Read Like a Mule Bringing Ice Cream to the Sun Online
Authors: Sarah Ladipo Manyika
‘Bless you darling, bless you,’ I keep saying, because Sunshine is here and has brought me books. ‘Bless you!’ Then seeing that she hasn’t sat down, I offer her the choice between commode and grubby looking armchair. Knowing how fussy my friend can be, I smile as she chooses instead to perch on the edge of the bed next to me. She’ll be worried about touching anything too dirty but she may also be afraid of hurting my hip so I demonstrate how strong I am by shifting from left to right, proving that she needn’t be so tentative around my body. Then I tell her that had she come earlier she would have met the man responsible for my speedy recovery. I describe my last session with the physical therapist, getting her to picture the lengths to which he goes in order to be discreet while holding my hips in alignment. I recount how politely he instructs me to ‘clench my glutes’, while I’m busy worrying over how I might prevent myself from inadvertently passing
gas when undertaking such physical exertions. I may be old, but farting and burping in public is not something I intend to succumb to. If I can help it. Sunshine laughs and I joke that the poor man need not worry about an old woman like me. It’s not as if I’m going to mistake his touch for one of flirtation, or even want to flirt with him in the first place. But the latter isn’t true. I
am
flirting when I joke about my creaky knees and stiff joints, all the while hoping he’ll compliment me on what good shape I’m in. And whether or not he’s aware that I’d like him to congratulate me on my fitness (but who am I kidding, of course he knows), I thrive on his praise, diligently doing all my assigned exercises and more.
‘Had I met the man twenty years ago,’ I tell Sunshine, ‘he would’ve been smitten. One glance at my tight glutes and my curvy hips, and he wouldn’t have been able to resist. He would’ve had my name tattooed right across his chest.’
‘And you? Where would you have tattooed his?’ Sunshine smiles.
‘Oh, well, if anywhere, under my thumbs. Symbolically,’ I chuckle. ‘But speaking of tattoos, he’s actually offered to introduce me to his tattoo artist.’
‘
You
want a tattoo?’
‘I do.’
Sunshine looks shocked. ‘You mean that while I’ve been trying to convince Zach that tattoos aren’t cool, you, his honorary grandmother, are about to get one?’
‘But you’re assuming I don’t have one already?’
‘Do you?’
‘No,’ I laugh. ‘But you know, when I was young, everyone had tattoos. And by that I mean the facial markings that told you where someone came from. So not exactly tattoos in the modern sense, although we did have some of those too. Sometimes women had these green tattoos written on the inside of their arms. They were all just forms of bodily adornment. But by the time I was born, people started thinking that both the facial markings and the love tattoos, as I like to call them, were primitive. I wanted a tattoo, but wasn’t allowed one. And now tattoos are everywhere, everyone’s writing on the body.’
‘And you still want one? On your face?’
‘Oh no, not on my face, darling. Too many wrinkles there and besides, you need some elasticity for a good tattoo. But there are many other sweet spots on this body of mine.’
‘Like?’
‘Like you’ll have to wait and see,’ I smile. ‘Now, tell me, how are you, and my tattoo-free boys?’
I worry about Sunshine sometimes, in her family of men and boys. I like Ashok but I fear that Sunshine is too easily swayed by what he thinks and too eager to please him. I see some of my younger self in Sunshine and try to encourage her to have more of her own mind. But I also try not to be too overbearing.
When Morayo asks me how I am, I tell her that I’m fine. ‘Although Ashok is still trying to persuade me to go back to school.’ I pause, hoping that Morayo will reassure me by saying that Ashok is wrong and that I shouldn’t feel pressured into going to grad school. But she doesn’t comment so I reluctantly return to talking about the boys. I tell her how Avi is coming along with his New Year’s ‘revolutions’, which makes her laugh. Then I talk about Zach, how he’s started rowing which means that three early mornings a week I drive him to Marin and back. I pull out my phone to share some recent photographs. Morayo, who must have also noticed me checking the time, tells me that I mustn’t feel obliged to stay. Feeling guilty, I insist that I’m not in a rush.
‘I know, darling,’ she says. ‘I’m just looking for an excuse to start reading all these lovely books you’ve brought for me.’ She winks then peers into the bag. ‘Auster and Angelou, that’s lovely, and these?’ she asks, looking quizzically at the others. ‘What are these? They look like Mills & Boon.’ She points to the boxed set.
‘You tell me,’ I smile, ‘I found them by your bed.’ I think that Morayo is only feigning surprise, but no, it seems that she really doesn’t recognize them.
