SOMEONE NICE

MANDY

I read it four times.

‘Dami? Cute. Is someone trying to make me jealous?’

Nine words. Two words fewer than the last one he sent three months ago.

Three months of silence, and now this. I forwarded it to Dami. Dami had replied,

‘Told you he’d be intimidated.’

Then,

‘Let me text you later.’

But the craziest part wasn’t how Dami had predicted this. It was…

I looked around my office like the walls had grown ears.

Two desks. One fan. A mood board of fabric swatches. A snake plant by the window that had survived two years of me forgetting it existed. The window was open onto Yaba traffic and a danfo conductor shouting “Oyingbo, Oyingbo!” like it was a prayer.

Nobody.

I walked to my door and found it slightly open. I could have sworn I had locked it. Or hadn’t I?

I had said it into my phone. In here. Alone. So…

No. Dami must have told Tiwa, and she in turn told him. That was the only logical explanation.

I typed four replies. Deleted all four. One of them was just the word ‘YOU’, followed by nineteen exclamation marks.

Then I did what I always do.

I made a spreadsheet.

Column A: what I know. Column B: what I don’t. Column C: things I would like to throw at Somadina Ezenwa.

Column B had one line, in bold. ‘WHAT WAS HIS ENDGAME, SENDING THAT MESSAGE?’

Column C was the longest. It started with his watch and ended with a pot of boiling ogbono.

……………….

Ward C smells like Dettol and boiled rice. You stop noticing after the third visit. I was on visit forty-something.

Dad was sitting up when I got there, glasses on his nose, frowning at a plate of hospital jollof like it had personally insulted his family.

“Mandy. Come and see this rice.”

“Good afternoon to you too, Daddy.”

“Good afternoon. Look at it. They washed it like a shirt. No smoke. No bottom pot. If I served this at a wedding in 1994, they would have stoned me.”

Pa Ikenna Okorie catered weddings for thirty-one years. He retired when his kidneys did. He has not retired from having opinions.

I kissed his forehead and sat on the plastic chair that always tilts to the left.

He pushed the plate away. “How is work?”

Easy question. Terrible answer.

“Good,” I said. “Busy. The big wedding is going well.”

“Chief Imelda’s daughter.” He whistled. “When I was young, that woman ordered three hundred small chops from me and sent back forty because the puff-puff was not round enough.”

Of course she did.

Some families pass down gold. The Ajayi-Williamses pass down standards.

Then he looked at me over his glasses. That look. The one that found my report card in 2005 when I swore I’d lost it.

“And that boy?” he asked. “Has he called?”

I had practised this. In the car. In the lift.

“He hasn’t. There’s no wedding, not anymore.”

He was quiet for a second.

“I know,” he said.

I blinked. “You know?”

“It’s been three months, Amanda. Before, he brought me groundnuts every Sunday. A man who stops bringing groundnuts is telling you something. No one postpones a wedding that long unless it’s off.” He shrugged. “I only wish you had told me the truth from the beginning. Imagine all the bad names we would’ve called him already.”

In spite of everything, I laughed. My pa had a way of doing that even in the saddest moments. It was how we survived after Mum.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“You were protecting me. You think I’m an egg.” He patted my hand. “Forgetting that I’m a strong egg.”

I should have stopped there. I really should have.

Instead, because he looked sad, and because I fix things on reflex, I said, “Anyway. I’m seeing someone. Someone nice.”

His eyebrows went up. Both of them.

“Ehen? What is his name?”

‘Abort. Abort.’

“Oluwadamilare.”

“Yoruba boy. Abi?” He nodded slowly, like I’d told him the price of petrol. “What does he do?”

“He runs a company.”

“What kind of company?”

“The big kind.”

“Does he eat?”

“Daddy?!”

“Don’t daddy me. When you go out, does he eat properly, or does he pick like a bird?”

I had no idea. I had never seen Dami eat anything. Not at the tasting. Not even at the engagement dinner. I’m pretty sure he lived on bank statements and spite.

“He eats properly,” I said.

“Good. Bring him.”

“Daddy…”

“Bring him. I want to see this nice somebody.”

The nurse came in with his blood pressure cuff, which saved my life. I kissed him again and left before he could ask what Dami’s mother did for a living.

In the lift, I leaned my head against the cold steel.

Rule one of my life: never lie to Pa Ikenna Okorie.

And yet I had broken it for Daniel, now Dami. And as much as I hated it, I knew I was going to do it again. And again.

……………….

Bisi was waiting at the office with her arms folded and her braids tied up in the scarf she only wears for war.

“Sit down,” she said.

“It’s my office.”

“Sit down in your office.”

I sat.

She put her phone on the desk. A credit alert. Three months’ salary, in full, sent at 10:14 this morning.

I had owed her that money since the week Daniel left. I’d sent it the minute the bank called. I’d cried a little while I did it, but she didn’t need to know that.

“Explain,” she said.

“What is there to explain? Have you forgotten that we just booked a big wedding?”

“Cut the crap. You expect me to believe that you paid off the loan, Pa Ikenna’s bills, and still had enough to pay me my salary in full? Bullshit. Start talking, or do you want me to start investigating? You know how I get.”

I knew exactly how she got.

She had gone full investigator after Daniel disappeared, and that month had been hell.

So I talked.

The car. The agreement. The conditions. I left out Somadina Ezenwa, because that wasn’t mine to tell, and because Dami had said ‘don’t’, and I am, unfortunately, a person who reads contracts.

When I finished, Bisi was silent.

“And the cancellation f*e?”

“If the wedding dies and anyone comes for it, he pays.”

“And if it doesn’t die?”

“Then I plan a very beautiful wedding and cry in the car.”

“So it’s fake.”

“It’s fake.”

“You’re pretending to date the richest man you have ever invoiced.”

“Yes.”

“For money.”

“For survival.” I leaned forward. “Bisi. Did you tell anybody I call him Dami?”

She stared at me. Then a slow, terrible smile spread across her face.

“I didn’t know you call him Dami.”

“Forget I said that.”

“Eh-hen.” She pulled a notepad out of her bag and wrote something down. Underlined it. Twice.

“What are you doing?”

“Calculating my raise. I am now an accomplice. Accomplices are expensive.” She tapped the pen. “Also, I want a title.”

“What title?”

“Head of Operations and Lies.”

“That’s not a real title.”

“Neither is girlfriend, apparently.”

She had me there.

I was opening my mouth to negotiate when my phone rang.

Unknown number. Ikoyi line.

I answered in my work voice. “Okorie & Cole Events, good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon. Am I speaking with Chimamanda Okorie?”

A woman. Crisp. The kind of voice that has never once been put on hold.

“Yes, this is she.”

“I’m calling from the office of Chief Mrs. Imelda Ajayi-Williams. Chief would like to confirm lunch. Thursday, one o’clock, at the Ikoyi Club.”

Bisi stopped writing.

“Thursday,” I repeated. “Of course. Please tell Chief I’m…”

“One more thing, ma.”

A pause. Very polite. Very deliberate.

“Chief asks that you come alone.”