Hidden Currents (Lagos Romance Series) (5 page)

“So why do you do this?” He asked.

This was the sort of artlessness that his
type eventually displayed, Ada thought drily. They didn’t understand that
people would work for money because they had never had to. Why else would she
do it, when she didn’t particularly like it, if not for the money? All her
resentment for people of his kind suddenly rose to the surface. They didn’t
have to do anything they didn’t like, they just coasted through life in luxury,
with the assurance that nothing and nobody would ever take it away from them,
they could have anything they wanted, do anything they wanted. It was annoying.

She glanced at Eddie, was he different? His
father was reputed to be an exceptionally hardworking man, as was he, but the
money that had established the family fortunes had come from corruption, from a
grandfather who had profited from mismanaging public funds in the seventies. He
didn’t have to work. He only did because he enjoyed his work. What had he ever
done to deserve that option? Nothing at all, except having the good fortune of
being born into a wealthy home, that good fortune that he seemed to think gave
him the right to condescend to her and ask her why she did work that she didn’t
like.

She remembered just a week ago, when they
had all gone out for drinks to celebrate the ‘Living Lagos’ nomination for the
TRANSCEND awards, he had come alone, but one of the girls at the exclusive bar
had soon picked up his scent. She was one of his type, young, beautiful, with
the all-important foreign accent, she had hung on to him all night, being
polite only to Sophie and practically ignoring Ada, Oliver and Fadeke. Those
were his people, ultra-privileged, ultra-entitled and ultra-selfish.

“Somebody has to do it.” She finally
replied his question with a small smile.

He nodded slowly. As if he understood, Ada
thought, still resentful.

“Are you done yet?” He asked. “Or almost
done, I could wait and take you home.”

She gave him a level look. “You don’t have
to.”

He raised a brow. “I know I don’t have to.”
He laughed. “I want to.”

“Why?” She asked. “I’m not one of your...
friends.” She glanced over to where his companions were still sitting at their
table, laughing and having a good time. She shrugged. “Don’t worry I can manage
on my own.” She spared a glance at his face. If her unfriendliness puzzled him,
he didn’t show it. “Thanks for the wine,” She continued, “and the snails, but I
really have to get back to work now.”

He studied her for a long moment, his face
retained the expression of easy amiability, but his eyes looked as if they were
trying to bore into her mind, to read something there, her thoughts perhaps.
Ada looked away, maybe it was the wine, but sitting so close to him while he
looked at her like that was doing things to her head.

“You don’t like me very much,” He stated
finally. “Do you?”

It must have been the wine, because, in her
right senses, she would never have said what she said, but she had drained her
glass, and courage was unlimited. She kept her chin up. “No, I don’t.” 
She replied flatly.

“I wonder why,” He said, more to himself
than to her. He shrugged and got up. “Alright then.” He said pleasantly. “Enjoy
your work.”

She watched him go with a small, petulant
frown. She ought to have felt satisfied that she had put him in his place, but
all she felt was childish and ashamed.

It was dark when Ada finally got home, she
had gone along as the new bride was taken to her husband’s family house, and
her feet washed before she entered, to show she was no longer a member of her
old family, but coming to her new one without the dust of the old one clinging
to her feet. She took pictures, and more pictures, until she could hardly
stand, then finally it was over and she called a taxi to take her home.

She was tired, and all she wanted to do was
rest, and yet somehow Eddie’s face kept creeping up in her mind, as if some
roguish voice was whispering his name in her ear, causing her to keep thinking
about him.

Why did I tell him that I didn’t like him?
She wondered as she let herself into her apartment. She could have just laughed
off the question, or said something flimsy and flirty, like most girls would
do. She sighed. He shouldn’t have asked her such a question in the first place,
and she knew that he wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t already know the answer.

That thought made her frown as she kicked
off her shoes and turned on the lights. Had her behavior towards him been so
bad, so abhorrent, that the only conclusion he could draw was that she didn’t
like him? How did that make him feel?

Suddenly she felt horrible. He hadn’t done
anything apart from being courteous to her and she had probably succeeded in
alienating him. She wondered how it would affect her in the long run. Would he
just avoid her now? To be frank, she wouldn’t mind that, recently being around
him had been affecting her in ways she didn’t want to think about, so if he
left her alone...”

The sound of the doorbell shattered the
silence in her apartment, interrupting her thoughts and causing her to yelp in
shock. It was almost eight in the evening. There was absolutely nobody, nobody
who would be ringing her doorbell.

Except him! The feeling of dé jàvu caused
her to shiver as the idea that it could be him hovered in her mind. She
discarded it almost immediately. It was only in romance novels that men would
keep throwing themselves at walls a woman built around herself, until either
they or the walls broke, and this was no romance novel, it wasn’t even a
romance.

The doorbell rang again, more insistently.
She hesitated. If it was him, what did he want? What would she say? She stole a
quick glance around the living room, the shoes she had kicked to a corner, the
camera bag dumped on an armchair. It’s not him, she told herself, it’s not him,
but somehow, as she walked to the door to look in the peephole, she knew what
she would find.

He rang the bell again. Ada took a deep
breath and unlocked the door.

He had taken off the jacket, but he was
still wearing the shirt, though some of the buttons had been undone. When he
saw her, the glowering frown on his face relaxed a little. She could see that he
wasn’t drunk or tipsy, but there was no smile this time, no dimples, he just
looked very, very determined.

“I think you should tell me why?”  He
said firmly.

“Why what?” Ada asked uncomprehendingly.

He gave her a challenging look. “I think
you should tell me why you dislike me so much.”

