A. Barrett - Blackass

From the topic of their husbands the ladies moved on to their children. They all had one each, except for Ego, whose boy and girl were three and five years old. The youngest child, a plump two-year-old named Romeo, was Joy’s. His attachment to mamma was almost umbilical, as he toddled up to her again and again to blub at a slight by the other tots or to point squealing at the cartoon antics showing on screen. Joy spoiled him with attention, the other mothers warned, she fed him too much pasta and not enough of the yams needed to build his muscles, and they spent laughing minutes offering her advice on how to man him up in time for kindergarten. ‘In Naija a man must be strong o, even if he’s oyibo,’ Baby declared, and turning to face Furo, she asked with an elfin smile if he didn’t agree.

Baby’s girl Saskia was nearly four. When her mother called to her to come and greet uncle, the child pranced over and climbed into Furo’s lap without a word. ‘What a cute girl,’ Furo said to the preening mother, though to call her cute was an injustice to her prettiness. Her soft curls smelled of baby shampoo, her ripe banana complexion glowed from rich feeding, and her full lips trembled with pinkness. Her large grey eyes shone with boredom at adult worship. Furo found her insufferable. Syreeta, however, couldn’t hide her fascination. ‘Oh yes she is!’ she exclaimed in response to Furo’s words, and leaning across him, she kissed the girl’s cheeks and dimpled chin, then set down her drink and lifted Saskia from Furo’s lap into hers. In a Teletubby tone of voice she asked the child simpering questions about school, her bedroom, her toys, about how she got that naughty-naughty scratch on her knee, all the while nodding encouragement as Saskia lisped her replies. Questions exhausted, with a magic flourish Syreeta pulled a shiny box of milk chocolates out of her handbag and pressed it into Saskia’s hands. The child’s delighted yelp drew smiles from all the mothers, and it was with reluctance that Syreeta released her to return with her prize to her waiting playmates.

The conversation among the ladies turned to past boyfriends. In the zeal to one-up each other, their affected accents skidded and crashed, and from this wreck of grammar the mangled sense was rescued by a reversion to pidgin — the shortest distance between two thoughts. The straight-talking bluntness of the vernacular caused their mingled voices to beat the air like wings of released doves. Higher the voices rose and quicker the glasses tipped liquor down throats. The nature of the conversation also influenced the language, as the ladies’ speech slipped further and further into the maze of slang, seeking those shaded places where meaning hid in plain sight.

‘That my agaba Nikos nah proper olingo man sha.’

‘Nothing do you kpakam!’

‘Yemi still dey chop adro for inside Dublin?’

‘Your oko jus’ dey love up like person wey chop kognomi!’

‘Make una hear original gist o! This one fresh pass fresh fish—’

Their chatter was wide-ranging: from an ex-head of state who fixated on the feet of soldiers’ widows to overheard gossip of Abuja politicians who had a thing for orgies with boys. Then it was on to exotic cars and swanky restaurants and the latest kerfuffle in Keeping Up with the Kardashians. The lifestyles of the Lagos glitterati: who was cheating with whose daughter in Victoria Garden City, whose husband had just acquired a beach house in Tarkwa Bay, and which police commissioner’s son was spotted in a sex tape on xHamster. Now and again one of them would glance at Furo and, stopping herself on the cusp of a revelation, she would rise from the couch to pour a refill of cognac, only to resume from the juncture her empty glass interrupted.

The conversation petered out when the housemaid arrived pushing a serving trolley. Plates of coconut rice and boneless barbecue chicken were placed before the children and Furo, while the mothers and Syreeta were served steaming bowls of either catfish or cow-tail or goat-head pepper soup. After the housemaid withdrew, Ivy said a quick prayer to bless the food, and then everyone settled down to the business of eating. The sound of chewing was a poor substitute for table-talk, and so Baby, crunching on the biscuit bone of a goat’s ear, turned to Syreeta and asked about the drive down. Syreeta described the heavy traffic she’d gone through, to which the ladies responded with sympathetic noises. Except for Joy and Syreeta, they all resided in VGC, and their poor husbands had to endure the Ajah traffic on those days they couldn’t evade it by flying home in a chartered helicopter. The horror stories of Lagos traffic that the women shared soon led to Syreeta telling of her fresh experience with the LASTMA traffic warden, and after the oohs and ahhs that egged her on, after the multi-lingual curses directed at the traffic warden and his generations yet unborn, it was Ego who finally asked the question that was irking Furo.

‘How did you get rid of the pest?’

Baby laughed. ‘Ah-ah Ego, don’t you know who Syreeta’s man is? He’s a big oga—’

A sharp movement from Syreeta made Baby choke on her soup. Recovering from her coughing fit, she shot a guilty look at Furo, and then changed the topic to the havoc wreaked in Lagos by the rainstorm of the previous day. Her friends all piled in with tales of flooding.

Baby’s blunder had cast a pall over the party, and as Furo finished his meal, Syreeta stood up and announced their departure. ‘Aw!’ Baby exclaimed, staring up at Syreeta. ‘I was hoping you could wait until Erik returns. It would have been so nice for Furo to meet him.’ Then she rose with Furo, and after he and Syreeta said their goodbyes to the ladies, she walked them to the front door. Night had fallen; the house front was lit by halogen searchlights, under which Baby’s silver hair glowed. Baby hugged Furo by the door of the Honda, then held him at arm’s length with her fingers hooked in his trouser pockets and thanked him for visiting, asked him to come again. He guessed from her distracted air that she wanted a moment alone with Syreeta, so he said goodnight, climbed into the car, and shut the door. But before Baby arrived at Syreeta’s side, the house door flew open, Joy rushed out with her sleeping child in her arms, and halting in front of Syreeta, she said, ‘Can I ask a favour please? You’re going to Oniru, abi? Can you drop me at Chevron? By the junction, you don’t have to drive in.’ She adjusted her son’s head on her shoulder and turned to Baby. ‘Sorry to rush off like this, I have to take Romeo home to sleep, and to be honest I feel too tipsy to drive. I’ll send the driver to pick up my car in the morning. By the way, that catfish was delish! Ring you later to get your caterer’s details. Ciao-ciao.’

On Tuesday morning, while Syreeta was in the bathroom washing away the slick of lovemaking, Furo rolled off the bed, crossed to the vanity table, and applied his morning dose of whitening cream. Syreeta returned and, snuggling up to him under the bedcover, she said, ‘I’m going out later.’ Too drowsy to speak, Furo nodded acknowledgement. Moments later he was sunk in a post-coital slumber.

He awoke to the sound of a door opening and the aroma of food entering, followed by that voice that was now as familiar as the scent of her skin: ‘Sweetie?’ Furo opened his eyes to find Syreeta’s face above. She pulled aside the bedcover with one hand; in the other she grasped a plate. Half-moon slices of boiled yam, three sunny-side ups, and a splattering of tomato gravy. Furo’s stomach sat up with joy, and after he followed suit, he gave a yawn that became a moan of pleasure. With a trill of laughter, Syreeta placed the food on the bedside table, and then said, ‘I’m ready to go.’ She was bathed, dressed. Her car keys dangled from a crooked finger.