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- Herausgeber: CASSAVA REPUBLIC
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
In the early sixties, Tayo Ajayi sails to England from Nigeria to take up a scholarship at Oxford University. There he discovers a whole generation high on visions of a new and better world. He meets Vanessa Richardson, the beautiful daughter of a former colonial officer. Their story, which spans four decades, is a bittersweet tale of a brave but doomed affair and the universal desire to fall truly, madly and deeply in love. A lyrical and moving story of unfulfilled love fraught with the weight of history, race and geography and intertwined with questions of belonging, aging, faith and family secrets. In Dependence explores the complexities of contemporary Africa, its Diaspora and its interdependence with the rest of the world.
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IN DEPENDENCE
Sarah Ladipo Manyika
Contents
I
In the beginning 1963 – 1969
Chapter 1
One could begin with the dust, the heat and the purple bougainvillea. One might even begin with the smell of rotting mangoes tossed by the side of the road where flies hummed and green-bellied lizards bobbed their orange heads while loitering in the sun. But Tayo did not notice these — instead he walked in silence, oblivious to his surroundings. With a smile on his face, he thought of the night before, when he had dared to run a hand beneath the folds of Modupe’s wrapper. Without him even asking, Modupe had loosened the cloth around her waist. Of course, they’d kissed many times before, usually in the Lebanese cinema when all was dark, but that was nothing compared to last night. And while Tayo was lost in his thoughts, his father, who walked alongside, noticed the smile and read it as excitement for the forthcoming trip.
They had set off early that morning to visit relatives, as was the tradition when someone was about to embark on a long journey. They would begin with Uncle Bola in the hope of finding him sober. By midday, he would almost certainly be drinking ogogoro and this was not a day to meet Uncle Bola under the influence.
‘An old man should be contemplating his mortality rather than dreaming of women,’ Tayo’s father said, alluding to his brother’s raunchy tales, which Tayo knew his father secretly enjoyed.
Uncle B liked to joke that he was still young enough to make babies and thank the Lord God Almighty. And he did make babies — dozens of them. As for thanking God — well, that was simply a manner of speaking. Uncle Bola believed only in beautiful women — not in Allah, Christ nor Ogun. In turn, women loved him, in spite of what he lacked by way of height, teeth and schooling. Tayo had long since concluded that Uncle Bola held the secret to a woman’s heart, which was why he looked forward to this visit. But on this particular morning, Uncle Bola did not seem himself. Upon seeing them, he became quite weepy, so weepy in fact that he forgot about his atheism and offered prayers to Allah, Ogun and Jesus on behalf of his favourite nephew. With tears still in his eyes, Uncle Bola gave Tayo his best buba and sokoto to wear as a going-away present and then insisted they stay longer to take amala and stew with him.
‘Here is some money for the ladies when you arrive,’ Uncle Bola whispered, stuffing newly-minted pound notes into Tayo’s shirt pocket before waving a final goodbye.
Tayo had hoped to stay even longer, enjoying the company of his uncle, but there were many more relatives to visit and several more lunches to eat. Everyone insisted on feeding them and then, just when Tayo thought it was all over, they returned home to find more relatives gathered to wish him well. Several of his father’s friends were sprawled across the courtyard drinking beer and palm wine while the children chased each other in the dirt path by the side of the house. The women sat in one corner, roasting corn on an open fire, with sleeping babies on their backs.
‘Tayo! Tayo!’ the older children chanted as he made his way through the throng, stopping to pick up the youngest. Tayo expected his father to usher people away, but after the day’s copious consumption of palm wine, he’d forgotten time, preferring instead to continue boasting about his eldest son.
‘Na special scholarship dey don make for de boy?’ somebody asked.
‘Oh yes,’ Tayo’s father beamed.
In fact, the scholarship was not created just for Tayo, but because he was the first Nigerian to win it (such things having been reserved, in the past, for whites), Tayo’s father decided that he might as well claim it solely for his son. Tayo closed his eyes while his father boasted, and thought ahead to the day after next, imagining how he would move swiftly through the crowds at Lagos port, to the ship and then over the seas to England.
‘To Balliol College, Oxford!’ Tayo whispered, thinking how grand it sounded.