‘Ahh,’ she says, after some moments. ‘These must have come from the house cleaner. Did you ever meet Tina? Bless her. She knew I liked books so she was always bringing me more, only not the sort that I liked to read. And then, of course, I could never get rid of them because she would’ve noticed. But now that you’ve brought them, perhaps I should read them. What do you reckon?’
‘You have a house cleaner?’
‘Oh, I used to, darling, long time ago. And I know. I know my place is a bit of a mess right now, but being here has given me time to think. It’s funny, you know, as you get older, you begin to see yourself becoming more like your parents. After my father retired I remember him staying at home, not wanting to do much but listen to his radio. He didn’t want to get rid of anything and so the house just got more and more cluttered. So you’re right, my house could probably use a good sort out and even a cleaner again, but I’ll get to it, I promise.’
‘Well, as a matter of fact, I’ve done some of that for you already.’
‘Oh Sunshine! You shouldn’t have!’
‘No, that’s okay. It’s just that there were a lot of things in the apartment that needed attention. Like there was a letter from the DMV, do you remember? A bunch of bills and also some bank transactions. Ashok and I got a little bit worried by one of them.’
‘Yes,’ Morayo interrupts. ‘I know what you must have seen. The payments to a certain charity which turned out to be an scam?’
I nod, feeling relieved that at least she’s aware of it.
‘It was a silly mistake Sunshine, and although I’m embarrassed, I’m glad you now know. I’m actually relieved that you know. I should’ve been more careful, but I’m
dealing with it now, darling. I’ve talked to the bank and it won’t happen again.’
‘Well there’s certainly no need to be embarrassed; God knows how many embarrassing things I’ve shared with you over the years. But you should have told us, we could have helped. Ashok deals with that sort of thing all the time.’
‘I know, Sunshine. It’s just that I’m usually so careful, but that particular email just got me. It didn’t have any of the usual hallmarks of scam mail – no funny spelling errors or formal salutations, so it never crossed my mind that this might be another prank. And you know how upset I’ve been by everything happening in Nigeria recently. So when that email came, I just believed it was genuine. I thought the money would go to the victims. But then, of course, when I realized my mistake, well I didn’t want to bother you. You have enough on your plate as it is. I’ll be much more vigilant from now on, I promise.’
‘But I’m always here for you, Morayo, and so is Ashok.’
‘I know, darling, and I’m grateful, I am.’
‘So look,’ I say, seizing my chance. ‘You know how you just mentioned that your apartment needs cleaning? Which means it’s not just me being OCD, right? So while you were in hospital I got a friend to help me sort through some of your stuff, the stuff you don’t need.’
‘Stuff?’
‘Well mostly, like old papers. Except unfortunately, there was a small misunderstanding and some of your books, but just a few, got thrown out.’
‘My books!’ Morayo exclaims.
‘Just some. And only those that were falling apart. You had mice in your apartment, Morayo, and they were eating your papers and even some of your books.’ I hesitate, but seeing her alarm I keep talking. ‘I asked Francisco to get rid of the old papers because they were in a really bad state. Remember how we’d sorted through them last year? But then, unfortunately –’
‘You got rid of things without me being there!’ she cries, her face darkening with disbelief. ‘I didn’t want to, Morayo, but it was unhygienic and I just thought it would be helpful.’
‘Helpful?’ she shouts. ‘But why couldn’t you wait? How could you possibly know what’s important to me and what’s not? That’s my life, Sunshine! My books!’
‘I’m sorry, Morayo, I’m sorry. I was trying to help. You’ve just got so many books. You’ve even got more than one copy of some of them.’
‘Well of course I do! Just like you have dozens of pairs of yoga pants and lipsticks and shoes, don’t you? How would you feel if someone went through all your “stuff” and got rid of what they thought were just duplicates or extras? Just because
you
would never buy more than one fucking book doesn’t mean others wouldn’t. Doesn’t mean there isn’t a very good reason why I do!’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ I stammer, thrown by her swearing. ‘I said I’m sorry. And when it happened I did my best to get it all back. I don’t know what else to say.’
‘But what’s ”sorry” going to do? How’s that supposed to help? It was just reckless of you. Stupid and thoughtless.’
‘Thoughtless?’ I cry, snatching my bag and car keys. ‘Yes, okay, I’m stupid and thoughtless and you’d probably be much better off with a conservator.’
At first, all I could do was to stare at the door after it banged shut. Then I let out such a cry of anguish that Bella must have heard me from outside.
‘What happened?’ Bella calls, panic in her voice as she runs in. She tugs at the sheet covering my head. ‘Did you fall?’
‘No,’ I manage, turning reluctantly from where I’d buried my face in the pillow. ‘I’m okay.’
‘Your friend has gone?’
