Present day
After three days of careful deliberations, I went to watch Nicolas play football on Wednesday evening.
The sun had gone down by the time I arrived in a taxi at the venue. Bright white halogen lamps illuminated the five-a-side pitch. The small stadium could take about five hundred people, but only three of us were there watching the match. The other two spectators, both male, sat several seats away, but close enough that I could hear them commenting on the game.
Behind us, Alfred Rewane Road was busy with rush hour traffic—okadas honked rudely, cars halted with sudden squeals of brakes and sirens shrieked as ambulances, cash-carrying bullion vans and convoys zoomed past. The air remained thick with the afternoon heat and from time to time, a pleasant breeze brushed past, bringing a little relief.
As the players ran up and down the field, I thought about Fola and wondered what he was doing. I wondered if he had friends at the university and if he played football with them. I wondered if he ever thought of the times we played together in the corridor of the flat using balloons because Papa forbade Mama from buying us footballs. We would collapse with laughter each time a balloon burst, before blowing air into another one.
I pulled my phone out of my handbag and sent him an SMS. ‘Hello from Lagos. I’m thinking about you,’ when what I wanted to write was, Hello from Lagos. I miss you so much. I love you.
In my family, we had never said or written that we missed each other, let alone that we loved each other. By the time the game was over, I still had not received a response from Fola. I’d dozed off a dozen times and mosquitoes had feasted on my legs.
After Nicolas introduced me to some of his friends who all called him Nico, we got into his SUV and headed to a small restaurant in Ikoyi. His car was as shiny on the inside as it was on the outside. It looked and smelled brand new. Riding in a 4X4 on Lagos roads was a luxury. Unlike with smaller cars, you didn’t feel violated when you bumped up and down over speed bumps and potholes.
We talked about how our week was going during the short drive. Nicolas offered to compile a list of French Christmas songs I could teach the children to sing at the school’s carol concert. When we arrived, he gave his driver, Moses, permission to take the car to get his own dinner.
The restaurant was small with a cosy bar. Sitting on the high bar stools, we both ordered the same thing—a chicken salad and a bottle of Malta Guinness.
“I liked hearing everyone call you Nico,” I said, pouring a creamy mustard dressing over my salad.
He grinned. ‘That’s what I’ve always been called.”
“I like it! Can I call you Nico too?”
His grin grew wider. “If you want.”
Nico liked the Malta Guinness. It was his first time trying it. Through our meals, we didn’t talk about ourselves. Instead, we talked about drinks, about how Nigerian women preferred Malta Guinness or Guinness Stout to wine and how Nigerians preferred champagne to the same. We chatted like old friends. And we both agreed the food was good. We smiled and laughed a lot. I liked talking to him in French. I loved his French accent. I could listen to him talk non-stop for hours and never get tired.
For dessert, he ordered a chocolate cake while I chose not to have any. We continued talking as he ate about French artists we both knew and French movies we’d both seen and loved. To anyone listening, they wouldn’t have believed our friendship wasn’t a week old.
“Ada and I get asked about speaking French a lot,” I said to Nico after the couple sitting nearby asked if he and I were speaking French. “Many Nigerians love French, you know.”
“I’ve noticed that too. Whenever I meet someone and they learn I’m French, they always ask me to say something in French.” His eyes twinkled as he grinned. “I wish they would ask me to say something in Yoruba instead.”
“Say something in Yoruba.” I couldn’t stop myself from grinning too.
‘“Ok! Greetings. Ekaaro. Ekaasan. Ekuirole. Ekaale. Odaaro.”
“Bravo!” I pretended to clap.
“Se daadaa ni. Salaafia. E se adupe. Alafia ni o.”
“Well done!” I said, giving him a mock round of applause.
***
As we exited the restaurant, Nico offered to ask his driver to take me home. I declined, so he suggested dropping me off at the taxi park.
“I’ve enjoyed spending this evening with you,” he said as Moses drove out into the street.
“Yes, me too.” I adjusted in my seat, refusing to meet his gaze.
“It’s like we’ve known each other for a very long time. I’ve never felt this way before with anyone.”
I could feel all the blood rush to my face as my heartbeat quickened. I felt the connection, too. I liked the way we were so free with each other, with no off-limits. But I wasn’t confessing all that to him.
