Foreign Capitals
On her overnight flight from Heathrow Airport to Lagos, she sits next to a woman who is reading a Bible. The woman started before the plane took off, mumbling psalms to herself. When the plane is about to land, the woman brings out a white rosary from her handbag and begins to pray out loud. The engine drowns out her voice. Passengers unclasp their seatbelts as the plane taxis. They grab their hand luggage from the overhead compartments. A flight attendant, who has not bothered to dye her hair in a while, ambles down the aisle saying, āPlease remain seated.ā No one pays her any attention.
The moving walkway in the airport is stationary. Deola hurries past rows of blue chairs and down the escalator, which is also immobile. She is first in line at Passport Control, which means she has to wait longer for her luggage. Two flights have arrived this morning. Passengers sit on the edge of the carousel, hissing and sighing. Their suitcases emerge between cardboard boxes, which are untidily taped. The air conditioner is not working and the spot where Deola is standing reeks of armpits.
A gap-toothed man walks past her shouting on his cell phone: āOur luggages were delayed! I said our luggages were delayed! I canāt make it until tomorrow!ā He laughs and pats his handkerchief, which is hanging out of his jacket like a limp tongue. āMy prince! My professor! No, itās not New York I went to this time. It was London. For business.ā
Deola cherishes her homecomings because of characters like him. She loves her fellow Nigerians, especially this one with his white pointed shoes. His arse is halfway up his back and his jacket almost reaches his knees. His oblivion is a spectacle of beauty. She canāt stop looking at him.
She eventually gets her suitcase and wheels it toward Customs. The customs officers are men. One scratches his head and asks, āSister, wetin you bring come?ā He eyes her midriff as his colleague chews on a toothpick.
āNothing,ā she says.
They wave her through. Her mother is in the crowd waiting on the other side of the automatic doors. She hugs her and they rock from side to side. She could easily lift her mother up, yet she is somehow able to lean on her.
āWhat happened?ā
āThere was a delay with our luggage.ā
āWeāve been waiting for over an hour now.ā
āSorry.ā
āI was beginning to worry. The driver has been circulating outside.ā
Her mother, Remi, wears a navy T-shirt, white trousers and wedge-heel espadrilles. Her perfume is musky and she has a braided chignon attached to the back of her hair. A small woman, she parts the crowd while raising her hand in a stately manner and ignores the touts who call out, āYes? You need cab?ā
Outside, she asks, āWhere is this fellow for heavenās sake?ā and signals to the driver, who is standing behind the barricade. He waves to indicate that he will bring the car around.
She turns to Deola. āSo how are you, Miss Adeola?ā
āFine,ā Deola says, feeling as if she is back from school with a report card that doesnāt quite measure up.
āIs this a new hairstyle?ā
Deola smiles. It is a prelude to a disagreement they have had too many times. She has been through experimental phases: twisting, dyeing and perennial braiding with extensions. Her hair once fell out after a relaxer.
The air is humid this morning and she sweats in her shirt and trousers. Her pashmina scarf hangs on her bag and her loafers pinch. The driver manages to park by the barricade. He loads her suitcase in the boot of the Range Rover. She and her mother climb into the backseat.
āIs this new?ā she asks, pressing the leather.
āItās your brotherās,ā her mother says. āHe lends me his driver once in a while.ā
āWhat happened to yours?ā
āI sacked him.ā
āWhat if he needs his?ā
She is conscious that they are talking about the driver as if he is unable to hear them. She sees his eyes in the rearview mirror. He seems to be concentrating on the traffic ahead.
āYou do what you must,ā her mother says.
āAt night? With armed robbers?ā
Her mother shrugs. āHow for do? They attack in broad daylight.ā
Deola straps on her seatbelt. āYou still donāt use a seatbelt, Mummy?ā
She is surprised by the resignation she encounters at home. Her motherās eyesight is poor, yet she wonāt wear glasses, except to read. The roads in Lagos are full of potholes. Why would a seatbelt matter? Her mother says she doesnāt use them because they wrinkle her clothes. Deola starts to object and her mother raises her hand and says, āJo, please.ā
The driver slows down over speed bumps and turns up the air conditioner. They pass Church of the Ascension and a sign that says, āWelcome to Lagos, a place of aquatic splendor.ā
The city is shrinking, or perhaps it is just more crowded. It is rainy season, which makes Deola wonder why she ever called this time of year summer. The streets are waterlogged. Some of the sights along the way are new to her, like the organized labor mass transport vans, but most are familiar. There are yellow taxis and vans, buses with biblical messages like āEl Shaddaiā and āWeep Not Crusaders,ā lorries dripping with wet sand, unfinished buildings and broken-down cars. People are crossing the median of the highway and rams are feeding in troughs. The stalls in Oshodi Market look like prison cells and the skyline is cluttered with billboards advertising shippers, banks and computer colleges. Smoke rises behind a bush of palm trees. On one end of Third Mainland Bridge is a cluster of houses, and on the other is the University of Lagos. The edge of the lagoon is crowded with canoes and fishing nets.
