LUNCH WITH THE CHIEF

DAMI

I found out from my sister, which is how I find out most things my mother would rather I didn’t.

“Lare! Mummy’s having lunch with Mandy on Thursday!” Tiwa said on the phone, delighted, like she’d just heard they were going on holiday together. “Isn’t that sweet? She never has lunch with my friends.”

“She doesn’t have lunch with anyone.”

“Exactly! It means she likes her.”

It does not mean that.

When my mother invites you to lunch, it means she has already read your file. Lunch is just where she tells you what’s in it.

I once watched her do it to a governor. He left without his dessert and, a month later, without his seat.

I hung up and called Amanda.

She picked up on the first ring. “Clause two doesn’t cover your mother.”

“Where and when?”

“Ikoyi Club. One o’clock. Thursday.” A pause. “She said alone, Dami.”

Nobody calls me that. She’d been doing it for almost a week and I still hadn’t decided whether to object. I was starting to suspect I wouldn’t.

Since Monday she had said it more quietly, as if the word itself might be overheard. We still didn’t know how he’d heard it. My best guess was Tiwa, though neither of us had summoned the courage to ask her. We couldn’t afford to spook her, in case she started asking questions.

“I heard.”

“So you’re not coming.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t say anything. That’s how I know.”

……………….

Thursday, 12:58 p.m., I was in the car outside the Ikoyi Club, cancelling a call with three bankers from Johannesburg. They took it badly. I didn’t care.

My mother has had the same table on the terrace for twenty-two years. Corner. Back to the wall. View of the whole room and the golf course beyond it. She says she likes the breeze.

She likes being able to see the exits.

I walked through the lounge. Waiters straightened. An old man I vaguely recognised from a pension fund board half stood, said, “Egbon,” then thought better of it.

Amanda was already seated. Of course she was. She’d probably arrived at 12:40 and checked the cutlery.

Navy dress. No wig today, just her own hair in neat all-back cornrows, which I had apparently memorised. A small gold folder beside her plate like a shield she didn’t trust herself to leave in the car.

My mother sat opposite her, in green lace and a gele that could have provided shade for a small wedding. A glass of chapman. One reading glass on a chain.

Neither of them looked surprised to see me.

That was worse. It meant they had both been expecting me, and only one of them was pleased about it.

“Oluwadamilare,” my mother said. All seven syllables, separately.

“Mummy.”

“I said alone.”

“She is alone. I’m furniture.”

Amanda made a very small sound into her water glass.

My mother regarded me for a long moment. Then she lifted one finger. A waiter appeared from nowhere with a chair.

“Sit,” she said. “And be furniture.”

I sat.

……………….

It began gently. It always does.

“Your business, Chimamanda. How long?”

“Four years, ma. Five in March. It was only Okorie Events, before.”

“Staff?”

“One full-time. Freelancers per event.”

“And this one full-time person. She is paid?”

A flicker. Barely there. “She is now.”

My mother wrote nothing down. She didn’t need to. She has never once forgotten a number.

“Your father is in hospital.”

I felt Amanda stiffen beside me.

“Yes, ma. Ward C.”

“Kidneys.”

“Yes.”

“Ikenna Okorie.” My mother tilted her head. “He did small chops for my fortieth. The puff-puff was not round.”

“He mentioned,” Amanda said.

I nearly choked.

My mother’s eyes moved to me. Then back.

“And when did you begin seeing my son?” She folded her hands. “The last woman he brought to my table, I never saw again. I like to know what I am looking at.”

Seven years, and she still couldn’t say Lara’s name. Neither could I. It was the one thing we had always agreed on.

There it was.

We hadn’t agreed on a date. That was my fault. I plan everything, and I had not planned this. I opened my mouth.

“Eleventh of August,” Amanda said.

Calm. Specific. No hesitation.

My mother raised an eyebrow. “You are sure?”

“It was a Sunday. He sent back an invoice with a note asking me to explain the candles. I called to explain the candles. We talked for forty minutes. Only six were about candles.”

That call happened. It was eleven minutes long and all eleven were about candles. But she said it like a woman remembering something that mattered, and for one strange second I almost remembered it that way too.

“Forty minutes,” my mother repeated.

“He has a lot of questions about wax.”

“He does,” my mother agreed, dry as dust. “He asked me about the cost of my gele once. At my own husband’s funeral.”

“That was a fair question,” I said. “It cost more than the casket.”

“Furniture,” my mother said, without looking at me.

I went back to being furniture. Furniture, I was learning, sees everything.

……………….

The food came. Grilled croaker for my mother. Club sandwich for Amanda, which she didn’t touch. Nothing for me, because furniture doesn’t eat.

They talked about Tiwa’s wedding. Amanda was good. Better than good. Venue logistics. Guest flow. Why the highlife band needed a separate generator. Why the cake should be cut before the second outfit, not after, because nobody eats cake in heels at midnight.

My mother listened. Really listened. I have seen her listen like that maybe four times in my life, and three of them were acquisitions.

I found myself watching Amanda’s hands. Steady now. Folding her napkin into a neat triangle while she talked. Then unfolding it. Then folding it again.

Ah. Not so steady.

I moved my knee so it touched hers under the table. Just slightly. A reminder that she wasn’t, actually, alone.

She didn’t look at me. But the napkin stayed folded.

“You are very organised,” my mother said finally.

“Thank you, ma.”

“It wasn’t a compliment. It was an observation.” She dabbed her mouth. “Organised people keep records. They keep receipts. They keep… photographs.”

I felt it before I saw it. The shift in the air. The way the breeze stops right before rain.

My mother reached into her handbag and took out an envelope.

Cream. Heavy. The kind she uses for wedding invitations and legal threats.

She slid a photograph out and laid it on the white tablecloth between the chapman and the croaker. Then she turned it, with one manicured finger, so it faced Amanda.

A party. Fairy lights. A banner in gold foil that said ‘Congratulations Mandy & Daniel’.

Amanda in a red dress, laughing, a ring on her hand.

And beside her, one arm around her waist, the man who was going to marry my sister in eleven weeks.