Being Lara (16 page)

“Not now. In a few weeks. I have to. I just have to!”

“You're not making much sense, Trish.”

“I want to go to the Motherless Children's Home. I want to go to Nigeria!”

During her brief stint as a pop star, Pat had ventured into a number of European countries, but nothing had prepared her for the musky, unfamiliar heat of Lagos as she stepped off the plane at Murtala Muhammed International Airport. The faulty carousel and bureaucratic delays just made the experience all a bit worse. For Barry there were less adverse effects as he functioned as usual, a solitary bead of sweat trickling past his ear, the only sign he was in Africa and not navigating the brisk winds of the Sussex coast.

Outside, away from the air-conditioning and under the searing Lagos sun, a swarm of bright yellow-and-black taxis littered the area like killer bees searching for prey. Drivers shouted their wares from inside the vehicle as men with paper pads and small goods for sale approached them.

“No, thank you,” said Pat on continual loop.

“We're waiting for somebody, but thank you,” added Barry.

As her eyes searched the crowds, the skeptical words of Pat's brother echoed in her ears. Perhaps she
had
been gullible. Barry hadn't verbalized his unease, but maybe he was just prepared to go along with anything Pat wanted: she wanted to be a singer, let's do it; she wanted to fly thousands of miles away to an African country with a dodgy reputation, let's do it.

Then, she heard the sound of her name, which finally pierced the growing bubble of negativity that had been surrounding her for weeks.

“Mrs. Reid!”

She looked up and Kayo moved toward them, eyes as piercing as ever, skin glowing against the midmorning sun.

“Welcome!” he greeted them, vigorously shaking Barry's hand and then hers. She didn't want him to notice just how relieved she was to see him or her silent crowing she couldn't wait to share with her brothers.

“It's so great to see you, Kayo!” She smiled as Barry squeezed her hand.

A dusty blue Peugeot pulled up, and Kayo opened the door for them to get in.

“Welcome!” said Kayo again as they pulled away, smiling widely before explaining their itinerary for the trip. Hotel, shower, food, then the car would arrive to take them to the Motherless Children's Home.

Barry squeezed her hand again as the car drove away from the airport. Her gut was finally beginning to fill with optimism and hope. She stuck her face out of the window, absorbing the welcome breeze that now accompanied them, inhaling a pungent mix of sweaty heat and dried plants as strange-sounding music and what sounded like tribal singing flooded out of the radio.

“I'll turn the music off,” said Kayo.

“No, keep it on. Who is it?”

“King Sunny Adé! Our very own pop star of Nigeria. Just like you are in England.”

“I think he's probably a lot better than I was!” laughed Pat, staring out at the large cactuses and neatly arranged palm trees lining the lengths of a smooth road. As the car moved farther away from the airport, a subtle change in scenery began to emerge—like watching an artist's canvas take form. Ikeja, the sign said, housed a number of small hotels, neat buildings, and large pharmacies, along with a neatness she hadn't expected. Pat was now desperate to view the whole portrait.

“Kayo, is it all right if we go straight to the Motherless Children's Home?”

Kayo turned to Barry who shrugged his shoulders in response.

“But wouldn't you first like to freshen up at your hotel?”

“I just… I'd just like to see this place. I suppose I'm a little excited.”

“As you wish,” he said, before addressing the driver in Yoruba.

As the car ventured farther away from the hotel and closer to its new destination, the amount of people on the street seemed to quadruple. There were men and women dressed in colorful traditional costumes, some in Westernized jeans and shirts. Mothers ferried children on their backs as they balanced trays of freshly baked bread on their heads. The noise of old cars competed with the sound of music, similar to what was playing in the car, a woman preached through a megaphone, and the potent mix of frying meat and petrol became part of a new smell as Pat took in the hustle and bustle of Lagos for the very first time.

The car stopped at an intersection, and Pat was horrified to notice the absence of any traffic lights. In fact, she'd only seen them earlier, such “luxuries” having disappeared once they'd driven farther away from the airport. The thick traffic and vast number of people made it necessary for the car to proceed at an unbearably sluggish pace, honking its horn as Pat became drenched in sweat.

“I'm sorry, Barry, we should have gone to the hotel first,” she said, noticing his reddened face. The car's air-conditioning was nonexistent, and the open window gave little relief from the intense Lagos heat.

“It's okay,” he replied as Pat squeezed his hand. She gazed out of the window hoping to hide her guilt, continuing the optical tour of the city that would be their home for the next two weeks. To her it was the most interesting and beautiful place she'd ever seen.

Kayo, now their tour guide, spoke of places she'd never heard of before. The school on the corner next to the barber's shop with a piece of steel as a door was where some of the older children from the home were sent for studies. The lady crossing the road, dressed in an Ankara green-and-blue caftan, had been a volunteer at the home twice a week for a year even though she was a widow with four children and very little money.

“I myself have been surprised by the kindness of strangers. And now after a chance meeting, you offer a very kind donation,” he said, gesturing to Pat and Barry. Pat could only smile in embarrassment, touched at his gratitude and once again reminded how her siblings' reactions to similar generosity would have differed.

They turned into a rough and bumpy length of terrain that Kayo confirmed would lead to the Motherless Children's Home, the car narrowly missing a passing gecko as it journeyed up the road, past misshapen houses and unfinished buildings, some with no roofs, single net curtains suggesting someone lived there.

“We'll be arriving soon,” stated Kayo as a puny dog ran across the road, saved from head-on impact by the bumpy surface, which required the car to move at an impossibly slow pace. As the vehicle attempted to rev itself out of a pothole, two beautiful children peered through the passenger side.

“Good afternoon,” they each said politely. Pat waved back, and they replied with toothy grins.