At dawn the following day, the entire Ajayi family said prayers before gathering around Father’s silver Morris Minor, washed and polished by his brothers, Remi and Tunde, so that it glistened like a fresh river fish. Everybody was dressed in their Sunday best, ready for the photographs, and only when the cameraman ran out of film did five of them clamber into the car. Father sounded the horn and all the doors slammed shut. The key turned and turned again, but the motor wouldn’t start, so everyone stumbled out again to push. Even Father helped, with one foot pumping the pedals and the other pushing back against the ground. They rolled it down the path, out of the compound and onto the road, until the engine jerked into action. Then, hurriedly, they all piled back in.
The children followed the car down the dirt road, running and waving, not caring about the dust being blown into their faces, but jogging along until they could no longer keep up. Sister Bisi ran the fastest, thumping decisively on the car boot before they sped away, out of Ibadan and onto the main road that would take them to Uncle Kayode’s place in Lagos. Mama and Baba sat in the front of the car, and Tayo and his two aunts in the back. Father forbade talking in the car, claiming it distracted him, and for once Tayo was happy with this edict, knowing that otherwise his aunts would lecture him on how to behave in England. It didn’t matter that his aunts had never travelled outside Nigeria; it was their right and duty to instruct. Tayo closed his eyes and thought again about his sweetheart and their final goodbye. He remembered the poem he had composed for the occasion and the lines that didn’t quite rhyme. In the end, there had been no need for sonnets — she had promised to wait for his return.
By the time they arrived at Uncle Kayode’s, the car was caked in dust and its weary passengers were covered in sweat and grime, but all would soon be forgotten. Uncle Kayode had a luxurious home. He was a big man in Lagos, recently returned from abroad as a senior army officer. Maids cooked for him, and large fans hung from the ceilings, whirling at high speed to keep the house cool. Tayo had never seen anything like it before.
‘When you arrive in England, my son,’ Uncle Kayode was saying, ‘you must make sure to contact the British Council and don’t forget to write to cousin Tunde and cousin Jumoke.’
Tayo listened closely, hoping not to forget any valuable advice, but by the time he went to bed he couldn’t remember half of what he’d been told. Annoyed with himself, he tossed and turned on his mattress. For weeks he’d been looking forward to travelling away from home — to having his freedom — but now he thought only of what he would miss and how frightening it would be to travel alone. He took Modupe’s photograph from his bag and kissed it. Reassured by her smile and remembering the events of Friday night, he rolled over and fell asleep.
The next day, Tayo stood at the port, holding his bag tightly. He dared not ask his uncle another question, but he still wasn’t clear about what to do when he disembarked. What if the arrival halls in England were just as chaotic as the confusion he was seeing now, with everyone shouting and gesticulating and no-one bothering to queue? Exasperated by the late-afternoon heat, men took off their cloth caps and flicked away beads of perspiration. Then, as the folds of their agbadas kept slipping off their shoulders, they hitched them back, raising their arms like swimmers. Meanwhile, women herded children and straightened little dresses, trousers, and shirts, while tightening their own wrappers and head ties, unravelling from heat and bustle. Tayo, like everyone else, had been standing in this crowd for hours. He smiled, but not as broadly as the day before. His parents, uncle, aunties, and several Lagos-based relatives were with him, as well as Headmaster Faircliff and some teachers from school: Mrs. Burton (Latin), Mr. Clark (Maths), and Mr. Blackburn (British Empire History), but none of his brothers or sisters had come and he missed them already, especially Bisi.
Tayo shook his head wistfully, staring at the liner, the Aureol, which towered high above them like a vast white giant with hundreds of porthole eyes. You will be missed, he told himself, recalling the rumour started by friends that a particular Lagos girls’ school — the one whose pupils occasionally visited his old school — was in mourning over his departure. He glanced around for these girls, but all he saw were family, easy to recognise in the matching aso ebi worn specially for his send-off. The men’s agbadas were the same aubergine purple as the women’s short-sleeve bubas and ankle-length wrappers. Tayo’s mother had chosen the material, fine Dutch waxed cotton, embroidered in gold thread at the neck and sleeves. Tayo had wanted to wear his agbada like the rest of the family, but Father insisted on western attire, claiming it more appropriate for an Oxford-bound man. So instead of loose, flowing robes, Tayo wore grey flannel trousers, white shirt, school tie, and a bottle green blazer that stuck to his skin like boiled okra. His agbada was neatly packed away in the trunk with extra clothes, the Koran, the Bible, half a dozen records, and several large tins of cooked meat with dried okra, egusi seed and elubo.