“Tell you what?” Ada stammered, wondering
if she had heard him right. There was no way he could have come all the way to
her apartment just to ask about her personal feelings towards him!

He sighed. “I’m intruding, I know, and I’m
sorry.” He paused as if waiting for her to say something to the contrary,
perhaps that he wasn’t intruding. She stayed quiet.

“Look, I need to know.” He continued. “For
some reason, even though I have never done anything bad to you that I know of,
you dislike me.” There was an accusing note in his voice. Have I hurt his
feelings, Ada wondered, or his pride?

“It’s not just that you said it today.” He
stated accusingly. “It’s always been obvious.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Ada said. If
she had known that just that statement would affect him so much, she would have
kept her mouth shut. There goes my desire to collapse on the bed and fall
asleep
,
she thought.

“Come on!” He exclaimed. “At least you
can’t deny that you admitted it today.”

She really should have kept her big mouth
shut. “That was the wine talking.” She told him, it was half-true anyway.

He smirked. “One glass.” He pointed out,
shaking his head in disbelief. “Admit it. You don’t like me.” He gave her a challenging
look. When she didn’t say anything, he continued. “Well for some reason, I find
that I like you.” He paused, as Ada’s face drew into an expression of
puzzlement. “Yes. I like you, a lot.” He said. “So what I’d like to know is why
our opinions of each other, are so unfortunately, out of balance.”

Had he just said he liked her?

Eddie Bakare?

Why?

What did it even mean to be liked by Eddie
Bakare? And what exactly did ‘like’ mean? Did he like ‘like’ her, or did he
just like her? She sighed and stepped away from the door. “Come inside.” She
said, in the light of his pronouncement that he liked her - whatever that meant
-, it seemed somewhat rude to leave him standing there.

He stalked past her into the living room.
His eyes fell on her camera bag and her shoes, which she had only discarded a
few moments before he rang the doorbell.

“You just got home?” He observed.

“Yes.” She replied.

He looked apologetic. “You must be tired.”

She folded her arms and gave him a look.
How did you guess? She wanted to ask him, was it the fact that you saw me stand
on my feet for hours today? “Actually, I am.” She said instead.

He chuckled at the expression on her face.
“Okay, I get it, I am being a nuisance.” He didn’t look too disturbed by his
own observation. “But just answer my question and I’ll be gone before you know
it.”

Before I know it? Ada almost smiled. It’s a
little too late for that. She thought.

“Did I do something?” He asked seriously.
“Was I ever an Ass to you? Or am I just so hateful that you can’t bear to be
nice to me?”

There was something in the way he asked
that made her suddenly feel gentle towards him. She shook her head. “No, you’re
not.” She said softly. It’s just that you are too handsome, too charming, and
too easy to love, She added silently, You’ve got heartbreaker written all over
you, and I don’t want to get my heart broken.

“So what is it?” He prompted, oblivious to
her thoughts.

Ada decided to change the subject.

“Do you want a drink?” She asked.

He laughed. “A drink is not the answer to
my question, Ada.”

“Well I am going to get drinks.” Ada
stated, ignoring him and escaping into the kitchen. What did he want her to
say? There was no sensible way to answer his question. Okay so she was
prejudiced against him because he was rich and handsome, and had everything
handed to him on a silver platter, but she couldn’t tell him that, could she?
Why was he so intent on knowing anyway? Surely, she couldn’t be the first girl
not to have fallen for the Bakare charm.

She returned to the living room with two
cans of malt. She would let him drink his malt, tell him how tired she was, and
usher him out of her apartment. She had a plan for her life, things she needed
to do and achieve. She didn’t need Eddie’s attention, his interest or his
questions in her life.

He had moved from where they had been
standing close to the door, to the little side table by the window. She
realized now that she hadn’t offered him a seat. How rude of me, she thought.

He was bent over the side table looking at
something, his back to her. He really was well built. She thought, admiring his
broad shoulders and slim waist. All guys should look like this. She decided.

She was already halfway to him before she
realized what it was he was looking at.

“What are you doing?” She squeaked in
panic.

He turned to look at her, his face
innocent, and serious. “These are astounding!” He said earnestly.

She resisted the urge to rush forward, to
grab the book from his hands and clutch it to her chest. Her book, that was
what he had been looking at, the only printed copy of her blood and sweat, a
whole year spent walking the city of Lagos, taking pictures. Only about two
people had seen it, it was her most protected asset, and yet here was Eddie,
flipping through it as if he had every right to do so.

She willed herself to remain calm, not to
succumb to that condition that every artist suffers, to conquer that hesitance
to let people see her work, that instinct to protect it as if it were a child,
born from her soul.

“I hope you don’t mind.” He
continued.  He hadn’t missed her reaction, and she could see the worry in
his face, the question he was silently asking her, had he overstepped a
boundary? “I saw the cover, it was very intriguing, and I decided to take a
look.”

She looked at the page that he had open,
‘The blind beggar’. It was one of her personal favorites. The beggar was an old
man, squatting on a paved sidewalk, wearing a dirty white caftan. He had a
bowl, held out in his thin hands, as his filmy eyes looked unseeingly into the
camera with an expression of silent appeal. Behind him, as a backdrop, one of
the Eyo masquerades stood, a wireframe topped with a wide-brimmed, white hat
and draped with flowing white robes that billowed in the wind, bringing it to life.

“This is powerful.” Eddie said. Was that
awe in his voice? Ada wondered. “I feel compelled to keep looking.” He added.
He was looking at her with a mixture of admiration and respect. It was heady.
The nice things he was saying were making her forget her reluctance to let
anyone look at her work.