Being Lara Read online

  “An English dictionary. For you,” he said.

  “My English does not sound perfect in my mouth like your own,” she said self-consciously, absently flicking through the pages.

  “No, Yomi, this is not what I meant. I give you this gift not to offend you but as a sweetener for what I am wanting to ask you next.”

  He turned the dictionary to the first page. Inscribed in neat slanted handwriting were the words For My Yomi.

  She smiled coyly, imagining what she would look like if she hitched up her long skirt and danced around the small courtyard until she collapsed with tiredness.

  “This is a lovely gift. Thank you very much,” she said shyly, heartbeat racing.

  He cleared his throat. “I was wondering if you, Yomi, would be so kind to accompany me to…” He scrunched his eyebrows in concentration and she was gripped by a need to jump in and help him out.

  “You would like to take me out … away from here and in front of everybody?”

  “Yes. Yes.” He cleared his throat again. “To Jo Jo’s eatery. If you so wanted.”

  “I want,” she replied eagerly, willing herself not to jump up for joy on the spot. Henry wanted to take her out? What had taken him so long, eh?

  As soon as he exited through the gate, Yomi hitched up her skirt and jumped up and down anyway—when asked, she said she just really needed to use the toilet.

  Henry came by to collect her two days later. Dressed in a nice-fitting pair of wide-bottomed jeans, large dark sunglasses, and shiny pointed yellow crocodile print shoes, he looked every inch her Mr. Darcy.

  “You are looking lovely, as always,” he said.

  “This is a very old outfit,” she lied, smoothing down the tie-dyed bell-bottomed trouser suit Mama Bisi had run up on the machine only yesterday with strict instructions and a cutout from an American magazine Yomi had found on the floor outside the tailor’s in Agege. She wasn’t one for wearing trousers and hoped she didn’t look too much like a man!

  “And your hair is very nice, too.”

  Yomi recalled the absolute pain Ola had inflicted as she micro-braided Yomi’s hair upward and into a cone shape. Even though her scalp still reeled from the aftermath, Henry’s comment reminded her it had all been worth it.

  Jo Jo’s Eatery was a lot livelier than she’d imagined. Yomi had heard a lot about the place, often from the complaining mouths of the elderly ladies in her street, but it looked acceptable to her. It was filled mostly with men who sat on chairs drinking Star beer and eating ẹbà as King Sunny Adé played from the small tape deck in the corner. Yomi had never set foot in such a place before and realized that now she had Henry, her life would change for the better in many, many ways.

  Yomi picked at the food. He’d ordered her favorites, moi moi, jollof rice, and mixed meats, but even they couldn’t compare to the fact she was sitting opposite Henry Bibimsola in such an unfamiliar setting. So it was understandably difficult to find an appetite.

  “Are you not a lady who likes her food?”

  “Yes, now!” she replied, affronted. “I am just feeling a bit … a bit…” she stammered nervously. When Henry reached out and held both her hands, she imagined melting right there into the wooden table.

  “You don’t need to be nervous with me,” he said.

  Surprisingly, she found she was still alive and breathing when he took his hands away to continue his meal.

  “Yomi, I am so pleased you have accompanied me here tonight.”

  “Why would I not?”

  “I realize you may think I am a slow man.”

  “Well, we have been speaking for some time now.”

  “I know. It is because… You were so young when we met. I didn’t want you or your family to think I was trying to take advantage of you. I respect you, Yomi.”

  Her boldness surprised her as she took back his hand. “I am a wise woman now. I am not a child.”

  “I know.” He smiled.

  “Look at you, eh!” she said, forgetting to speak like an Englishwoman. “You are only a mere boy yourself, ah ah!” Her eyes turned away in embarrassment.

  “I am, yes. Only twenty-four, but I have experienced many things.” He laughed, tugging at her hand, forcing her to look at him. Yomi had never felt more nervous or happier in her life. This was it. The meaning of life. The beginning of everything.