āAre the street lights working now?ā Deola asks her mother.
When she lived in Lagos, Third Mainland Bridge was a deathtrap at night. Drivers used to just slam into stationary vehicles, even with their headlights fully on.
āNothing works,ā her mother says, in a tone that approximates smugness. āWe thank God if weāre able to get from A to B.ā
āHow are the plans for Daddyās memorial going?ā
āWeāre keeping it simple. Otherwise, itās hopeless. In the morning, we go to church. In the afternoon, we have lunch. Thatās about it.ā
āWhat about Aunty Bisi?ā
āBisi? Bisi is busy with her husband.ā
Aunty Bisi is her motherās younger sister, who spent holidays in their house when she was in university. The guestroom was hers. She taught Deola and her siblings songs like āRuby Tuesday.ā Once in a while she saved them from punishments. Her mother paid for Aunty Bisiās university education and training as a chartered secretary. Aunty Bisi must have felt indebted from then on because she was always around, helping with Christmas parties, weddings and other family functions.
Aunty Bisi is in her fifties now and for years has been involved with one of her clients, who is known as an industrialist and philanthropist. She is not actually married to him. He is a Muslim and has other wives. She has a son by him, and he supports her financially.
āWhat about Brother Dots?ā Deola asks.
āDotun?ā her mother says. āHeās fine. Heās flying in on Saturday. Why?ā
āNothing. I just wondered.ā
Her father was married before. Brother Dots is her half-brother, who grew up with his mother. He is an engineer and he works for an oil company in Port Harcourt. He was a huge Jimmy Cliff fan in his teens. He had her and Jaiye playing backup singers and choreographed their moves.
As they drive into Ikoyi, Deola notices the oil-stained pavements bordering the road. It is Sunday, so the road is less congested, but there are hawkers and newspaper vendors. There are also beggars, who will become peripheral once she becomes habituated. Signboards are perched on buildings that were once residential: Phenomenon Clothing, FSB International Bank and Sherlaton Restaurant.
āNa wa,ā Deola says. āIkoyi is practically commercial now.ā
āYou have no idea,ā her mother says.
There was a time Deola could walk down the main road here. She ran errands for her mother at Bhojsonās Supermarket and got her cholera inoculations from a Lebanese doctor whose practice was across the road. She would stop for a banana nut sundae at the ice cream pavilion in Falomo Shopping Center further up the road. Sometimes, late in the afternoon, she rode her Chopper bicycle to Victoria Island on the other side of Falomo Bridge. Victoria Island was mostly anonymous streets and unclaimed plots then. Now it is as cramped and commercial as Ikoyi.
They get home and the driver waits as the watchman unlocks the gate. A Pentecostal church has occupied the house next door. Someone has painted āJesus is Lordā rather sloppily on the wall. The church is in the middle of a Sunday service. Deola hears a man (or woman) singing off-key into a microphone, āOh Lord, my God, how excellent is your name.ā There is a chorus of electricity generators, which means there has been a power cut. Her mother has complained about the noise from next door, but she never thought it was this raucous.
āWhat is this?ā she asks.
āThe born-again Christians,ā her mother says. āI told them, āThe Bible says love thy neighbor. Is this any way to love thy neighbor?āā
Their original neighbors were an elderly French couple who owned a yellow Citroƫn with a sunroof. They returned to France and a succession of Nigerian businesses has occupied the house next door. The first was a hair salon and the second a boutique. For a while, the place was vacant, then it was an art gallery, which folded before the church moved in.
The pastor of the church has had the front yard cemented and the back of the building extended. If anyone complains about the increase in traffic caused by his congregation, he shows them his planning permit and invites them to join his church. On Tuesday evenings, he holds a spiritual clinic and on Thursday evenings, a revival hour. The family that lived on the other side of the church couldnāt tolerate the caterwauling, as her mother calls it. They moved away. ...