I looked out of the window. There were only a few cars plying Bourdillon Road, heading towards Falomo. I glanced down at my phone, and my heart sank as I noticed there was still no reply from Fola.
When I sensed the car decelerating, I lifted my gaze. Through the windscreen, I saw oncoming vehicles on our lane, flashing their headlights at us. In the opposite lane, vehicles were speeding down the road.
Suddenly, there was a barrage of loud gunshots, as if multiple guns were being fired at once, though we couldn’t see anyone shooting. Moses put the gear in reverse. Then he threw his right arm over the back of his seat and swivelled around to watch behind us as he sped in the direction we’d just come from, away from the spraying rounds of bullets. I was trembling, scared to death, my heart pounding loudly in my ears.
“Everything will be alright, Lami,” Nico whispered, but his eyes were bulging and his Adam’s apple bobbing.
Moses finally veered into a front gate and rapidly made a U-turn, brushing the curb. Then he flashed his lights, alerting the other drivers as he zoomed down Bourdillon Road.
My stomach churned, and I bit hard on my lips, trying not to throw up my dinner. I could feel the air conditioning drying the beads of sweat across my forehead. I glanced at Nico again. His gaze was fixated ahead. I didn’t dare look back either, even though we couldn’t hear the gunshots anymore. No one said a word as Moses drove on. I couldn’t find my voice or bring myself to ask where we were going.
A few minutes later, we arrived at Banana Island and were let into the gated estate by guards in uniform. By then, my stomach had settled and my heartbeat had calmed. Moses rolled down his window to speak to one guard.
“We’ve just been radioed,” the guard said. “Several armed men have set up a checkpoint at Falomo roundabout and are robbing car occupants and hijacking expensive vehicles at gunpoint”
“Has the police been informed?”
“Yes, but they probably don’t have enough fuel in their vans to get there, or they’re too scared to confront the robbers until they leave.”
Moses thanked the guard for the information and started moving again, slowly cruising through the estate. I had no idea how to get home, how long the robbers would be operating, or whether the police would intervene.
Looking out the window, I processed the information, realising the danger we’d just escaped. I noticed the roads of the estate were perfectly paved—no loose stone, no pothole, not one litter. I’d heard so much about the man-made island but had never seen it for myself.
It had ultra-expensive houses, high-rise residential buildings and glass-facade office towers that were lit up by the big spotlights installed on their fences. Through the tinted glass, I observed the Island—the mansions that stretched for days, the limousines and vintage cars that looked to have been abandoned squatting by the roadside, and cleanly cut green lawns edged along the large sidewalks.
Instead of large Beware of Dogs signs, small No Trespassing warnings with the image of a security camera hung on their electric gates. Unlike the houses in Lekki Phase One that gave the impression the owners were imprisoned in luxury behind their high fences and fully covered tall gates, the mansions here ostentatiously flaunted their opulence through their low fences and see-through grill gates that made visitors like me green with envy.
When Moses drove up slowly to a compound with a series of tall identical buildings that looked like high-end residential complexes, I could tell we had arrived where Nico lived.
“You can spend the night at my place,” Nico said as the wrought-iron gates opened electronically.
I nodded and then whispered my thanks, my first words since hearing the gunshots.
Moses drove down a long line of shiny SUVs in three colours—blacks, whites and greys. At the end of the parking lot, he found an empty spot and pulled into it, parking neatly in the row. I thanked him after he turned off the engine.
Suddenly, he threw his head back and started laughing. He laughed until I snapped out of the shock I’d slipped into. Nico broke into a smile and thanked Moses too, and then he complimented him on his Hollywood moves.
“Oga, I know no say I get them moves o,” Moses joked back.
I got out of the vehicle right after Nico, only to realise he’d wanted to open the door for me. I hadn’t been patient. Feeling a little silly, I walked by his side as he ambled to the entrance of one complex. Security cameras and movement sensors were installed everywhere. Still, there were security guards in uniforms posted by each entrance.
After I filled out the visitors’ book at a desk where two guards sat, I followed Nico down the corridor to the elevators. A comfortable silence filled the elevator as we waited to arrive at the third floor. The inside of the elevator was large, lined with sparkling clean mirrors. Through the mirror on the doors, Nico seemed like we didn’t just have a traumatic experience together. In my head, the gunshots continued to echo like the sound of firecrackers.