‘Jẹun dáadáa o, ọmọ mi. F’ojú sí ìwé rẹ o, dẹ má jẹ kí àwọn obìnrin kó sí ẹ l’órí’ Mama whispered, tugging at his shirt sleeve.
‘Yes, Ma, I promise to eat well, pay attention to my studies, and not to be distracted by women,’ he smiled, turning to face her as she adjusted his collar — it needed no tweaking but that was her way. He hugged her tightly, feeling her head tie brush against his chin, and the weight of stone and coral necklaces clink against his blazer buttons. It took him back to his childhood days, when he was afraid of thunder and lightning and would rush to his mother’s arms to bury himself in the reassuring scent of her rose perfume, tinged with the smell of firewood and starched cotton. He squeezed her again before his father called him away.
‘So long, my son.’ Baba spoke in English, which was his custom when in the presence of expatriates.
Tayo held out his hand and was surprised when his father pulled him into the voluminous folds of his agbada and held him. Baba then started sniffling and fiddling with his handkerchief behind Tayo’s neck, which compelled Tayo to cough and break Father’s hold so that they stood for some moments, disentangled but silent, each searching for something to say.
‘Now, Tayo,’ Headmaster Faircliff interrupted. ‘You’re off to be a Balliol man.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Tayo nodded.
‘You ought to be jolly proud of yourself, Tayo, and soon you’ll return to lead your country and make our school proud.’ He grasped Tayo’s hand and slapped his shoulder.
Tayo nodded again, feeling irritated by the man whom he normally admired and felt indebted to for the scholarship.
‘Right then, off you go,’ Mr. Faircliff ordered, releasing Tayo, and pointing to the gangway.
Tayo turned to leave, gripping the large canvas bag that hung from his shoulder. Mama had assured him that in it was all he needed for the voyage — a few changes of clothes, a bar of Palmolive soap, a tin of kola nuts, some dried meats, a map of England, chewing sticks, and Uncle Kayode’s old winter coat.
‘Write to me as soon as you arrive,’ Father called.
‘Yes, sir.’ Tayo glanced back at his father before making his way up the steps. He waited for his father to shout one last instruction, but it never came.
Chapter 2
Dear Baba,
Greetings from England and dry land! And what a journey it was, Baba, with that mighty sea slapping against the ship and spraying the deck with salty water. There were many days when we saw no land at all and no other ships, just dolphins and flying fish, and once a group of sharks attacked our dolphin friends, turning the water red. If we passed another ship, our captain would blare his horn, saluting the vessel while we waved, but usually it was just us and that endless, frightening sea. The waters were particularly rough when we entered the Gulf of Guinea, and the notorious Guinea current. They were also rough in the run up to the Bay of Biscay, but the worst was entering the Mersey Estuary from the Irish Sea. From a distance, the Irish Sea was cloaked in fog so that we could not see the rough, heaving waves that are legendary among mariners. Mind you, this was the only time when I succumbed to seasickness (everyone suffered from motion sickness that day!).
On board the ship, I made friends with two students, Mr. Lekan Olajide from Ogbomosho and Mr. Ibrahim Mohammed from Kaduna. The three of us were well received by the Captain, and even invited to the first-class cabin where the British Broadcasting Corporation was making a film about Nigeria. Perhaps we are already famous! Sadly, Mr. Olajideand Mr. Mohammed were not Oxford-bound, but we have exchanged addresses, and in this way, we remain in touch.
The boat made several stops along the way at Takoradi, Monrovia, Freetown, and the lovely Las Palmas. Once in Liverpool, they tugged us into harbour and I travelled to London, and then up to Oxford, where I am now in my college rooms.
