A Bit of Difference (15 page)

“You can never rise to the top as an African overseas unless you do exactly as you're told,” he used to say.

“I will, Daddy,” she would say. “You'll see.”

She packs
Pride and Prejudice
in her suitcase. When she first read it, the Bennets were fascinating to her. Now, they could well be a Nigerian family. She pulls out Wale's card from the pouch where she keeps her underwear. His full name is Adewale and his middle initial is also “A.” She wonders what the “A” stands for as she transfers his card to her wallet. Her mother would like him. A good man from a good family.

z

The next morning, she takes the first flight to Abuja. The air is drier there but with the hills, palm trees, cornfields and red soil she could be anywhere outside Lagos. On the way from the airport, she passes bundles of sticks, laundry laid out to dry, bungalows with corrugated iron roofs and dwarf goats. A group of girls carry pots on their heads and a lone elderly man sits under an umbrella to protect himself from the sun. This is Islamic territory. In the villages, men wear skullcaps and women are wrapped up.

She thinks of her old friend Fatima, who lives further north in Kaduna. Fatima was known as a cool Hausa chick, a forward-thinking Muslim because she drank beer and smoked cigarettes in private. They were classmates at Queen's College. They met up during national service and have since been out of touch. Deola was surprised to hear that Fatima agreed to an arranged marriage after national service. Her wedding was a seven-day affair attended by sultans and emirs. Her bridesmaids got their hands and feet dyed with henna. The president made an appearance at the wedding prayers. The marriage didn't last. There was some talk that Fatima's husband discovered she wasn't
virgo intacta
, but people said he wouldn't know the difference because he drank too much—so much that he would wet himself in bed. Fatima had a daughter by him and moved out. She started a law practice in Kaduna and became an advocate for underage Northern girls who were forced into arranged marriages. The girls she represented were in their early teens. Her NGO was Daughters of
Islam, Women for Islam or some pro-feminist, pro-Islam name that didn't quite add up. She started covering her hair, which may have been a ruse to continue her subversive activities, but people laughed at her and called her a born-again Muslim.

As the city approaches, there are more motorcycles, vans and lorries. In the distance is a cluster of houses with blue roofs. The taxi driver points out Millennium Park and Aso Rock, where the president lives. There are rumors that the president, a former military head of state, is seeking an extra term in office. Lanre claims he is sweetening the Senate and House of Reps and money has been moving around mysteriously in banks. She understands what Wale means about Abuja lacking in character. Close up, the buildings are new and incongruous. Some look as though they belong somewhere in Florida.

At the Hilton, she checks in and takes another taxi to the office of Widows In Need. She is early for her meeting with the CEO, Mrs. Nwachukwu, and her vice president, Elizabeth Okeke.

Elizabeth seems friendly. She wears a shin-length flowery dress and is possibly in her thirties. Mrs. Nwachukwu is definitely in her fifties, portly, and her glasses are perched on the tip of her nose. She is dressed in an elaborate up-and-down.

“From where are you?” she asks.

Deola's first instinct is to say “Nigeria,” as she does in London. Then she remembers that here, she is from whatever state her father is from. She has never lived in Kwara State, so she says, “Lagos.”

“Are you Yoruba or Hausa?” Mrs. Nwachukwu asks.

Deola smiles. “Does it matter?”

“Just out of curiosity. ‘Deola' is Yoruba, but ‘Bello' could be Hausa.”

“It's not Hausa.”

Mrs. Nwachukwu shrugs. “As I said, it's just out of curiosity. If you hear my surname, you will be right in eh, assuming I am Igbo, but Elizabeth here is not. She is from Plateau State. Okeke is her marital name. You see? So I thought ‘Okay, Bello must be her husband's name, then.'”

“I'm not married,” Deola says, keeping her smile intact. “I consider myself Nigerian and I hope we can be united in the face of this epidemic that threatens us.”