“Are you okay?” he asked, breaking the silence.
I nodded. “I was scared, but I feel better now.”
“Me too,” he admitted.
“Thank you for letting me stay at your place.”
“It’s nothing.” He brushed it off as if we’d planned for me to spend the night there.
The elevator doors opened up to reveal two girls in beautiful dresses. They were both pretty in their light makeup, bone-straight hair, and caramel skin that seemed unfamiliar with the Nigerian sun.
“Hiii Nico!” the one wearing a sequined dress exclaimed. Her smile was bright and wide.
Nico exchanged smiles and greetings with her. She batted her eyes and called him Nico like they were more than neighbours. As we walked to his door, he told me she was the daughter of the Deputy Governor of Lagos State and her apartment was furnished with the most luxurious furniture he had seen since arriving in Nigeria. I couldn’t tell if he liked her or if it was admiration I heard in his voice. But I understood she was in his league. Men like him dated girls like that, whose parents could afford to buy them luxury apartments in buildings and areas favoured by expatriates.
“She’s very attractive,” I said as he pushed his key into the lock.
He nodded and opened the door, holding it with one hand so I could go in before him. The fragrance in his apartment was unfamiliar. It smelt new and felt foreign. Since we drove into the compound, I’d been feeling as though I was no longer in Nigeria. The open-plan living room was spacious, with a sitting room corner on the right and a fully equipped kitchen on the left. A pool table lit up by recessed ceiling lights stood in the place where a dining table should be. Although I didn’t like the idea of having the kitchen in the living room, I still thought his apartment was glamorous.
When he told me he would sleep on the sofa in the living room, I declined and told him I would prefer to sleep on the sofa. But he refused, saying I was his guest. He led me to his bedroom, that had an adjoining bathroom. It was big, spacious, and tidy. The walls were empty and unadorned, just like the rest of the flat.
There was a double-sized bed, neatly made in all-white beddings, that looked like it’d never been used. Opposite his bedroom was another room which was almost empty except for a big laundry basket, an ironing board and a wooden shelf stacked with Adidas and Nike football shoes. There were about a dozen or more of them in different colours. I’d never seen anyone person own so many football shoes.
***
After a quick shower, I tucked myself in bed, wearing Nico’s grey pyjamas and taking in the freshness of the bedsheet.
I liked the large fluffy pillow; soft yet comfortable. Nico entered the room and made his way to the adjoining bathroom. As soon as he shut the door behind him, I checked my phone. Fola had still not replied. If I had died in the gunfire, would it have bothered him that he had missed an opportunity to speak to me for the last time? I’d received a message from Ada, so I immediately dialled her number.
“Bébé, where are you?” she said as soon as she answered the call.
“I can’t come home tonight. There’s a major robbery operation happening at Falomo roundabout.”
“Jesus!”
“I’m safe. I’m with Nico. He says I can spend the night at his place.”
“I was worried, wondering why you were yet to return.” She yawned and promised to call back in the morning.
Nico came out of the bathroom, wearing light blue pyjamas. His wet hair clung to his head, making him look like a teenager. He sat on the edge of the bed and fell on his back with his hands behind his head. I wondered if he was thinking about how close he’d come to dying just because he’d offered to take me to the taxi park. After a long silence, I said, “One million euros for your thoughts.”
He turned his head towards me, and I watched a smile play on his lips.
“I was thinking about when I was a child and my mum had to beg me every night to have my bath.”
“Naughty boy,” I teased, and his smile transformed into a grin and his dimples dug deeper. For the first time, I realised just how cute his dimples were.
“And you?” he said. “What are you thinking about? A million naira for your thoughts.”
“I want euros, not naira.” I stuck out the tip of my tongue.
He smiled again.
“I was thinking about my little brother, how close we used to be as children, and how far apart we’ve grown from each other now.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I’m an only child and I grew up feeling alone in a big house with a sizeable garden. In Brittany, it rains a lot, so I had to learn to play alone indoors. I remember wishing so much that I had a brother or sister.”
We settled into another silence. I checked my phone to see if Fola had replied, but there was still no response from him. I noticed my battery was low.
“What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever imagined?” he asked.