My first two weeks at Oxford have been busy and filled with invitations of all sorts. Yesterday, I had tea with my moral tutor, and sherry with the Master. Today, it was a new members’ drinks party at the West African Society, and chapel was followed by sherry in the Old Senior Common Room. I have also been introduced to a British Army Colonel, a Brigadier, and a Lord who dined in college. King Olav’s son (from Norway) is a student here at Balliol, too. As you can see, there are many important persons at Oxford, which is part of what makes it such an impressive institution.
In other ways, though, Oxford is not as I expected. The sun sets by 6pm and I am told that it will set even earlier in the months to come. This, and the fact that darkness descends so slowly, are so strange for me. The people can be a little strange, too, and on the whole, not terribly friendly. I have come to the conclusion that because the English are a minority in Nigeria, they are obliged to be cordial in our country, whereas their true temperament is somewhat cold, much like their weather. You will also be surprised to discover that in this country, people do not greet each other in passing, not even Balliol men. In fact, many Balliol men do not look very distinguished at all. Some sport long hair, and bathing is not a daily occurrence on account of the cold. The tutors look more distinguished, but many are ignorant about Africa. I am grateful to Headmaster Faircliff for his letter of introduction to Professor Edward Barker and his wife, Isabella, who have invited me to lunch next week.
I am also excited to report that I have met three other Nigerians at the university: Mr. Ike Nwandi, who is reading History, Mr. Bolaji Oladipo, reading Law at Magdalen, and Christine Arinze who reads Modern Languages at St. Hilda’s. We live and study in the colleges and each has its own library and tutors. I am also friendly with Percy, my scout. He is the man who cleans my room every day and has been most helpful in explaining the origin and meaning of certain English customs. Can you believe that he addresses me as ‘Sir’? Life is different here, but a great adventure. I intend to join the college football and table tennis teams, and also the West African Students Society. I will, however, devote most of my hours to reading, starting with Kant and de Tocqueville, as well as many other notable scholars, for my tutorials.
I wait anxiously for news from home, and for some letters. My greetings to everyone, and please tell Mama that her food has served me well (I have made several friends by sharing it with chaps on my staircase). English food, with the exception of custard (like ogi) is not too appetising. Please greet Auntie Amina, Uncle Tunde, Auntie Titiola, Auntie Mary, Uncle Kayode, Uncle Joseph, brother Remi, brother Tope, sister Bisi, sister Kemi, sister Fatima, and all the family.
Yours truly, Omotayo
P.S. As my colleagues find it difficult to pronounce my name, I am now known as ‘Ty’ for short.
Dear Son,
We received your letter, dated 27th October, two weeks hence. We are delighted to know that you arrived safely and in good health. Praise God! It was most interesting to hear of your experiences in Oxford and I have informed colleagues at work about your meeting with King Olav, the Lords, and the army generals. They are duly impressed. In your nextletter, you will please apprise me of the precise names of these gentlemen so that I can provide complete statistics to colleagues and Uncle Kayode.
We are all well here. Thanks be to God. Bisi received highest honours for Geography, and Biyi made school prefect. So, you see, the Ajayi family continue to excel in their studies. Marvellous. We are looking to you now to make us even more proud. Meanwhile, things in Nigeria are running splendidly. The independence celebrations (three years of independence now!) were quite fantastic. In short, there were many fireworks, dancing, eating, and general gaiety. We were proud and now the government is working for increased Nigerian leadership. Indigenous responsibility is what we call it. Rumour has it that a Nigerian will soon replace our Chief of Police, and we hope so. God willing. And yet some white men here are still thinking they own our land, not acknowledging that it is a new Nigeria. In short, to keep you informed I send you forthwith these articles from The New Nigerian and The Daily Times newspapers. I have underlined, for your benefit, the important points.
Your mother is preparing her trip to Mecca. She informs me that she will offer special prayers for you when she arrives, and that upon her return, she will dispatch henceforth to you some additional provisions. In short, she would like to know how much to send for your esteemed colleagues. It is most encouraging to hear your news. Write again immediately upon receipt of this letter. Read your books, and always remember that you are an Ajayi man. Don’t forget the Ajayi motto: ‘In all things moderation, with the exception of study.’