  After they finished their meal and left the eatery, they walked up Ogunlade Street, side by side, their shoulders skimming with each step, united with their need for each other, she was sure of it. They passed the homes of neighbors, constructions that had always seemed so familiar, yet within the current context they seemed rather surreal. It was as if she and Henry existed within the pages of her favorite novel, which was slowly building to an exciting conclusion.

  They stood outside the gates to her home. Bats flew noisily above as Yomi and Henry hugged each other so tight their breaths mingled. And then he kissed her. But first on her forehead and then the protruding bit above her lip, the bit she’d always disliked—and just as she parted her lips, her eyes closed in expectant bliss … nothing. She found Henry smiling back at her as she opened her eyes slowly.

  “Oh…” she said, full of fresh embarrassment. Her head nodded downward, but he gently placed his finger under her chin, easing it upward and then she felt that delicious pressure of his lips on hers, probing and wanting, eager, yet welcome. Yomi had tasted a man before, when she was seventeen—the next-door neighbor’s son, Tokumbo, who always followed ice cold kisses with a frantic squeezing of her breast, like he was milking a droopy-bosomed cow. But Henry’s kisses felt different, tasting like that first bite of the sweetest, softest mango. She never wanted the moment to end. She wished Henry would marry her that night and they could begin their life together immediately. She wanted no one but him. She wanted to be his. Forever. He had consumed her very being without even knowing it, and at that moment, Yomi knew she would never want to kiss anybody but him for the rest of her life.

  “I hope I was not too forward,” he said, apologetically.

  “No,” she replied, fearing he would see the beating of her heart, like a pulsating third breast, right through her outfit.

  “May I drop by tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Please, yes,” she said, not wanting to sound too eager yet wanting him to know just how much she couldn’t wait to see him again.

  “Bye, bye, my Yomi,” he said, touching her cheek, gently. And then he opened the gate and was gone.

  That night Yomi happily relinquished any sleeping rights as she rested her head on her pillow, dictionary beneath it, unable to stop thinking about how much her body had tingled when she’d heard those words: my Yomi.

  Chapter 4

  Pat

  England

  1969

  It was perhaps inevitable that at eighteen, Pat Smith found it hard to be visible, let alone heard, above the strains of everyday life in a consistently busy and lively South London household. The bickering among three older brothers, her sister’s constant state of moodiness, and a mother who sometimes cried herself to sleep often made Pat feel like the only sane person in the house. The one who by default should be different from the others. The one armed with a collection of dreams, attainable and unattainable, hidden beneath a cream-colored floral pillow.

  Pat feared that underneath she was actually just a carbon copy of the others. Perhaps she was destined for a life that was ordinary, not dissimilar to those who surrounded her—from neighbors to family members—all armed with a set belief that trying to achieve something even a little different could be seen as a threat.

  A threat to what? She wasn’t sure and would perhaps never know because no one had ever tried to leap further than the limit they had set for themselves. And for now, the slight shade of auburn, which swam through thin strands of her hair, was her only distinction within a family of mousy blondes.

  Living in a house without a father, the family had very little money coming in. The
boys seemed comfortable saying and doing the first thing to pop into their heads (which wasn’t always positive or clever), and her mother at times took out her irritability about having to do everything—from cleaning jobs to bingo, just to keep the bailiffs away—on her growing girls. The purchase of the family’s first ever color telly, thanks to a payment plan, did manage to replace the rows, with days and nights dictated by this large almost majestic square box in the corner of the room. Coronation Street was a firm favorite with her mother, while the boys loved to sit and watch Till Death Do Us Part, a comedy that would keep them chuckling loudly as they slouched on the sofa and, for those minutes at least, out of Pat’s way. The only program she really enjoyed was Opportunity Knocks, a talent show with an ability to transport her from the live bickering of the family straight into a world of happiness, glitz, laughter, and … possibility.

  Possibility.