I glanced up from my phone and found him watching me with sparkling eyes.
“Let me think,” I said, lifting my weight off the bed. I retrieved my phone charger from my handbag and found an electric outlet at his reading table. “There are times I dream about being born earlier.” I nestled back into the bed, leaving my phone to charge by his reading table. “Especially during the times of Guy de Maupassant or Charles Aznavour. I’m crazy about French artists.”
“Mmm… that is truly crazy,’ he teased.
“You asked for crazy.” I pulled my legs up underneath the duvet. “It’s your turn! What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever imagined?”
“Remaining a child all my life.”
“If only.” I put a hand over my mouth and murdered a yawn.
“What’s your worst memory?”
I paused; the only audible sound was the ticking of the table clock.
“You go first,” I finally said.
“But it’s your turn.” He sat up, turned to face me and folded his legs beneath him.
“I never talk about it,” I said in a small voice, easing onto my back.
He crawled over the bed and came to lie on his side next to me. Then he reached out and squeezed my right hand, not letting go afterwards. In between us, there was enough space for a third person. Still, I could smell his natural musk.
“Tell me.” His voice was low and soft, yet urging.
My hand remained limp in his as I resisted the urge to return the squeeze or move a finger. I wanted to tell him the story of the dark room, but my mind shut down quickly. I wanted to tell him about how ashamed I felt for not returning to Mama’s grave since her funeral, but I couldn’t. I feared he would wonder what kind of daughter I was to have abandoned my mother’s grave for twelve years.
So instead, I told him about the last time I saw Mama alive. I stared at the white ceiling, fixating on its spotlights. When I started, it felt like it had happened centuries ago, but by the time I was done, it felt like it had happened only the day before. My throat constricted with unshed tears, yet my eyes remained dry.
“I didn’t cry that day.” My voice was raw with emotion. “I forced myself to, but I couldn’t.”
“Lami, I’m so sorry you and your family had to go through something so traumatic.”
“It’s OK,” I said, forcing myself to sound normal.
He paused, his gaze not leaving me. I rolled from my back onto my side so we were facing each other.
“My grandmother died miserably,” he finally said, and his eyes immediately grew sad.
I could tell that what he was about to tell me was something that made his heart bleed. He, too, had pain that wouldn’t go away.
“I spent a lot of time with her at the hospital during her last days,” he continued, still holding my gaze. “On the night she died, when we were alone, she shared a big secret with me. She said she didn’t love her husband, my grandfather, and that she’d been unhappy her whole married life.” He paused and pressed his lips together. His charming dimple deepened.
“When she was twenty-one, two men asked for her hand in marriage. One was French. He wasn’t handsome; the other was Italian and charming. She chose the second. After they got married, she realised she’d lost her French nationality and was forced to take up her husband’s Italian nationality. She said the day she was told she was no longer French, something died inside her. No one had thought it necessary to inform her. She could never look at her husband the same way again. Everything she once loved about him and found charming became all the things she hated, like his accent and his language. She said she felt like her homeland had disowned her and she regretted all her life not choosing the French suitor. She never forgave my grandfather, who made her a stranger in her own land, in the same village where she was born and raised. She refused to learn Italian because of this event.”
“That’s horrible,” I said in a whisper.
“At that time, divorce was disapproved of, so when she told her parents she didn’t love my grandpa anymore and wanted a divorce, she was reproached and forbidden to never speak about it again. Her mother told her no marriage is perfect so she must learn to make it work. But Grandpa loved her.”
A gentle softness replaced the sadness in his eyes and voice. “He always showed it. We always knew she was unhappy, but we didn’t know its source. Not even Grandpa himself. Grandma had two daughters and Grandpa was content, never for once missing not having a boy. On her hospital bed, Grandma told me she hated that she would die Italian because she had never felt Italian. She said she was French and had always remained French at heart. We wept together as she squeezed my hand. I never realised how deeply unhappy she’d always been. She died two days later.” His voice broke with delicate emotions.
“I’m so sorry.” I didn’t know what more to say or how to console him.
Another silence loomed before he spoke again, saying, “Your turn.”