God bless you, Your father,
Inspector (Mr.) Adeniyi Ajayi
Chapter 3
All that Tayo knew about Mr. and Mrs. Barker, prior to their first meeting, was that Mr. Barker and Headmaster Faircliff had been at Oxford together in the 1940s and that Mr. Barker was a history don at St. John’s. Tayo presumed, on this basis, that the two men would be similar — that Mr. Barker, like Faircliff, would be highly intelligent, pompous and patronising. Tayo was surprised, therefore, to discover that the man was not at all as he expected, and even more surprised to hear Mr. Barker freely joke about his old friend as a ‘colonial type’ and a remnant of a dying era. Mr. Barker was nothing like Faircliff; he was soft-spoken and married to a much younger and very attractive Italian woman who preferred to be called Isabella rather than Mrs. Barker. The couple had no children of their own but seemed to have adopted a number of foreign students at Oxford. Isabella cooked wonderful meals in a way that reminded Tayo of his own mother, while Mr. Barker talked politics like his father. Mr. Barker had also visited Nigeria on several occasions.
Today, the Barkers were having a drinks party for foreign students at their house on St. Giles. Isabella welcomed Tayo with the usual hug and kiss before whisking him through the kitchen and into the garden where everyone else was gathered. Tayo felt disappointed that they had to mingle outside rather than inside where it was warmer, but it seemed to Tayo that this was the British way. People spent all day talking about the weather, complaining about how cold, damp and miserable it was, until the sun poked its head around the clouds, and then everyone started talking about the lovely weather. But ‘lovely’ to Tayo could only be warm weather, not this cold, pale orange sun sitting high up there in the sky. He was thinking of an excuse to return indoors when he spotted his friend Bolaji standing next to a striking-looking woman. He’d only ever heard of one Nigerian woman at Oxford so he guessed it must be her — the beautiful, third-year Christine.
They were talking literature when Tayo joined Bolaji’s small circle of friends who stood by the back door, which was at least warmer than standing under the apple trees where everyone else had congregated. Bolaji was arguing that Shakespeare was the greatest author of all time while others argued for Tolstoy and Homer. As Tayo listened, it became obvious that the group knew much more about literature than he did. Even Bolaji was able to roll out an impressive number of literary theorists in support of his position.
‘What does Christine think?’ Tayo asked, curious to hear her thoughts, for he knew she read Modern Languages.
‘Poets are the greatest writers,’ she answered, looking surprised that he already knew who she was.
‘And why?’ he asked, knowing that the safest way to avoid being questioned himself was to do the asking. He noticed, as Christine talked, that she appeared quite serious: never smiling, despite the fact that the conversation had taken a jocular tone. He’d heard men say she was arrogant on account of her beauty. Others thought it was the result of her having lived in England for such a long time. It was rumoured that both her parents had been to school in England and she had been sent to boarding school as a child. Whatever the reason for Christine’s seriousness, Tayo was determined to make a good impression on this beautiful woman. She spoke eloquently, like an actress, poised and confident so that Tayo quickly lost track of what everyone else was saying until he heard someone call his name.
‘What do you think, Tayo?’
‘Me?’ he replied, stalling for time. ‘I think, if I had to choose, it would always be Shakespeare — the sonnets,’ he added, with the sinking feeling that someone would now ask him to say more, to explain or, God forbid, name a favourite sonnet. To avoid this, he changed the subject by mentioning one of his old teachers who had been a poet.
‘Christopher Okigbo was your teacher!’ Christine exclaimed.
Later that evening, Bolaji marveled at Tayo’s good luck. ‘Did you see how she lit up when you spoke of Okigbo? She even smiled!’
Tayo laughed and claimed not to have noticed, but of course he had; everybody had.
Tayo did not see Christine again until they bumped into each other the following Monday as she was dashing out of the Covered Market. He invited her for coffee at the Cadena, and to his surprise, she accepted. It was all he could do to stop himself from grinning while saying goodbye.
The following day he was struck by how made-up Christine looked. She was the sort of woman who would always look attractive, but it seemed to Tayo that she had put extra effort into styling her hair and adding rouge to her cheeks. He didn’t care for the rouge, finding it artificial, but the fact that she’d gone to such lengths for him was, he hoped, a good sign.