  And it allowed her to nurture a secret longing she was reluctant to share with anyone. Studying each and every performance, ending with a critique and a prediction of who’d go through to each round, she was particularly drawn more to the singers than the magicians. No one understood Pat’s fascination with the show or her taste in music, which was in total contrast to that of her siblings. She loved listening to the Jackson Five and Stevie Wonder as opposed to the Stones, and she would often practice singing with a hairbrush in front of her mother’s huge mirror when sent to fetch her reading glasses or cigarettes from the bedroom.

  “You got those fags yet, Patricia?” Her mother only called her Patricia when agitation loomed. Pat had been practicing again, only this time to the imaginary strains of “You Keep Me Hangin’ On” by the Supremes. She could hear the music clearly in her head as she stiffly moved her hips from side to side. She’d never be as good as Diana, but with a lot of practice perhaps she’d be half as good. She flicked her shoulder-length auburn hair and tried to ignore the small group of freckles that had plagued her for as long as she could remember, her heart jumping as she heard her name called again.

  “Patricia!!”

  “Sorry, Mum, I’m just looking for your cigarettes!” she lied, twisting her head from side to side as a flood of music filled her head, her senses, her bones—her entire being. Her mother’s bedroom was now a concert hall; and the clean washing on her bed, Pat’s audience. She enjoyed humming the tunes quietly to herself, to feel the real essence of the song with no one able to muscle in with a brainless comment or to disturb her flow. She was free when she sang and more important—so very far from ordinary.

  “On the dressing table, you can’t miss ’em!” called her mother, voice riddled with impatience. The cigarettes sat beside a comb on the cluttered dressing table, long strands of her mother’s once blond hair entangled within the spikes. More gray than blond now, since Pat’s dad and her mother’s husband of twenty-five years had shot out of the house for a pint of milk and never bothered to come back. The fact that Gerry’s wife next door had disappeared on the very same afternoon after stuffing £500 of their marital savings into a scuffed leather handbag hadn’t escaped anyone’s notice either.

  Pat had missed her father deeply at first. She cried herself to sleep most nights until discovering the glorious link between humming her favorite songs and entering a space where she could just forget her troubles and melt into the melody of a tune. The imagination. The possibilities. They were both endless and painless.

  So now she cried less and sang more.

  The sixties was the decade that had taken her father as well as her childhood; but now, on the cusp of a new era and a period that would see her officially become an adult, Pat hoped there was a lot more to look forward to.

  “Where are those blimming cigarettes?!” blasted her mother’s voice, which sounded sickeningly close. She placed the brush back on the table and rushed off to find her mother before she found Pat.

  By the time Pat was nineteen, her sister was already knocked up and married (in that order, but Mum swore otherwise) and, at last, the bed belonged solely to Pat. That first night should have brought with it an elation that she could finally spread herself across the bed in any shape she desired and hum herself to sleep without facing the wrath of her sister. Instead, Pat felt a strong and unexpected sense of loneliness and isolation. Two of her older brothers had already left home after marrying in quick succession, with only one remaining—and he was out most of the time, too. So it was just Pat and her mother most days, their relationship slightly strengthened by the absence of others and a shared love of baking. Of course, she could never beat her mum’s soda bread, but she one day hoped to perfect the Madeira cake in all its glory.

  One day Pat was called into the kitchen by her mum, the smell of cigarette smoke and fresh bread wafting in the air around them.

  “So what are we going to do with you then?” said her mother.

  Pat ran her nose just above the newly baked bread, which sat invitingly on the table.

  “Smells good, Mum.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “Shall we bake something for later?”

  “Maybe. Don’t you get sick of baking all the time?”

  “I love it!” she said. Actually, she didn’t “love” it as much as she enjoyed the time spent with her mother—and of course the end product.

  “I know you don’t want to spend your time in the kitchen. You’re different from me and your sister. I’ve always known it, always known you were a special one. The only one out of my kids who wanted to go places.”

