“You’re Chinara?” Monifa asked.
“I am. And this must be Simisola, yes?” Chinara flashed a smile. Lipstick was smeared on one of her large front teeth. “Have you brought her to meet me? That makes things easier. How are you, Simisola? Are you ready to become a grown-up girl?”
Simi hung back. Clearly she did not know what to expect of this stranger.
“That,” Monifa said, “is what we have come to speak about.”
“Have you? Well, this is good. It’s not the usual course for a girl’s father to make the arrangements while his wife is not at home, eh? Have you concerns, then? Questions?” When Monifa did not reply, Chinara placed her gaze on Simi. “Does Simisola wish to ask me something?” she said. “This is all part of growing into a woman, my dear. You’ve been told that, yes?”
Monifa felt Simi shrinking into her side. Her little body trembled. She said to Chinara, “There has been a mistake. You will not be needed. There are other arrangements already made. Abeo did not know that when he asked you to come to our home. I have since explained it to him.”
“Other arrangements? I am, you know, the only true Nigerian cutter you will find in north London. There are Somalis, of course, and they are, admittedly, far cheaper than I am. But I would not allow a Somali cutter to set foot in my house, let alone put hands upon my child. May I ask how you found me today? I mean how you found where I live?”
“From the mother of a girl who killed herself after you cut her. Perhaps you remember her? Lim was her name. She was twelve years old. She used a head wrap belonging to her mother. She hanged herself.”
“Twelve years old,” Chinara murmured. “It is best if this is done when girls are much, much younger. This is what I tell parents who come to me. I am not responsible for anything that happens if the parents do not listen to me.”
“Hear me, then,” Monifa said. “If you touch Simisola, I will ring the police. If you come again to my house, I will ring the police.”
“I think this is not for you to decide. And your husband has told me that you—”
“I don’t care what he’s told you.”
“—and he are of one mind. Are you saying that he has lied to me?”
“I’m saying that you will not touch my daughter. I’m saying that I will ring the police if you step over the threshold of my house again.”
Chinara was wearing large golden earrings and they moved like a hypnotist’s watch when she tilted her head. “But what has changed your mind, Mrs. Bankole? When I spoke with your husband, he said you were happy with how we would proceed.”
“He was lying to you.”
“Why would he lie?”
“Mummy?” Simisola murmured. “C’n I have a wee?”
“Of course, of course.” Chinara pointed the way. Monifa started to go with her. The other woman stopped her with, “Surely the girl can manage a wee. No one else is in the flat just now if that worries you.”
Everything about Chinara Sani worried Monifa, but she said to Simi, “Go along and be quick about it.”
When Simi was gone from the room, Chinara said to Monifa, “You know what will happen, yes? You cannot arrange a proper marriage for her if this isn’t done.”
“I’ve told you. I’ve made other arrangements.”
“For a marriage? With a true Nigerian man? He will have expectations . . .”
“None of this concerns you. If Abeo has paid you, keep the money. But do not come to our home again. You understand me in this, yes?”
“Your husband will want to—”
“Only Simisola interests me.”
The buzzer sounded. It was loud and long, and Monifa wondered if the length of the ringing comprised a signal of some kind. She felt a rush of fear although she didn’t know why, aside from being in the home of a woman whose livelihood could result in a prison term. Having been carted off by the police once already, she didn’t wish to engage in a repeat performance.
Chinara did not answer the buzzer. Instead, she walked to where the building’s door release was on the wall and she pushed it, admitting someone inside. At this, Monifa knew it was imperative that she and Simi leave. She called to her daughter, telling her to hurry.
The moments passed. Finally, the sound of the loo flushing preceded the running of water into the basin as Simi did as she’d long ago learned: she washed her hands. When she emerged, Monifa went to her, put an arm round her shoulders, and said to the other Nigerian woman, “We will leave you now.”