They talked more about Okigbo and some of the other new Nigerian authors. He asked her why she was so interested in these writers. Wouldn’t it be more interesting to talk about others that she must know from around the world? No, she replied, insisting that her knowledge of Nigeria and Nigerian writers was not what it should be. Her schooling in England had not introduced her to West African writers. Tayo sensed that it mattered a great deal to her what other Nigerians thought of her. Didn’t she know how in awe they all were of her? Tayo was beginning to think that she was sharing things with him that she might not have shared with others, when she suddenly changed the subject and asked how many girlfriends he had.
‘So far, I’ve counted five,’ she said, referring to the number of women that had passed by their table to say hello to him. ‘And I noticed that Isabella was quite fond of you the other day.’
He laughed it off, but Christine wasn’t laughing.
It took some days to convince Christine that he wasn’t the playboy she took him to be. Each time they ran into each other she would find a way of commenting on his female friends, but because she was still talking to him, Tayo grew bold again and invited her to his rooms for coffee. It was a Friday night when she came, and this time, when she made yet another dig at his so-called girlfriends, he decided to play along. He told her all about his teenage fantasies of Indian women and how he used to go to the Lebanese theatre in Ibadan to watch Indian films. Unable to understand Hindi, what else was he supposed to do but look at the ladies? Christine laughed this time, which gave him the courage to turn serious and tell her how beautiful she was. He still half-expected to be pushed away or for her to say something about how silly and young he was, but she didn’t. And then, because she didn’t resist, he reached for her hand and drew her close for a kiss. For the rest of the term, they were together.
There were moments when Tayo felt guilty about Modupe, but then he would tell himself that he and Modupe had been too young to make promises to each other. Three years was a long time to be apart, and now when he re-read Modupe’s letters, they struck him as childish. Modupe was just a girl. With Christine, he had gained confidence. He no longer felt the need to talk about long-term commitments as he’d done with Modupe. He was, after all, only nineteen, and now that he’d won the chase with Christine, he still hoped to meet other women and further expand his horizons.
Chapter 4
Vanessa cursed herself as she and her friends left the pub. A wet October night was not the time to have worn, of all silly things, a strapless dress with summer sandals. What on earth was she thinking, splashing through rain and stubbing her toes on paving stones as she ran towards Balliol? And who was this person whom everyone was talking about as though he were a god? He was good-looking, from an aristocratic family, captain of boats at Balliol, and a million other marvellous things, but none of this meant much to her. Certainly not the aristocratic bit, but she’d stayed with her friends because it was late and too dark to walk back to college on her own, even though she still felt tempted to try.
When they arrived at the party, someone was thoughtful enough to lend her a towel. She dried herself off, realising only too late that the men who stared were looking not at her dress, but through it. ‘Oh well,’ she sighed, ‘let them look!’
‘Care for a drink?’ someone asked.
‘Would love one.’ She took the glass and drank the wine quickly.
‘I’m Charlie,’ he smiled, ‘and you are…?’
‘Tired.’
‘Well tired is no good,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Let me get you something.’ He took her empty glass and returned with a full one and a jumper.
‘Not a bad match,’ she smiled at his choice of clothing.
‘Oh, look who’s here!’ Charlie grabbed her hand and pulled her along.
‘Mehul, meet …’
‘Vanessa,’ she offered, shaking free of Charlie to greet the newcomer whose handshake was firm but then too lingering. What was wrong with these Oxford men? Still, she liked the deep tenor of the man’s voice and watched him as he wandered off, stepping gingerly over empty wine glasses, toppled bottles, and a body sprawled drunkenly across the floor. It was rare that a man’s looks made her stare, but he was Indian, or possibly Arabic, with dark, shoulder-length hair and eyes like Omar Sharif’s. Everyone seemed to recognise Mehul, or at least pretended to know him as they slapped him on the back in inebriated greeting.
‘He’s terribly good-looking, isn’t he? An artist, apparently, of some renown.’
‘I see,’ Vanessa nodded, trying to remember the woman’s name, but by now she was finding it difficult to think straight. The woman was in the same college as her. That much she remembered.
‘They say he’s a prince.’
