Everything Good Will Come. Sefi Atta

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СКАЧАТЬ Delta into people’s Swiss bank accounts. There was bribery and corruption, but none of it concerned me, particularly in June 1975. It was as vague as the end of Vietnam. I was just glad our fourth-year exams were over. For those sleepless weeks, I joined my classmates, studying through the night and spreading bitter coffee granules on my tongue. In a class of thirty odd girls, I was neither a bright star Booker T. Washington or dim-wit Dundee United. I enjoyed history, English literature, Bible studies because of the parables. I enjoyed music lessons because of the songs our black American teacher taught us, spirituals and jazz melodies that haunted me until I began to dream about churches and smoky clubs I’d never seen. I was captain of our junior debating society, though I longed to be one of those girls chosen for our annual beauty pageants instead. But my arms were like twisted vines and my forehead like sandpaper. Those cranky nodules behind my nipples didn’t amount to breasts and my calf muscles had refused to develop. The girls in my class called me Panla, after a dry, stinky fish imported from Norway. Girls overseas could starve themselves on leaves and salad oil if they wanted. In our country, women were hailed for having huge buttocks. I wanted to be fatter, fatter, fatter, with a pretty face, and I wanted boys to like me.

      Damola Ajayi had spoken like an orator, as good as any I’d heard. He was skinny with big hands that punched the air as he spoke. Warm hands. We almost collided on the stairs leading to the stage and I held his hands to steady myself. I turned to the Concord Academy debating team as he joined them. Their entire bench sat upright with the same serious expression. They were dressed, like him, in white jackets and blue striped ties. On the bench, next to them, our team slumped forward in green pinafores and checked blouses. Behind them were Saint Catherine girls in their red skirts and white blouses. The hall was a show of uniforms from all the schools in Lagos.

      Here, we played net ball and badminton games; staged plays and hosted beauty pageants. Sometimes we had films shows and school dances. We never used the gymnastic equipment because no one had explained what it was for. By the back wall, a few boys draped themselves over two pommel horses, studying girls. Debating was the only way to socialize during school terms and if students had strict parents, it was the only way to socialize all year. We came together for tournaments, bearing our different school identities. Concord was gentlemanly but boring. Saint Catherine’s was snobbish and loose. Owen Memorial boys and girls belonged in juvenile detention homes and their worst students smoked hemp. We at Royal, we were smart, but our school was crowded and filthy.

      “Thanks to our co-hosts,” I said. “And thanks to everyone else for participating.”

      Few people clapped. The crowd was getting restless. Yawns spread across the rows and students keeled over. Our own team looked as if their mouths had dried up from talking. It was time to end my speech.

      “I would like to invite questions, comments from the audience?”

      A Saint Patrick’s boy raised his hand.

      “Yes sir, at the back?”

      The boy stood up, and pulled his brown khaki jacket down. There was a low rumble from the crowd as he strained forward: “Mr. Chairman, s-s-sir. W-when c-can we start the social acker-acker-acker-tivities?”

      The crowd roared as he took bows. I raised my arm to silence them, but no one paid attention. Soon the noise trickled to a few laughs. Someone switched on the stereo. I came down from the stage and people began to clear their chairs for the dance.

      Our final debate had lasted longer than I expected. We lost to Concord’s team because of their captain. Damola was one of the best in the league, and he delivered his “with all due respects” to cheers. I couldn’t compete. He was also the lead singer of a band called the Stingrays, who had caused a stir by appearing on television one Christmas. Parents said they wouldn’t pass their school certificate exams carrying on that way. We wondered how they could dare form a band, in this place, where parents only ever thought about passing exams. What kind of homes did they come from? A girl on our debating team had answers, at least about Damola: “Cousin lives on the same street as him. Parents allow him to do what he wants. Drives a car. Smokes.”

      His hand tapped my elbow. “Well done.”

      “You too,” I said.

      He already had traces of mustache on his upper lip, and his eyes were heavy with lashes. “You’re a good debater,” he said.

      I smiled. Normally, I could not accept verbal defeat. Arguments sent my heart rate up, and blood rushing to my temples. Outside the debating society, I annoyed my friends with words they couldn’t understand, gagged class bullies with retorts until their lips trembled. “You have a bad mouth, Enitan Taiwo,” one recently said. “Just wait and see. It will catch up with you.”

      I had nothing to say to Damola. As captains of our teams we had to start the dance. We walked to the center of the hall. People flooded the floor, pushing us closer. Damola danced as if his jacket were tight and I avoided looking at his feet to keep my rhythm. We ended up under a ceiling fan and the lyrics of the song amused me after a while: rock the boat one minute, don’t rock it the next.

      The song ended and we found two empty chairs. Damola was not an enigma, I’d told my friends, who were searching for the right word for nobody-knows-what’s-inside-his-mind. Enigmas would have more to hide than their shyness. I counted from ten down.

      “I’ve heard your song,” I said.

      “Which one?”

      “No time for a psalm.”

      I’d memorized the words from television. “I reach for a star, it pierces my palm, burns a hole through my life line... ”

      My father said it was teenage self-indulgence and the boys needed to learn to play their instruments properly. They did screech a little, but at least they attempted to express themselves. Who cared about what we thought at our age? Between childhood and adulthood there was no space to grow laterally, and whatever our natural instincts, our parents were determined to clip off any disobedience: “Stop moping around.” “Face your studies.” “You want to disgrace us?” At least the boys were saying something different.

      “Who wrote it?” I asked.

      I already knew. I crossed my legs to look casual, then uncrossed them, so as not to be typical.

      “Me,” he said.

      “What is it about?”

      “Disillusionment.”

      Damola had a slight hook nose and from the side he almost resembled a bird. He wasn’t one of the fine boys that girls talked about; the boring boys who ignored me.

      “Are you disillusioned?” I asked.

      “Sometimes.”

      “Me too,” I said.

      We would get married as soon as we finished school, I thought. From then on we would avoid other people. People our age clung together unnecessarily anyway. It was a sign of not thinking, like being constantly happy. Really, there was no need to reach as high as the stars. Around us was enough proof that optimism was dangerous, and some of us had discovered this before.

      Outside it looked like it was about to rain. It was late afternoon but the sky was as dark as early evening because of the rainy season. Mosquitoes flew indoors. They buzzed around my legs and I bent to slap СКАЧАТЬ