Americanah
Page 90“The man wouldn’t come by so often if he didn’t think I was being neglected. You’re addicted to that phone.”
“Sorry. I was just checking the blog.” She felt relaxed and happy. “You know, you should write for me.”
“Me?”
“Yes, I’ll give you an assignment. How about the perils of being young and good-looking and rich?”
“I would be happy to write on a subject with which I can personally identify.”
“How about security? I want to do something on security. Have you had any experience on Third Mainland Bridge? Somebody was telling me about leaving a club late and going back to the mainland and their car tire burst on the bridge and they just kept going, because it’s so dangerous to stop on the bridge.”
“Ifem, I live in Lekki, and I don’t go clubbing. Not anymore.”
“Okay.” She glanced at her phone again. “I just want to have new, vibrant content often.”
“You’re distracted.”
“Do you know Tunde Razaq?”
“Who doesn’t? Why?”
“I want to interview him. I want to start this weekly feature of ‘Lagos from an Insider,’ and I want to start with the most interesting people.”
“What’s interesting about him? That he is a Lagos playboy living off his father’s money, said money accumulated from a diesel importation monopoly that they have because of their contact with the president?”
“He’s also a music producer, and apparently a champion at chess. My friend Zemaye knows him and he’s just written her to say he will do the interview only if I let him buy me dinner.”
“He’s probably seen a picture of you somewhere.” Obinze stood up and pushed back his chair with a force that surprised her. “The guy is a dog.”
“Be nice,” she said, amused; his jealousy pleased her. He played “Yori Yori” again on the drive back to her flat, and she swayed and danced with her arms, much to his amusement.
Obiwon’s “Obi Mu O” started and she sat still and silent as the words filled the car: This is that feeling that I’ve never felt … and I’m not gonna let it die. When the male and female voices sang in Igbo, Obinze sang along with them, glancing away from the road to look at her, as though he was telling her that this was really their conversation, he calling her beautiful, she calling him beautiful, both calling each other their true friends. Nwanyi oma, nwoke oma, omalicha nwa, ezigbo oyi m o.
When he dropped her off, he leaned across to kiss her cheek, hesitant to come too close or to hold her, as though afraid of being defeated by their attraction. “Can I see you tomorrow?” he asked, and she said yes. They went to a Brazilian restaurant by the lagoon, where the waiter brought skewer after skewer stacked with meat and seafood, until Ifemelu told him that she was about to be sick. The next day, he asked if she would have dinner with him, and he took her to an Italian restaurant, whose overpriced food she found bland, and the bow-tied waiters, doleful and slow-moving, filled her with faint sorrow.
They drove past Obalende on the way back, tables and stalls lining the bustling road, orange flames flickering from the hawkers’ lamps.
Ifemelu said, “Let’s stop and buy fried plantain!”
Obinze found a spot farther ahead, in front of a beer parlor, and he eased the car in. He greeted the men seated on benches drinking, his manner easy and warm, and they hailed him, “Chief! Carry go! Your car is safe!”
The fried plantain hawker tried to persuade Ifemelu to buy fried sweet potatoes as well.
“No, only plantain.”
“What about akara, aunty? I make am now. Very fresh.”
“Okay,” Ifemelu said. “Put four.”
“Why are you buying akara that you don’t want?” Obinze asked, amused.
“Because this is real enterprise. She’s selling what she makes. She’s not selling her location or the source of her oil or the name of the person that ground the beans. She’s simply selling what she makes.”
Back in the car, she opened the oily plastic bag of plantains, slid a small, perfectly fried yellow slice into her mouth. “This is so much better than that thing drenched in butter that I could hardly finish at the restaurant. And you know we can’t get food poisoning because the frying kills the germs,” she added.
He was watching her, smiling, and she suspected that she was talking too much. This memory, too, she would store, of Obalende at night, lit as it was by a hundred small lights, the raised voices of drunk men nearby, and the sway of a large madam’s hips, walking past the car.
HE ASKED if he could take her to lunch and she suggested a new casual place she had heard of, where she ordered a chicken sandwich and then complained about the man smoking in the corner. “How very American, complaining about smoke,” Obinze said, and she could not tell whether he meant it as a rebuke or not.
“The sandwich comes with chips?” Ifemelu asked the waiter.
“Do you have real potatoes?”
“Madam?”
“Are your potatoes the frozen imported ones, or do you cut and fry your potatoes?”
The waiter looked offended. “It is the imported frozen ones.”
As the waiter walked away, Ifemelu said, “Those frozen things taste horrible.”
“He can’t believe you’re actually asking for real potatoes,” Obinze said drily. “Real potatoes are backward for him. Remember this is our newly middle-class world. We haven’t completed the first cycle of prosperity, before going back to the beginning again, to drink milk from the cow’s udder.”
Each time he dropped her off, he kissed her on the cheek, both of them leaning toward each other, and then pulling back so that she could say “Bye” and climb out of his car. On the fifth day, as he drove into her compound, she asked, “Do you have condoms in your pocket?”
He said nothing for a while. “No, I don’t have condoms in my pocket.”
“Well, I bought a pack some days ago.”
“Ifem, why are you saying this?”
“You’re married with a child and we are hot for each other. Who are we kidding with this chaste dating business? So we might as well get it over with.”
“You are hiding behind sarcasm,” he said.
“Oh, how very lofty of you.” She was angry. It was barely a week since she first saw him but already she was angry, furious that he would drop her off and go home to his other life, his real life, and that she could not visualize the details of that life, did not know what kind of bed he slept in, what kind of plate he ate from. She had, since she began to gaze at her past, imagined a relationship with him, but only in faded images and faint lines. Now, faced with the reality of him, and of the silver ring on his finger, she was frightened of becoming used to him, of drowning. Or perhaps she was already drowned, and her fear came from that knowledge.
“Why didn’t you call me when you came back?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I wanted to settle down first.”
She said nothing.
“Are you still with Blaine?”
“What does it matter, married man, you?” she said, with an irony that sounded far too caustic; she wanted to be cool, distant, in control.
“Can I come in for a bit? To talk?”
“No, I need to do some research for the blog.”
“Please, Ifem.”
She sighed. “Okay.”
In her flat, he sat on the couch while she sat on her armchair, as far from him as possible. She had a sudden bilious terror about whatever it was he was going to say, which she did not want to hear, and so she said, wildly, “Zemaye wants to write a tongue-in-cheek guide for men who want to cheat. She said her boyfriend was unreachable the other day and when he finally turned up, he told her that his phone had fallen into water. She said it’s the oldest story in the book, phone fell into water. I thought that was funny. I’ve never heard that before. So number one on her guide is never say your phone fell into water.”
“This doesn’t feel like cheating to me,” he said quietly.
“Does your wife know you’re here?” She was taunting him. “I wonder how many men say that when they cheat, that it doesn’t feel like cheating. I mean, would they actually ever say that it felt like cheating?”
He got up, his movements deliberate, and at first she thought he was coming closer to her, or perhaps wanted the toilet, but he walked to the front door, opened it, and left. She stared at the door. She sat still for a long time, and then she got up and paced, unable to focus, wondering whether to call him, debating with herself. She decided not to call him; she resented his behavior, his silence, his pretense. When her doorbell rang minutes later, a part of her was reluctant to open the door.
She let him in. They sat side by side on her couch.
“I’m sorry I left like that,” he said. “I just haven’t been myself since you came back and I didn’t like the way you talked as if what we have is common. It isn’t. And I think you know that. I think you were saying that to hurt me but mostly because you feel confused. I know it must be difficult for you, how we’ve seen each other and talked about so much but still avoided so much.”