She is always thrown by ethnic distrust, though she has read enough newspaper editorials about the next elections to understand how much ethnicity still matters politically. Pressure groups are vying for equal representation in the government. She suspects she sounds just as bombastic as the editorials. What did any of that mean?
I consider myself Nigerian. United in the face of this epidemic.

Predictably, Mrs. Nwachukwu is noticeably offended, taking in Deola's pearl earrings, black linen dress and pumps as if the overall understated effect is a plot to undermine her flamboyant, traditional look.

“Kate Meade is your director, eh?” she says, stroking her gold pendant. “Yes. I've been communicating with Kate Meade.”

Mrs. Nwachukwu's cell phone rings a cheerful calypso tune. She indicates she needs privacy and Elizabeth ushers Deola out of her office as Deola scolds herself. She and Mrs. Nwachukwu have one Nigerian trait in common, the tendency to jeopardize an opportunity out of sheer arrogance and still expect a suitable outcome.

The friction works in her favor. Outside in the corridor, Elizabeth whispers, “Don't mind her. She is a difficult woman. You know she was a midwife?”

The corridor is empty but for the two of them. Deola steps away from the door and keeps her voice low.

“I know.”

“I'm her in-law. She is well known within the family for being troublesome.”

“I'm just here for a review.”

“That's what I'm trying to tell you. She collected money for HIV education to start WIN.”

“So…”

Elizabeth pats her chest. “So I'm saying the women are from my town. I was the one who told her about their predicament. Their husbands drove lorries. They traveled up and down the country. They followed prostitutes. Everyone knew why they died. No one needed any education.”

“Education can't do any harm.”

“I know that, but they are not prostitutes. That is what I'm saying. She collected money to educate prostitutes. The foundation came from the US to inspect. She said the women should pretend they are prostitutes. I said, ‘How can they pretend they are prostitutes?' The very people who caused the problem in the first place.”

“No one caused the problem.”

Elizabeth turns away. “Unless you don't want to say the truth. You should know that wives are not in the same category as prostitutes.”

“So what is it you are saying?”

“I'm saying let her educate prostitutes if she wants to. That is her own business, but she shouldn't put the women of WIN in the same category. They need medicine. They haven't seen any medicine yet. Some are sick. They don't know what to do. They can't afford to go to hospital. But most of them are well and they don't want education.”

“How can LINK help?” Deola asks.

Elizabeth shakes her head. “I can't tell you.”

“That's what I'm here for.”

“Microfinance. Have you heard of it?”

“Yes.”

Elizabeth glances at the door. “She says she is not interested. Me, I don't know. I'm not the one collecting money all over the place for all sorts of purposes. I'm not the one with a big, big house. See this place? It belongs to her brother. So who is collecting the rent? Who benefits from WIN? Ask yourself these questions. Me, I'm not an enemy of progress. I'm just telling you what I know.”

The office block is four stories of whitewashed concrete and reflecting windows, but the rent may be less than what WIN might pay in Lagos. Elizabeth puts her finger to her lips when she hears Mrs. Nwachukwu calling her name.

Deola is not surprised that there has been misrepresentation of purpose and misdirection of funds in the past. A review of their fieldwork by the US foundation would have uncovered that. For now, she is concerned that WIN is renting an office from Mrs. Nwachukwu's brother, so she focuses on their administrative costs, which are disproportionately high. She suspects that Mrs. Nwachukwu's salary is understated, but what bothers her most is that every purchase order, every receipt and check has been signed by Mrs. Nwachukwu alone.

“What is Elizabeth Okeke's job description?” she asks later.

“Elizabeth?” Mrs. Nwachukwu says. “Elizabeth is, well, eh, officially, Elizabeth is my VP, but in actual fact, she is a jack of all trades in this office. Yes. As a matter of fact, she is invaluable to us. We would not be able to function without her.”

“She says you have not been able to get any medication.”

“She did?”

“I asked her.”

Mrs. Nwachukwu frowns. “Well, she knows we are following up on that. The problem is fake drugs. We don't want to end up with fake drugs.”

