Concrete steps led up to the doors of the ground-floor flats in Bronte House, while outdoor corridors marked the route to those on the upper four storeys, which were accessed by a stairway or a lift. Nearly every door was open in the futile hope of catching a breeze that was, at least for now, nonexistent. So from gaping windows television noises and dance music along with rap issued forth, accompanied by the fragrance of a multitude of meals being prepared.
Inside the Bankole flat, the temperature made the place feel like an overheated sauna. Tani felt blanketed by a pall of nearly liquid air that forced him to squint against his own sweat. There were fans running, but they did nothing to mitigate the roasting air. They merely moved it around like sluggish swamp water. One could breathe, but it wasn’t pleasant to do so.
Tani caught the scent almost at once, and he glanced at his father. Pa’s expression showed that he wasn’t pleased.
It was Monifa Bankole’s job to anticipate many things. At this time of day, she was to anticipate not only the hour that her husband would walk into the flat, but also the meal that her husband would prefer. He usually told her neither. In his head, they had been married for twenty years, so he should not have to broadcast information to her like a newlywed. During their first years together, he’d made her well aware of many things, among them his requirement that his tea be ready no more than ten minutes after his return from the day’s labour. This day, Tani saw, things were looking good for the time of tea if not for the substance. His sister, Simisola, was laying the table for all of them, which meant the meal was imminent.
Simi bobbed a hello instead of speaking, but she shot Tani a grin when he said, “You baffed up cos your boyfriend’s coming to tea, Squeak?” She quickly covered her grin with her hand. This hid the appealing little gap between her front teeth, but it did nothing to stifle her giggle. She was eight years old, ten years Tani’s junior. His principal interaction with her was defined by teasing.
“I don’t have a boyfriend,” she declared.
“No? Why?” he asked her. “In Nigeria you’d be married by now.”
“Would not!” she said.
“Would too. Tha’s what happens, innit, Pa.”
Abeo ignored him to say to Simi, “Tell your mother we are home,” as if this were necessary.
The girl swirled round, danced past one of the nearly useless fans, and called out, “Mummy! They’re here!” And then to her father and brother and just as her mother would, “Sit, sit, sit. You want a beer, Papa? Tani?”
“Water for him,” Abeo said.
Simi shot Tanimola a look and swirled round again. It came to Tani that she was doing all the swirling in order to show off a skirt. It was an old one, looking like an Oxfam special, but she’d decorated it with sequins and sparkles and her headband—from which her short dark hair sprang up in twists—she had decorated as well. It sported more sequins, and she’d added a feather. She dashed into the kitchen, nearly knocking into their mother, who was emerging with the gbegiri soup Tani had smelled. Steam rose from it, fogging her specs, beading moisture on Monifa’s forehead and cheeks.
He couldn’t imagine even trying gbegiri soup in this heat, but he knew what mentioning that would trigger. Abeo would embark upon another saga of how things were when he was a boy. He’d been in England for forty of his sixty-two years, but when he spoke of his native Nigeria, one would think he’d arrived at Heathrow only last week. How things were “back home” had long been his preferred topic, whether he was holding forth about the schools, the living conditions, the weather, or the customs . . . all of which seemed to exist in a fantasy African homeland born from watching Black Panther at least five times. It was Pa’s favourite film.
As Monifa placed the serving bowl in the centre of the table, Abeo frowned. “This is not efo riro,” he said.
“In this heat, I worried,” Monifa said. “The chicken. The meat. We had none here, just a bit of beef. And I wondered how fresh could the other meats stay if I bought them in the market. So I thought gbegiri soup might be wiser.”
He looked at her. “You have made no rice, Monifa?”
“Here, Papa!” Simi had reappeared with the beer. She had a frosty can in one hand and a frosty glass in the other, and she said, “It feels so cool. Feel how cool it is, Papa. C’n I have some? Just a sip?”
“You cannot,” her mother said. “Sit. I am serving the food. I am sorry about the rice, Abeo.”