“Our life together—yours and mine—can only go so far,” she said. “If it goes farther, we both face ruin. We have other people we must protect. Or at least you do. And I must also protect myself.”
Of course she was saying only what both of them already knew. He could no more desert Pete and Lilybet than could he cut off his right arm without pain. Through no fault of their own, they needed him, and though he needed this woman standing next to him, his hands were as tied as his future was set.
They were halfway across the common when she said, “Over there,” and indicated lights in the distance, across the wide and open space. “The Mere Scribbler,” she said. “Let’s end this evening with a drink at the pub and say goodnight. Just goodnight and nothing more.”
He nodded agreement. No matter his wishes—and they were plenty—it was, in truth, the only plan that could be acted upon.
28 JULY
MAYVILLE ESTATE
DALSTON
NORTH-EAST LONDON
Wetin dey happen, Monifa, that you not do what you are meant to do?”
Over the phone the voice came at her, as clearly as if her mother were standing in the very next room. Indeed, it came to her as clearly as it had done for months on end.
“How you expect her to marry, Nifa? You got no wish for it there, you send her to me. Abi?”
The words continued to ring in her ear long after Monifa ended the call. Her mother had phoned from her home in Nigeria, and while one would think that after twenty years of marriage and two children, one simply could not be pressured by one’s mother into any kind of action, Monifa had been finding herself on the receiving end of such pressure from Ifede via phone at least once a week, sometimes twice for the last seven months. The subject matter was invariably the same: no matter she was only eight years old, Simisola had to be marriageable. And Monifa’s mother wasn’t the only woman saying this.
While she might have successfully fought off Ifede’s oft-voiced concerns, Monifa was finding it difficult to do anything at all about the concerns of her mother-in-law. For Abeo’s mother included Abeo himself in her harangues about Simisola, and “You want him to leave you, Monifa?” was generally where every conversation between Monifa and Folade both began and ended.
Easter Lange was the answer, but Monifa had not yet heard from her. She’d hoped for a cancellation in her upcoming schedule of appointments, but when she explained this first to her own mother and then to Abeo’s, neither woman was mollified. From Ifede had come growing concern that began to border on tearful anxiety. “Simisola will be shunned. She will have no friends. You know tha’， yes? She will never have a home of her own. She will get no ozzband to protect her, no chil’ren to care for her in her old age.”
From Folade had come, “Women they bleed, they serve, they produce chil’ren, and then they die. That is what God intended, Monifa. That is why woman was created out of Adam, not Adam from Eve. Man came first. Man still come first. Woman’s wants and needs get met through ozzband. Your mother she would have taught you this. If you not been pure, you think Abeo would pay the bride price your father ask?”
So Monifa had rung Easter Lange. Had there been a cancellation? she asked. If not, was there anyone on the schedule who might be willing to give up her place to Simisola? Surely there must be someone among everyone scheduled who would understand that Monifa Bankole had a critical need.
After speaking with her mother and her mother-in-law, Monifa rang Easter Lange yet again. She’d lost count of how many times she’d tried to reach the other woman. This time, she finally met with success, and when Easter answered, Monifa offered her a compromise. If Easter would give her—Monifa—the details of each client who had a future appointment at the clinic, she herself would ring every one of them and beg each one’s willingness to allow Simisola to take the place of whomever they’d made the appointment for.
Easter said in a quiet, calm voice, “That in’t possible, Mrs. Bankole. You’re asking for confidential information, you are.”
“Their numbers alone, then. Do not give me any names. Just the phone numbers. I will introduce myself to them. I will tell them that I do not know their identity. I will explain why my Simi must have an appointment. I will tell them to ring you if they are willing to give up their space for me.”
Easter sighed. “Mrs. Bankole, this’s something I can’t do. It’s a betrayal, it is. I wouldn’t do it to you and no way can I do it to them.”