With Simi’s hand in hers, Monifa went in search of Halimah, the mother of Simi’s best friend, Lim. She lived on Mayville Estate as well, but at the other side of it, on the second floor of Lydgate House in Woodville Road. Monifa herself had never been there—Abeo did not approve of Halimah, as she was divorced—but Simisola had done, so she knew in which direction to head and to what floor they needed to go in the lift to gain access to Halimah’s flat.
Lim had been Halimah’s only daughter, her only child. Halimah had not been keen on having Lim cut, but as she herself had been cut, she had sought someone to perform the ritual. For that was how she’d thought it at the time: merely a ritual to be gone through in order to be cleansed and to herald womanhood. She had intended no harm to her child.
No one, least of all Halimah, had expected things to go so very wrong. No one had expected anything but a period of discomfort and, when it was over, Lim clean and pure. But nothing had worked as planned and now Lim was dead by her own hand.
When Halimah opened the door to her knock, Monifa said, “Abeo has found someone. He has brought her to the flat. Tani knows, and I am so afraid that he intends to take Simisola away because of this.”
Halimah did not need to ask what was meant in Monifa’s words. “He’ll look for you here,” she said, glancing round as if in the expectation that Abeo would come swinging from one of the nearby trees like Tarzan in order to hurt Monifa and snatch Simisola. “This will be the first place he looks.”
“I’m not here for that. I must put a stop to this. I need to know where she lives. I want to talk to her face-to-face.”
“Who?”
“You know, Halimah. I know you know.”
Halimah looked from Monifa to Simisola. After a moment, she said, “Come in.”
It was dark inside the flat and slightly cooler than out of doors. Curtains were closed and so were the windows. She was conserving what she could of the night’s lower temperatures, but it wouldn’t be long before she had to open the place up as the day became stifling.
Halimah left Monifa just inside the door and disappeared into the kitchen where, at least so it sounded to Monifa, she began rooting round in a drawer of cutlery. After a minute or so, she emerged with a folded piece of lined notebook paper. On it was scrawled an address in Leyton. It would not be a simple matter to get there. This couldn’t be helped. Monifa nodded her thanks and set off with Simisola.
She found the building in Leyton Grange. It was a tower, faced in brick, with each floor delineated by a band of cream. Its balconies made it different from many other tower blocks throughout London. They were each fronted by a red metal safety barrier with tiny octagonal holes punched into it to allow a freer movement of air. A summer-dead lawn encircled the place, and upon this sat a discarded blue sofa. Shrubbery was dust coated and dropping leaves. Everywhere there were signs of desiccation.
It had taken nearly ninety minutes to reach this place, via several buses and on foot, suffering the airless bus rides first and then receiving two sets of misdirection given by passersby who appeared to be deeply confused by the area. But at last they were standing in front of the building, where Monifa rang the buzzer next to the number of the flat Halimah had included with the street address. Then she waited. Nothing. She buzzed again. This time, a woman’s voice said, “What is it?” and Monifa gave her name and asked if she was ringing the flat of Chinara Sani. The shrewd reply to this was, “Are you a relation of Abeo Bankole?” which told Monifa they were at the right place. When she identified herself as Abeo’s wife, Chinara said, “And your need is . . . ?” to which Monifa replied, “To speak to you about what Abeo has planned for Simisola.”
“A moment, please.”
Monifa waited. She imagined Chinara Sani tapping her foot anxiously as she attempted to cook up a plan of escape. After several minutes, she rang the flat again and this time a buzzer sounded and Monifa pushed the door open. She led Simisola to the lift. Chinara Sani, she knew, lived on the tenth floor.
After waiting an interminable length of time as the machinery clanked and groaned, she ushered Simi into the lift and up they rode. Chinara, she thought, must have been standing with her hand on the knob, because no sooner had Monifa’s knuckles hit the wood than her flat’s door swung open.
She’d expected an extremely old woman, although she couldn’t have said why aside from the tradition associated with the cut. She’d also expected native garb. Instead she was instead confronted by a grey-haired professional-looking woman who might have worked in a bank, although her red lipstick seemed out of place and made her mouth look like a gash on her face.