  This was news to Pat, who’d only ever seen herself as one of five kids, the youngest and at times a nuisance. Just there. She’d basically assumed everyone else, including her mother, had that view, too.

  Her mother gazed at her expectantly, waiting for an answer to the question “So what d’ya see yourself doing, Pat?”

  By now, most of Pat’s friends were married with a kid, some even on their second, and part of her at times envied that security, of knowing where life was heading, the direction it would take and its ultimate destination. But at the same time, she still felt an incompleteness she was unable to fathom. She was not yet a woman, but no longer a child. It didn’t help that at nineteen, she’d never even kissed a man before. Pat wasn’t a “plain” girl like Gerry’s daughter next door (as her mother liked to put it); she was just at times painfully shy, introverted and wary of people she’d never met before … or anyone from North London. Plus, if men were anything like her dad or her brothers, she was probably best off without them anyway.

  “You want to learn to type?” asked her mother. “Mavis’s daughter does it and gets a good wage. You know … if getting wed isn’t for you.”

  Pat appreciated her mother’s attempt at understanding, but felt unsure of how to answer. No real aspirations had ever hit her, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d really sat down and assessed her future. She liked to sing and that was it. One thing she felt clear on though; she would always try to be happy in everything she did and not become like her siblings who seemed to be permanently angry with life and quick to blame others. She also hoped never to be the type to run away at the first sight of hardship, like her dad.

  “I’ve heard you, you know.”

  “Heard me?” asked Pat.

  “Singing. Since the kids left it’s been easier. You’ve got a pretty good voice.”

  Pat wasn’t sure whether to feel embarrassed or pleased that her mother had noticed the singing.

  “Thank you…” she said tentatively, as her mother bent down to the oven.

  Pat’s confidence in her voice grew over the years, but she’d yet to sing a full song in front of anyone. A job at Mr. Roach’s quiet paper shop afforded her the time, while she counted out aniseed balls or restocked magazines, to dream of one day having the confidence to sing in front of a real audience.

  One day, one of Pat’s brothers came over to the house after a “row with the wife” and a “baby that won’t stop grizzling,” demanding sym
pathy and a plate of pie and mash from his mother. Of course, still being the youngest at twenty-one, Pat was sent to fetch the food while her mother piled on the sympathy to one of her precious sons.

  “Don’t forget the jellied eels!” her brother shouted as Pat slipped into her coat.

  As usual, the queue at Cooke’s Pie and Mash was long, and unlike the majority of the people standing in line, Pat didn’t recognize anyone she could have a natter with. The air had a cold chill to it, so to keep warm she rubbed her hands together and began humming the tune to “Wings of My Love,” tapping her foot enthusiastically and beginning to sing under her breath in the process. When Pat was halfway into the song, the person in front turned to face her.

  “Very nice song by Michael Jackson,” he said in quite a posh accent. Posher than she’d ever heard in her entire life. Perhaps he was from North London. She immediately turned a shade of red.

  “Thank you,” she replied, midblush.

  “Not many people know that one. They mostly just know him as being with the Jackson Five. I like his solo stuff better. Lovely lad.”

  “Y … yes,” she replied.

  “Sorry, am I embarrassing you?”

  “No,” she said quickly, turning to the floor and to the blob of chewing gum her shoes had narrowly missed. She hoped his eyes weren’t following her and took a quick peep and to her horror, they were! His gaze was intense, boring into her, seeking her out; he looked like he was attempting to reach into her soul and pick at it, only to rip out the bits he needed. Her thoughts may have been overdramatic, but there was something about this man that made the sides of her neck gather sweat, her armpits itch. She wrestled with a sudden need to flee and stay all at the very same time.

  “If I am embarrassing you, I apologize,” he said.

  “You’re not,” she said.

  She had to admit, he had a kind face. Not as handsome as Paul Newman but with an honest chin and trustworthy nose. She’d heard her mother focus on such qualities after her sister had dragged home her future husband for the first time. Apparently, chins and noses say a lot about a person.