Being Lara Read online

  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.

  “She’s a sweetie,” said Pat.

  “And that cloth she is holding. She never let it go. Ah ah! It is so funny. We have tried to wash it but she cries.”

  “Perhaps it’s a comfort cloth,” said Pat.

  “Comfort, ke? Comfort is having food in your belly and sleeping good! You are funny!” said Mary as she laughed.

  But that cloth, in fact everything about this three-year-old, just endeared her to Pat even more, allowing Omolara to stand out beautifully and clearly, like a pink rose in a field of butter-colored daisies. This Omolara was special, Pat was sure of it, because every fiber of her being was telling her so.

  For the first time since that first bite of success, Pat Smith wished she was still a star. Or at least in posse
ssion of a Filofax full of connections to those with access to millions—VIPs she could push for donations and awareness—and perhaps a heaving bank account of her own, ready to be put to good use in helping Kayo with his quest to build a better future for the little ones at the Motherless Children’s Home.

  A few thousand pounds could only go so far.

  But then, what if she could help one? She could be a building block for a secure and loving future for a child who would otherwise face an uncertain one. Providing that child with the attention she would perhaps be lacking in a home housing so many other children. A beautiful and loving child abandoned at birth by a mother because of poverty and uncertainty, left in the compounds of a home almost three years previously, at only a few days old with a note stating her name and date of birth and wrapped in a yellow, green, and red cloth. A child immediately put to the breast of a succession of women willing to provide the urgent nourishment she needed and never being with one caregiver longer than a few short months as they moved on, while she remained at the Motherless Children’s Home ready for the next person to nurse her and balance her on their back.

  What if Pat could help little, sweet, beautiful Omolara?

  “How could anyone not want her?” whispered Pat as she sat in the yard opposite Kayo as the child nestled peacefully against her chest. Pat felt comfortable in the green-and-blue tie-dyed caftan presented to her by the helpers, while the whole scene felt uniquely surreal. Only two weeks ago, she’d been in England, chopping up onions for what would be the closest they got to anything remotely exotic: Pat’s curry and rice made with mincemeat and mild curry powder from Tesco.

  “It happens, Pat. That is why I am so grateful for what you have done for us all,” said Kayo.

  “It isn’t much.”

  “It is more than very generous, and perhaps the publicity may allow others to come forward and help.”

  Omolara opened her eyes, clutching Pat tightly, the pattern of the dirty fabric in her tiny hands mingling with the spirals on Pat’s caftan. Omolara stared up at Pat, as if already being rejected so many times in the past, she was determined for it not to happen again. And Pat held the child even closer, loving the smell of her. A strange image of this child playing together in the garden with Kieron, as well as with Brian and Agnes’s children, appeared in her mind. She blew against Omolara’s cheek, which induced an unprecedented squeal of sweet-sounding joy.

  Of course it was a ludicrous idea—to take someone’s baby just like that. But leaving her to an unknown fate felt much worse. There was just something about Omolara that tugged at Pat’s heart with such intensity, such longing, it felt like a physical pain. Perhaps it was the child’s strength, her smile, her cheekiness, her laugh, which actually made Pat feel as if she would do anything to keep her. Her feelings for this child were so real that if she didn’t act on them, Pat wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to look herself in the mirror again.

  While Barry opted for relaxation in their hotel, Pat spent most of the rest of their trip singing with the kids, eating hot plates of jollof rice, and thoroughly immersing herself in Nigerian life, all while a little girl clutching an old piece of cloth remained permanently stuck to Pat’s tilted hip.

  Chapter 13

  You must come back and see us again soon,” said Kayo as he pulled open the car door, boot laden with Pat’s purchases of colorfully carved bowls, a bronze statue for her mother, grass mats, and multicolored glass beads.

  “It would be nice to come back someday,” said Pat, even though she knew that wouldn’t be happening. The truth was, they’d have to tighten their belts after this trip. So much was about to change.

  Pat flew back to England while Barry stayed in Nigeria to sort out the red tape, which didn’t appear to be too difficult with Kayo’s contacts and the fact they were British nationals. Officials were even more eager to please once word leaked out that Patricia Reid was in fact a “star.”

  The interim period allowed Pat to reflect on the life-changing event she’d decided would be their path. No one except Brian and Agnes knew of her plans. When she’d told them, Agnes’s squeal of delight warmed her, a contrast to Brian’s cautionary “Are you sure you have really thought this through? Is your heart ruling your head on this one? I’m just saying. There are going to be so many issues, Pat. Maybe not now, but later on.”

  While Pat didn’t appreciate Brian in any way piercing the romantic bubble she’d blown for herself, it had made her rethink everything—for a matter of seconds.