“What happens to those who are sick meanwhile?”

“They go to the churches or they go to the herbalists.”

“And their children?”

“Children? Let us not even begin to talk about them.”

Deola can't imagine an entire town devastated by AIDS. Clusters, as they are called. In Lagos, there are too many people. Depopulation might go unnoticed. She has heard Nigerians say that the rates of infection are higher wherever Westerners flock to in Africa: the port cities and the countries with cooler climates. Nigerians were furious with the press reports that said the virus originated in Africa, livid when the reports said the virus was traced to monkeys. Who did they think Africans were? Dirty perverts? Didn't they know that to piss off an African, all a person needed to do was mention any species of ape or make any kind of simian reference? Now that the virus is here to stay, no one seems to care where it came from. She has seen numerous posters declaring that AIDS kills and signboards advertising bogus cures, so perhaps education about treatment is another area where funds can be directed.

She is almost certain she will not recommend WIN after her review. Why come all the way from England, only to return with a report like that? she thinks. What a waste of money and a letdown for the women.

z

She calls Wale when she gets back to the Hilton. He doesn't answer his phone and she doesn't leave a message after his recorded greeting, which ends with him saying, “
Shalom
.” She is walking into the bathroom when her cell phone rings and she runs out. She sees Wale's number and takes a breath before she answers.

“Hello?”

He sounds angry. “Did you just call my number?”

“It's Adeola Bello.”

“Hey! You're in town?”

“Yes.”

“I thought someone was flashing me again.”

“Flashing?”

“You've haven't heard of flashing? When you call, hang up and wait for a call back?”

She smiles. “Not used that way.”

“So how are you, Adeola Bello?”

“Very well. I was hoping we could meet for a drink.”

“When?”

She wrinkles her nose. Why is her heart beating faster?

“Tonight?”

He laughs. “Where?”

“I'm at the Hilton. What's so funny?”

“I didn't expect to hear from you.”

“Why not?”

“I didn't ask for your number. It might have seemed…”

“It didn't seem anything.”

“Good. I didn't want my staff to think I was, you know.”

“You were fine. You weren't flirting.”

“Who says?”

“So, I'll see you later?”

“What time?”

“Eight?”

“Eight, then.”

She struts around her room, then she pats her cheek. She mustn't look desperate.

She has dinner at the hotel restaurant and returns to her room to take a bath and change. She sprays perfume on her wrist, smacks her lipstick in place. Her earring needs securing. She smoothes her eyebrows.

The front desk calls to say he has arrived and she goes downstairs again, this time pretending to take an interest in the décor in the lobby, which is reminiscent of a dictator's palace, with its crystal chandeliers, faux Louis Quatorze chairs and white marble floors. The light reflecting on the marble blinds her and she worries about slipping. There are a few expatriates and many Nigerians walking around in that lethargic manner that is typical of loiterers in hotels.

Wale is by the front desk. He has made an effort, his shirt and trousers are pressed. He looks naturally trim. He stands with his back to the lift, which might be deliberate, and she is tempted to pinch his bottom and throw him off balance, but she taps his shoulder instead.

“Have you grown?” he asks, looking her up and down.

“My heels,” she says.

He smiles as if she is a statue he can't quite take seriously.

“
Shalom
?” she says.

“
Pele
, then,” he says. “
Pele
, if you prefer.”

“Not really.”

Pele
doubles up as an apology.
Pele
might also mean he feels sorry for her.

In the lounge she orders a Cointreau. She has never had Cointreau before. It is strong and tastes of oranges. He has a neat brandy. She doesn't just like his eyes; she likes his way of looking at her as if she is a solo act. She is also aware of the stares she gets from the security guards who size her up as she tells him about her day at WIN.

“What pains me is that I now have to go back and admit to these people that Nigerians are fraudulent.”

“She's just hustling like everyone else. She and the other woman, who might be trying to sabotage her.”

“You think?”

“Of course. Even microfinance is a hustle now. The people who are meant to get it don't. It's all about competition here.”