His eyes watched my face as I ransacked my memory. I still wasn’t ready to talk about the dark room, and I also didn’t want to scare him away. Years had passed by and I’d never spoken about it, not even with Ada. My siblings and I never talked about it either. I didn’t know what they thought of me being the black sheep of the family. I wasn’t ready to share it with Nico. I wasn’t prepared to traverse that valley, to unearth terrifying memories. I thought about telling him about the glowing supernal Yoruba King Mama had dreamt about before she died, but I didn’t know if he would believe me or her.
“My grandparents died miserably too,” I said, my gaze fixed on the joint where the wall met the ceiling. “My grandmother fell in the bathroom the day after we buried my mother. Neither she nor my grandfather were at the funeral. Had my Grandma been allowed to attend, perhaps she wouldn’t have been knocked out by grief. Perhaps she would have been able to mourn her child and say her last goodbyes.”
“Why wasn’t she allowed?” He raised his upper body and propped himself up on one elbow.
I kept my eyes glued to the seam.
“Because our custom forbids parents to attend the burial of their children. My aunt explained to me that children aren’t expected to be buried by their parents. If a child dies and the parents are still alive, they are forbidden to attend the funeral.”
“Who then will do it?”
“Extended family members.”
“And if they don’t have relations?”
“Is that possible?” I met his eyes and our gaze locked. Sometimes his eyes looked golden, other times they looked green.
“Yes, in France it is. For such people, the Local Government takes care of their funeral and their properties go to the government.”
“Oh! It’s quite different in Africa. Well, I mean Nigeria because I don’t know the whole of Africa.”
“They must have been miserable not being allowed to go to their daughter’s burial,” he said, falling back on the pillow.
“It’s the tradition and if they’ve been practising it for years, they probably won’t see any reason to question it or look for a better way.”
“That’s true,’ he said, turning to rest the back of his head against the pillow and putting his hands under his head. “I didn’t think of it that way.”
“I’m not for or against this tradition. I don’t know what I would choose if I were in that situation.”
“I would choose to go, to say my last goodbye,” he said with certainty.
“I might choose to live in denial too,” I said, then added in a whisper, “as I always do.”
“Running changes nothing; it won’t make it go away. Face it, challenge it, change it if you can, accept it if you can’t.”
I settled my head in the centre of the fluffy pillow. There was silence again, beautiful and peaceful. I welcomed its presence. I let myself think about Grandpa and Grandma. It seemed like centuries ago that Mama last drove us to Dolphin Estate to spend Boxing Day with them. All that was left of those very happy days were aromas—aromas of Grandpa’s golden morn and chocolate drink and Grandma’s stew. What would I not give to experience those days once again?
Sometime during the companionable silence that fell over Nico and me, I went to sleep. I woke up a couple of hours later and found Nico asleep beside me. Unlike me, he wasn’t tucked into the duvet. He must have dozed off, too. The lamp was still on. I switched it off and immediately turned it back on again. The darkness was overwhelming. The thick window curtains prevented outside light from passing through.
I got off the bed quietly, switched on the lights in the bathroom, and left the door ajar. Then I climbed back into bed. Propping myself on my elbow, I watched Nico sleep. His face was peaceful. His long lashes fluttered lightly and his chest underneath his white t-shirt rose and fell. I was starting to like him too much, and it wasn’t a good thing.
Although I knew he was nothing like Papa or my ex, I feared he could still hurt me. If he didn’t do anything to hurt me, I knew I would get hurt badly when it would be time for him to leave Nigeria.
When my eyes became too heavy to stay open, I switched off the bedside lamp and slipped back into sleep’s soothing respite.
***
It was pitch-black when I opened my eyes again. I tried to reach for the curtains above my head, but there was none; no window, just a wall—a very cold wall.
Desperate to see anything at all, I felt underneath my pillow, but couldn’t find my phone anywhere. I jumped into a sitting position and tried to remember where I was. My memory was blurry and my eyes ached from straining to find the tiniest ray of light from any source. Hysterically, I screamed, “Oh my God, I’m blind, I’m blind.” I pushed away the covers and got out of bed.
“Lami?” It was Nico.
He was standing silhouetted against the dim light in the hall. He switched on the bedroom light and I squinted as he walked over to the bed. We stood in similar pyjamas, staring at each other.
“I’m fine now,” I said, unable to meet his eyes.
