia to stay where she was and stepped out of the car. I told him I admired the job he was doing, and his thoroughness. I brought out my packet of cigarettes and offered him one, as well as a little something to buy some food. It’s easy when you know how, no more than the seduction of a woman who desires to be seduced. Soon enough we were on our way.