Furo gave a chuckle at the fishing in her question. ‘I don’t have a girlfriend,’ he said.
‘But still,’ Zainab stated in a voice from which dangled something hooked. ‘You can’t stay in Lagos and not speak Yoruba. I’ll teach you myself. In fact, you should have a Yoruba name by now. I’ll give you one—’ She fell silent, a squall brewed in her face, and she clamped her lips in pain as her hand rubbed her belly in commiserative circles. After her sigh of release indicated the spell had passed, she smiled a sweaty smile, and jerking her thumb in the direction of her bump, she quipped, ‘I can’t teach you anything until this one has come.’
Neither her suffering nor her jesting could quell the irritation Furo had felt at her suggestion of giving him another name, and so he said in a dour tone: ‘Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.’
Zainab searched his face, then heaved up from the desk and toughened her voice. ‘I’ll give your driver the books and the delivery address,’ she said. ‘The customer will sign the invoice. I’ll collect the duplicate from you on Monday. I appreciate the help.’ Placing her hands on her belly, she clutched it like a dance partner, and then started towards the door, leaving behind a trail of pheromones that hinted at reproach.
With Zainab gone, Furo packed up his laptop, exited his office, and then halted for an awkward moment at the top of the stairwell and adjusted the bag on his shoulder in readiness to see Tosin, whose voice he could hear below. The first thing he sighted on reaching the bottom step was Headstrong in front of the reception desk. His arms rested on a carton that stood on the desk, and he was listening to Tosin, who was seated. The hum of their voices continued without pause as Furo strode past the desk. He had unlocked the car and was waiting in the back seat by the time Headstrong emerged from the building, the carton in his arms. The entrance door closed in slow motion, pulled back by its own weight, and then it squealed open again as Tosin came through with her handbag in one hand and a carryall in the other. While Headstrong headed for the back of the car to stow the carton, Tosin startled Furo by catching his gaze. Making a beeline for the car, she halted beside the window by which he sat, her silent form blocking the light.
‘Hello,’ Furo offered. His voice came out squeezed. ‘Hello too,’ Tosin responded, and as she let the silence do the rest of her talking, he decided to try again. ‘Are you travelling?’
‘No. I’m spending the weekend in Ajah.’
Furo almost giggled with relief. ‘That’s my direction. I can give you a lift.’
‘I can’t thank you enough,’ Tosin said drily. When she took a step towards the front of the car, Furo said, ‘Hold on a sec,’ and throwing open the back door, he leapt out. ‘Let me have that,’ he said, and grabbed the carryall from her hand. After she climbed into the back seat and scooted over for him, he placed the carryall between them, and then pulled the door shut. At that instant, as if at a sign, Headstrong banged the boot closed.
From the moment the First Lady sped through the gate and Furo stuck his head out the window and shouted bye-bye in response to Mallam Ahmed’s waving, nobody said a word. Headstrong stared ahead, Tosin stared at the driver’s backrest, and Furo stared at nothing. But nothing soon became that beast of metal and rubber, of bellicose honks and hydrocarbon fumes: a traffic jam at Olusosun. This go-slow was unlike any other, because it crawled past a terrain which stank to the carrion bird-darkened heavens. On those days when the road was clear, cars sped up when approaching the scandalous sight: a range of craters dotted with blazing fires and strewn with galactic garbage. But today, as Furo grabbed for the glass winder, he saw car windows shooting up everywhere. For all commuters unlucky enough to pass by Olusosun, closed windows and breakneck speed were reflex actions, futile efforts against the stink that rose on plumes of smoke from the largest dumpsite in Lagos.
The traffic jam evaporated at the mouth of Third Mainland Bridge. As was usual at this hour, the bridge was free-flowing in the direction of Lagos Island, while the opposite lane, clear of traffic in the mornings, was now gridlocked. Lagoon breeze fanned across the bridge, and as the First Lady hurtled singing into its path, Tosin broke the silence. ‘Frank,’ she said, and when Furo turned towards her: ‘How do you manage with all the stares?’ Furo’s expression announced his bafflement. ‘The other cars, in the go-slow, people kept staring at you.’
‘Oh, that.’ Furo snorted in dismissal. ‘I’m used to it.’
‘You have a strong mind,’ Tosin said. She looked through the window at the water flashing past, to which she directed the sadness of her next words. ‘The way we stare at others, at white people, we Nigerians, it makes me ashamed. It’s just plain rude.’
‘Yes, I agree,’ Furo said. ‘But don’t let that bother you. There’s nothing you can do about other people’s rudeness.’ As the boomeranging meaning of his words struck home, Furo felt a stab of embarrassment, and he said quickly: ‘I’m sure people stare at you too.’
‘Me? Why?’
‘Because you’re pretty.’
Tosin threw him a pensive look, and then glanced forwards as Headstrong said, ‘What are you ashamed of, ehn, Tosin? What is the bad thing about looking at oyibo people?’
A spasm of annoyance crossed Tosin’s face. It was by force of will that her tone remained civil as she addressed Headstrong. ‘Look at it this way. How would you feel if you travelled overseas and everyone stared at you just because of your skin colour?’
‘Like a superstar!’ Headstrong exclaimed.
As Furo fought back his laughter, he heard Tosin say, ‘Victor, be serious.’
‘OK,’ Headstrong said in a serious tone. ‘I will tell you what I think. Number one, your question is not correct. Because why? White people are not like us. They treat everybody in their country with respect. In fact, they treat us black people special. A policeman cannot just go and stop a black person on the street and be asking for his ID card. Not like our own police. Yes, listen, let me tell you! Even if oyibo want to deport you from their country, you can tell them that they’re fighting in your village and all your family are dead, that you’re a refugee and you want asylum. Because of human rights, they can’t do you anything. You see what I’m saying? Those are better people.’ Out of breath, he fell silent. But the next instant, while Tosin and Furo exchanged glances in mute accord that Headstrong was something other than compos mentis, he spoke again. ‘Abi am I lying, Oga Frank?’
Furo looked at the rear-view mirror. This was the first time Headstrong had spoken his name since their falling-out. And yet, though the question was offered in a genial tone, the topic was the same that had started the trouble on Monday. Furo had no desire to go down that route again. And so he said, ‘It’s not that simple. But no, you’re not lying.’
‘Aha!’ said Headstrong, and raising a finger, he wagged it in triumph.
With a laugh Tosin said, ‘I give up.’ She turned to Furo. ‘Has Headstrong told you of his plans to migrate to Bulgaria?’
‘Poland! Poland!’ Headstrong corrected, slapping the steering wheel in emphasis.
‘Sorry o,’ Tosin said in tone that showed that she wasn’t, and as Furo said with a grin, ‘He has,’ she smiled back at him. Furo deepened his voice in imitation of Headstrong:
‘My elder brother lives in Poland—’
‘And he’s married to a white woman,’ Tosin completed.
‘Two of una no serious,’ Headstrong said. But he laughed too.
And then Tosin said, ‘And you, Frank,’ but her voice trailed off. After some thought, she reached over the seat back and tapped Headstrong’s shoulder. ‘Before he bites off my head, abeg, Victor, ask him where he’s from.’