I felt ashamed for having acted like I was crazy. With my heart still racing, I walked past him into the adjoining bathroom to wash my face. I hoped he would have gone back to sleep by the time I came out, so I didn’t have to explain my actions.
As a child, I’d hated the Saturday morning hair-wash sessions Mama set aside for Lara and me. I couldn’t keep my eyes closed for more than a few seconds without being overpowered by an impulsive urge to verify that I hadn’t lost my sight while they were closed. I would wail all through the ordeal and leave my eyes open as shampoo ran down my face.
“Who are you afraid of?” Mama would ask. “Who is coming to get you while I’m here? Am I not your eyes when yours are closed?” Other times, she would say, “No monsters will come and get you while I’m here. Don’t you trust me enough to protect you?” But she never did understand that I wasn’t merely afraid of the dark and monsters. I was also afraid of going blind. I was terrified that while my eyes were closed, I could lose my sight without realising it, without knowing the exact moment it happened.
This phobia lived in me and I’d never told anyone about why I became hysteric whenever I found myself in pitch-black darkness or how it all started. There was no one I trusted enough to confide in, not even Mama.
Growing up, she always told me the story of how I caught measles when I was a baby and nearly died. She told me of how doctors had said that I would go blind and that there was nothing that could be done to reverse the damage. Papa went and sought help from traditional healers who treated me with herbs and restored my sight. I’ve heard Mama tell this story several times. Papa, too, had told it repeatedly. His voice was always loud and boastful; the pride in his tone demanded gratitude for his saving gesture.
“If not for me and Baba, by now, you would have been rendered useless. You would have been of no use to yourself or anyone,” Papa would say.
What Mama didn’t know was that with each telling of this story, my fears of going blind grew bigger and bigger, and after Papa began locking me up in the darkroom, my fear of pitch-black darkness became worse and worse.
I returned to the bedroom to find that Nico was still there, sitting at the edge of the bed. I couldn’t shake off my shame at the state of extreme panic he’d found me in, crying and shouting like I had gone stark, raving mad. Once again, I left the bathroom lights on and the door slightly ajar. Then I disconnected my phone from the electric socket while scolding myself in my head. The screen came on. It was 3:15 am. If I’d had my phone with me, I wouldn’t have embarrassed myself.
“Do you feel better?” Nico asked, getting up.
I nodded and climbed back into bed. He stood there, hands in his pyjama pockets, looking down at me as if he had questions he was restraining himself from asking. He turned the lights off when he left the room and I lay there for a long time, staring at the light spilling into the room from the bathroom.
Never in my life had I felt so embarrassed.
I had demons, and I’d done well all these years to hide them from people except for one lone incident while I was at the university that had shocked my roommates out of their sleep. I’d woken up in the middle of the night at the hostel and my hysteria had surpassed my astonishment at the intensity of the darkness in the room.
“I’m blind. I’m blind. Help me, please,” I’d shouted that night at the hostel, waking up the seven other girls in the room.
I apologised and blamed it on hallucination from the malaria drugs the university doctor had given me for the fever that had kept me in bed for days. I remember one girl saying, “For a moment, I thought you were possessed.”
I’d been extremely careful since then to avoid a repeat in public. I always tried to be prepared and never allowed myself to be caught when I would find myself in complete darkness. I’d told myself that I had to learn to manage it. It was my cross, a curse Papa had left me with. Still, I had the best set of eyes in the family. I didn’t need glasses like my parents, Wale and Lara, and I was the one Mama called on every time she needed to thread a needle.
Trying to rock myself to sleep, I banned every memory of how the fear first came and settled before it began feeding on other fears and growing into a monster that I could no longer dislodge.
In the morning, as I prepared to leave Nico’s apartment, he asked me to have lunch with him on Saturday before his flight to Paris later in the evening. I agreed, knowing very well that once I walked out of his front door, he would never see me again.
I couldn’t look him in the eyes as I thanked him for allowing me to spend the night at his apartment. My gaze was fleeting. My smile forced. In my mind, I wondered why he wanted to see me again after the madness I’d displayed.
I was glad he was going to spend December in Paris. It would be easy to cut him off. I would stop picking up his calls and replying to his text messages. By the time he would return to Lagos in January, I would be nothing but a distant memory, I hoped.