‘Really?’
So, a prince and an artist, Vanessa mused, until she realised that it was someone else that the woman was referring to. And God, he was good-looking, too. Tall and dark, with beautiful hands that gestured as he talked. Oh no-no-no, Vanessa thought to herself, when he looked her way. She felt a little drunk, but still sober enough to care about looking bedraggled in front of a man like him.
The next morning Vanessa woke up shivering and with a throbbing headache. Every time she moved her head, the pain got worse so she lay still, trying to recall where she’d been the night before and how she’d managed to get back to college. She swore not to drink so much next time. She hadn’t intended to get drunk, but part of the problem, she realised as soon as she got a whiff of burnt toast from somewhere down the hall, was that she hadn’t eaten very much. Food was so terrible in college that she’d been skipping meals. She lay still for a few more minutes, hoping for some sun to brighten the room. Then, the relentless ringing of Oxford bells began. She tried folding the ends of the pillow over her ears to block out the noise but that didn’t help, so she gazed at the fireplace, wishing it could light itself.
‘Shit,’ she whispered, spotting a lump on the floor. Thinking it might be a rat, she clung tightly to her blanket as she craned her neck squinting for a better view. ‘Thank God,’ she muttered. It was only last night’s clothes lying in a crumpled heap — her red dress and Charlie’s jumper that she hadn’t returned. She pushed back the blankets, got out of bed and searched for her slippers and dressing gown before padding across the wooden floor to her desk. She took her notebook and hurried back to the warmth of the bed, plumping her pillows so she could sit comfortably against the wall. But first, music. She had to have music. She slipped out of bed again and selected Bob Dylan’s The Times They Are a Changin’ from her record collection.
‘The trouble with Oxford men’, she began scribbling on her notepad, ‘or better still, the trouble with men.’ Either way, there would be no confusing which article she was referring to, given that “The Problem with Women at Oxford” had been published in the same student paper for which she now wrote. She jotted down a list of ideas and wrote a few paragraphs before she changed her mind. She would write to her best friend instead.
Dear Jane,
I’ve just spent a frustrating hour trying to write something on the status of women in Oxford. If only you were here then we could talk about it, but by the time you receive this I will either have written the article or abandoned it. Perhaps part of the problem is that I’m trying to write this piece in response to a silly article arguing that Oxford women are to blame for distracting the men (as though men have nothing to do with their own distractions!). In any case, I think I’ve now decided not to bother writing a response. I’ll write a totally separate piece on the ways in which we’re treated like second-class citizens and how it must change (can you tell that I’m listening to Dylan?).
And now, after all of that, how are you? I miss you so much and can’t wait to see you in London next week. You haven’t told me what your rooms are like. Do you like them? I love my room, with its view of the college gardens. The birds love it too and each morning I’m greeted by a choir of finches and robins who sit in the tree outside my window and serenade me sweetly, which is far more pleasant than the clanging of college bells. Do please tell me that you are not cursed with the same at Cambridge! Everyone says that after a while one stops hearing them, but I can’t see (hear!) how that’s possible.
I’ve thus far made two friends in college, Gita (from Kenya), who reads English, and Pat, who is a physicist like you. Pat’s father is a Balliol scout, which must make it terribly uncomfortable for her among the more snooty girls here in college, such as the Roedean girl who speaks incessantly of family connections and refers to Churchill as ‘Uncle Winston.’ Silly girl!
Vanessa readjusted her pillow and took another biscuit, reflecting for a moment on her own family. They were more posh than she cared to admit. Her grandfather sat in the House of Lords and her father talked endlessly of his time in the colonial service. At least there was Uncle Tony and Mother to balance things out.
I’ve signed up for the Labour Club, JACARI (Joint Action Committee Against Racial Inequality), and the college music society. Maybe more if there’s time. And you? Do tell me whom you are meeting and all the things you are getting up to at Cambridge. I’ll be dreadfully unhappy if you tell me that all you’re doing is work.
Write to me soon!!