The car pulled up beside a large wooden gate, which was at odds with what she'd imagined the Motherless Children's Home entrance to look like. The pictures Kayo had sent were mostly interior and nothing had prepared her for the lone crooked sign that hung off the side of the gate, which simply read
THE MOTHERLESS CHILDREN'S HOME
.

The scorching Nigerian sun threatened to pierce a hole in Pat's shirt, as men, women, and children began to gather around the car. With an audience buzzing behind them along with muffled whisperings in a mixture of broken English and Yoruba, Kayo asked if they were ready to go in.

“Let's do it!” Pat replied melodramatically.

Kayo rapped on the gate, which then swung open to reveal a woman holding the hands of two young children. Excited hugs and greetings ensued, as Pat and Barry needed no introductions. The sound of excited voices followed them as Kayo led the way through the gate and into a tropical Narnia of a coconut tree, aloe vera plants, cactuses, and countless other plants Pat had never seen before—surrounding a huge dilapidated two-toned bungalow sitting under a gloriously glaring sun.

According to Kayo's progress reports, the Motherless Children's Home came with a makeshift kitchen, outside bathroom, toilet, and five rooms, which accommodated twenty children. Everyone worked together, with the older children fetching water daily from the local borehole and engaging in general housekeeping. Kayo had managed to spend some of Pat's earlier donation on mosquito nets for the beds, a development Kayo was most proud of as malaria was rife in the area. They both followed Kayo through to a dark windowless corridor and stood outside an old wooden door, through which came the smell of freshly cooked spices and the beautiful, innocent sounds of children's voices.

“Here we are,” said Kayo, pushing open the door. It squeaked heavily to reveal a dingy room with numerous chairs set along two long tables under a small window, which grudgingly let in a flicker of light. A chipped bulb in the middle of the ceiling hung, surrounded by exposed wires—it was the room's second source of light, if and when the electricity returned. On each stool sat a child, tucking into a plate of rice and soup, looks of excitement etched on their faces at the arrival of new guests.

Pat and Barry chatted with the children, surprised at how good their English was—for the most part, much better than Pat's brothers.

“Of the many tribes with their different languages spoken, English is the one that unites us,” explained Kayo.

“That's good, isn't it?” inquired Barry.

“It depends on how you look at it,” replied Kayo.

After an hour, Pat felt overcome with the tiredness of a long-haul flight and oppressive heat.

“Thanks so much, Kayo. We'll be back tomorrow for a proper tour,” she promised as they walked out into the courtyard. One of the helpers, who had earlier introduced herself as Mary, sat combing a little girl's hair on the edge of dusty steps. The child clearly disliked the sensation of a comb, reminding Pat of Kieron next door and how his little legs would take off at the sight of a brush as his mum tried to tackle his curls.

“Hello,” she said, moving toward the little girl.

“This is Omolara,” said Mary.

Omolara, her eyes squeezed shut in “pain,” slowly opened each eyelid as Pat held out her hand.

“Hello, O … moo.. la…?” Pat turned to Kayo for support.

“Omolara!” he laughed.

“So sorry,” she said, crouching down to the child's height.

“It means, ‘born at the right time,'” said Kayo.

“A bit ironic,” said Barry, shaking his head slowly.

But Pat didn't view this in the same way, as she pointed to the long piece of fabric in Omolara's tiny hand.

“And what's this?”

Omolara turned her gaze away from her, eyebrows arched, mouth scrunched in defiance.

“Well, you have a lovely name,” continued Pat as Omolara smiled mischievously into Mary's chest.

“I'll see you tomorrow then. Bye-bye,” said Pat, undeterred by the child's mute responses.

“Bye-bye,” said little Omolara finally, with a short wave. Two words with the power to spread joy into Pat's heart and make her believe that everything good existed in the world.

Kayo opened the car door and a smiling Pat slid onto the torn, hot leather seats, immediately clutching Barry's hand, suddenly longing for something so much more than that shower.

“You okay, love?” asked Barry. Pat bit her bottom lip, nodding her head absently.

The next day after a good night's sleep plus two showers, Pat and Barry headed back to the Motherless Children's Home. Pat couldn't wait to sit with the children again, but it was Omolara she really longed to see. Most of the night, her mind had wandered back to those big puffy cheeks, the way she spoke—her words sounding like droplets of warm, delicate honey.

Bye-bye.

In the yard of the Motherless Children's Home, Pat noticed the tranquil peace immediately, the absence of children's voices as they dutifully prepared for sleep very apparent. The sun, almost covered by a blanket of darkness, alerted her to the inevitable end of the day and a sudden awareness that her whirlwind trip to Nigeria would be over all too soon. Pat wanted to drink everything in, absorb the country in its entirety so that she'd never, ever forget its hospitality, its beauty, and the new set of memories it had already planted in the story of her life.

“Hello, madam,” said Mary. As she approached, Pat noticed two little slightly scuffed feet bouncing on either side of her hips.

“We have been to buy plantain,” said Mary as Pat smiled at little Omolara, strapped to Mary's back with a single piece of knotted cloth.

“Hello, Omoolara,” said Pat, aware she'd pronounced the name pitifully yet again.

Mary untied the knotted cloth and maneuvered the child to her front. Pat assumed the child would fall and instinctively held on to her, noticing another piece of cloth the size of a head scarf in Omolara's hand—a kaleidoscope of yellow, green, and red and very, very filthy.

“It is okay, she will not fall,” reassured Mary. Omolara remained in Pat's arms, still clutching the fabric and smiling up at her. Pat couldn't help but notice once again just how beautiful this child was. Her cheeks, chubby, hypnotic enough to make you want to squeeze them, but carrying the shadow of dried tears.

“She is a very naughty girl. She wanted me to carry her to buy the plantain instead of going to her bed. But she is too big. I will have to stop soon. Too heavy!” insisted Mary.