  Pat was absolutely and without question certain she was doing the right thing. Her heart and her head were in total unison. She knew there would be challenges—growing up in the Smith household had taught her that—but didn’t love eventually conquer all? Hadn’t she been singing about love for years, making a living from the notion that as long as there is love, anything can be achieved? Pat believed wholeheartedly in love and even more so in what she was about to do.

  The day Barry was due back from his second trip to Nigeria, Pat felt a tenseness she’d never experienced before. The house gleamed from two days of intense scrubbing and polishing, but she was far from tired. She’d hardly eaten a morsel for days yet wasn’t hungry.

  Pat had been painstakingly counting down the weeks, days, and now hours, finding it difficult to believe the moment would soon arrive. She wanted everything to be perfect. She wanted the rest of their lives to be perfect. And it would be.

  Pat had also spent most of that day changing her outfit several times, opting for a flowery summer dress she hoped made her look approachable, nonthreatening, and, above all, motherly. And then she’d gone and changed again, this time into a skirt and blouse.

  In Arrivals, Pat stood within the crowds of waiting relatives, friends, and taxi drivers. Her heart raced as she fiddled with her handbag and the teddy with the blue bow tie.

  It wasn’t hard to spot them as they appeared from behind the wall. Pat rushed forward as every sound and everyone around her morphed into a sort of oneness.

  And then, very quickly, after all the waiting, they were face-to-face.

  They didn’t say anything to each other, but Pat’s heart was full to bursting. Her handbag dropped to the floor, the other hand clutched the teddy bear tightly.

  Pat couldn’t produce a sound, just barely able to smile cautiously as she simply handed the teddy to the little girl who looked at it with confusion at first, before placing it over her eyes with laughter. Taking this as a cue, Pat held open her arms slowly, hoping, silently praying, her heart leaping as the little girl launched herself into her arms. Pat held her against her chest, their heartbeats colliding into one singular beat. And it felt beautiful.

  Pat pulled away slightly, just to look at her, and noticed the cloth in her hand; realizing Omolara was actually real, Pat then pulled her in close again, her own tears flowing freely and without apology as the bright silvery flash of a huge camera made little Omolara jump.

  “It’s okay, sweet pea,” soothed Pat, as she ran her fingers over the little girl’s huge plaits, smiling almost insanely at the joy of it all, experiencing a feeling so beautifully indescribable, she knew she’d never be able to articulate it to anyone, not even to Barry who stood by them, a look of pride shining on his face.

  Then another flash went off, sealing the divine moment pop star “Trish” was finally reunited with her newly adopted daughter, Lara.

  Lara

  Chapter 14

  Then

  Lara awoke to the soft aroma of sponge cake baked the night before, freshly mixed lemon icing, and tangerine-flavored jelly. It was two days after her tenth birthday and the morning of her party.

  She’d dressed in excited childish haste, thrilled at the sight of the kitchen table emblazoned with delectable (usually forbidden in such quantity) goodies and that cake. Although Mum had been unable to produce a “good enough” zero to accompany the number one, the sweet-smelling freshly iced sponge cake beside two gigantic packets of salt and vinegar
crisps had a deliciously spelled-out TEN in blue-and-white icing, wrapped in shimmery silver cake ribbon.

  “What do you think?” asked Mum, walking up behind her just as Lara was about to pilfer a crisp. Mum’s apron was slightly stained with blue coloring as she stooped to squeeze the sweet frosting from the icing bag onto the cake, slowly and carefully spelling out the words Happy Birthday, Lara.

  “I love it!” she enthused.

  “Good. So, sweet pea, excited about being ten?” she asked.

  Lara nodded her head slowly, knowing that if she were to tell Mum the truth, she’d have to admit “Only a little,” because in all honesty, Lara’s excitement at her birthday had been colored by a thought that had hung around ever since Mum and Dad had pulled that box from the attic and explained the story of a three-year-old girl with a funny name who’d climbed onto a big airplane and flown to England. Unlike stories Mum told at bedtime, there had been something extraspecial and real about this one. There’d been pictures—of Lara—plus other bits of evidence written on paper that seemed to just look important. Some were even typed! It had been difficult but over the years, Lara had slowly begun to understand, and now—as a fully grown-up ten-year-old—she understood everything.

  Mum offered the icing bowl, which Lara took gratefully, devoured, and as always, ended up with a slight tummyache.

  So she went to find Dad.

  “You okay, Laralina love?” asked Dad, packing away the orange lawn mower into the shed.

  Lara rubbed her tummy and followed him into the shed. “Not really, Dad.”

  “Has Kieron from next door upset you again?” he said, sitting down as she walked into his arms, resting her head on his warm and squeegee tummy.

  “No. I was helping Mum with my birthday cake.”

  “Ah, yes. Eat too much of that icing again, did we?”