Lots of love,
Nessa xx
Vanessa folded the letter and glanced at the clock. Twelve noon. Lunchtime, but college food was overcooked and flavourless. ‘Dreadful, dreadful,’ she muttered, looking down at the empty biscuit tin and feeling sick. Time for a cigarette, one small consolation for being away from home, but not as good as Mother’s roast beef with horseradish, or lamb with mint sauce, rosemary-flavoured potatoes, peas, carrots, Yorkshire pudding, treacle tart, apple pie …
‘Oh, stop it!’ Vanessa berated herself.
Chapter 5
Tayo hummed to himself the tune of Count Basie’s One O’ Clock Jump, clicking his fingers to the rhythm as he stepped out of Hall into the cold. He lifted his shoulders and drew the tips of his coat collar beneath his chin. All around was the lazy English drizzle which floated in the air, like harmattan dust, only worse. Nigerian rain fell with purpose, in serious torrents, watering the earth and then stopping; in England, drizzle lingered for days.
Tayo tugged again at his collar and kept walking. As he crossed the quad, he nodded to some young men on their way to dinner, who looked surprised that he would acknowledge them. They each wore their gowns, as was mandatory for Hall and tutorials, the lengths of which varied according to a student’s performance in entrance exams. Tayo felt thankful not to be a fresher again, with first-year anxieties only exacerbated by these visible markers of alleged intelligence. He still worried about work, but not at all about his social life, except for today as he thought of seeing Christine after the long summer break.
They’d had an argument just before the holidays and a few weeks later Christine sent him a letter telling him that their relationship was over. She’d taken offence at being called clingy and accused him of looking for an excuse to court other women. In Tayo’s mind he’d only been trying to tell her that he wasn’t ready for a long-term commitment. He didn’t want to make the same mistake he’d made with Modupe, but he also didn’t want the relationship with Christine to end. He kept hoping she would change her mind but weeks went by with no word from her, and as he began to meet new people, he decided that perhaps the break was a good thing.
The room booked for the West Africa Society meeting was in the basement. It wasn’t the best of rooms — cold and damp — but it would do. Someone had set up the film projector so that all Tayo had to do was rearrange the furniture. He rubbed his hands, wondering how it was that English people never seemed to feel the cold. He concluded it must be genetics, as he pulled out the chairs and pushed the tables against the wall for food and drink. College rules limited refreshments at these meetings to hors d’oeuvres, but nobody ever took this seriously and Tayo had started to dream of spicy jollof rice with fried chicken when Christine arrived with Ike and Bolaji, carrying the food he was dreaming of. They exchanged animated greetings in Pidgin, which was their language of fun — a verbal jazz of broken English interspersed with Yoruba and Igbo, and a good dose of gesticulation.
‘Wetin you cook?’ Tayo asked, circling his hands above the food that Christine had brought. ‘Na jollof and dodo I dey smell so?’
‘Comot!’ Christine slapped his wrist.
‘Ehen. Na so e be? Okay-o!’ Tayo surrendered, laughing as he walked back to the film projector. It was a good sign that Christine was joking with him.
‘Don’t worry,’ she called after him, ‘I’ve made special jollof with dodo and moin-moin.’
‘Special for who?’ Ike asked.
‘For you, my darling,’ she said, not looking at anyone in particular.
‘For me?’ Ike crooned, draping an arm across her shoulder. Tayo stared in shock for a moment before lifting the reels from the steel containers and attaching them to the projector, willing himself to be calm. A few seconds later, casting another glance their way, he saw that Ike’s arm was gone, and Christine had started laying out the food, her back turned to him. She wore a grey woollen dress, long-sleeved and tight across the hips. He thought of the times when he’d placed his hands around that tiny waist and spread his fingers over the curve of her hips. How dare Ike! Tayo continued to stare, watching Christine balance on her stiletto heels as though they were a natural extension of her legs.
She turned and he looked away, knowing she’d sensed him watching, even though the room had filled with people. After a few more moments of tinkering with the projector, Tayo stopped to mingle and welcome new guests. As usual, several pretty women smiled at him, but he wasn’t in the mood. Let Bolaji entertain the women while he talked to the men. He greeted a Nigerian, some West Indians, and several English students before the meeting began. At least the turnout was good, which served as a temporary distraction from thoughts of Christine. The President made the initial introductions, and then Tayo played the film on Nigeria.