Yes, I nod, trying not to start crying again. Bella takes my hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘You know, sometimes it’s good to cry. Let it all come out.’
And for several more minutes this is all that passes between us, me sobbing and she squeezing my hand. And then Bella tells me that God loves me, which almost sets me off again.
‘I think it makes a difference to believe in God,’ she says, ‘because the people who don’t trust God, when those people are getting old it’s more difficult because they get angry. Everything is bothering them and they don’t understand the rest of the people.’
I nod, reminded of my father, as she speaks.
‘I think,’ she says, ‘well, I was thinking of building a place in my country. You know, a place for getting old. But better than here, because in my country, in Nicaragua, you have already sunshine and good food, you have already good music and beautiful flowers and books, you know.’ She stands up now to tidy the books she has seen caught beneath my bedcovers. ‘So you must come to visit me in my country.’
‘I’d love to, Bella,’ I say, and making an effort to appear cheerful, I cautiously swing both legs out of bed.
‘And tonight you’ll go to dinner, no?’ Bella pats my hand.
‘I’ll try.’ I manage a smile. No more moping around, I tell myself. No more doubting. I mustn’t let this get me down. I must simply get myself home and have a proper sort out with the DMV, the bank, and my apartment. As we hug I’m enveloped by her sweet perfume.
‘Dulce y Cabana,’ she tells me when I ask, and I know from her smile that she knows that I know what this is. She knows that I recognize it as expensive, as having class. She’s told me that her life has not always been as hard as it is now. That once upon a time she used to live in New York, in midtown Manhattan, where she was able
to afford many things, even her own maid. She’s also told me that she holds a university degree, as do her brothers and sisters, many of whom own mansions in Managua.
‘Dulce y Cabana,’ I repeat, deliberately echoing Bella’s mispronunciation. ‘Sweet shelter, how perfect.’ And then the phone rings. ‘It’s my friend,’ I whisper, covering the handset. ‘It’s Sunshine.’
‘Sunshine is good!’ she whispers back, as she waves goodbye.
I apologize to Sunshine for having shouted at her. I admit that I overreacted and that, contrary to how it might have appeared, I appreciate what she was trying to do for me. ‘Books can always be replaced,’ I say, hoping she’ll sense how difficult this is for me to acknowledge, let alone believe. But she doesn’t seem to notice. And now I’m fed up of listening to her sobbing down the phone, yet I’m still trying to be the mature and wise one because that is what I’m supposed to be at this age. I remind myself that Sunshine is still young and has her hands full with looking after the children. I’m older and ought to be wiser. I should understand that she was just careless and not deliberately trying to hurt me, not even when she suggested a conservator. But I’d told her so many fucking times, that I never wanted to be looked after by strangers. I’d told her more than once that if it ever came to that I would prefer to find a way of quietly slipping into that good night ahead of time. She knows this. And while I understand that what she said earlier was uttered in a moment of anger, I now have no faith that when the time comes she will honour my wishes. But I’m tired of
crying, so after we say our goodbyes I make my way to the sink and wash my face. No point in wallowing in self-pity. What is done is done and I’ll wait until I get home to see how bad things really are. Consider the birds in the sky, I remind myself. Consider the birds in the sky.
To cheer myself up I decide to dress nicely for dinner. Thinking of my red leather jacket, I look for it in the wardrobe. ‘Red-leather-yellow-leather,’ I whisper, reminded of a childhood game. But whoever did my packing had only packed dull-looking clothing. The only colourful items are a green T-shirt and a Walt Disney sweater, neither of which belong to me. It makes me wonder if some of my own clothes might be hanging in other people’s wardrobes. I also wonder if this strange looking T-shirt and sweater might belong to people recently deceased. ‘All the more reason then, to dress with panache while I still can,’ I announce, while choosing trousers and a loose fitting blouse, neither of which flatter my figure. But once I’ve twisted my hair into bantu knots and added the lipstick, I don’t look too bad. Antonio always liked my red lipstick. Chanel was his choice. So now I’m ready. Except. One more thing. A book. This way, if I’m unlucky enough to sit next to someone crazy, then at least I’ll have something to read.
When I arrive in the dining hall, someone’s phone is ringing and because it’s a catchy ringtone, I take a few jaunty steps and sing along.
‘Ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog.
Cryin’ all the time.’
When I was younger, I used to be sceptical of old people who claimed to feel ‘as good as new’ but here I am thinking exactly that. My hips are getting better and Elvis has put me in the mood for a bottle of Chablis. Now, instead of wearing nondescript trousers with a cotton blouse, I imagine I’m dressed in one of my cocktail dresses – the yellow chiffon with dotted Swiss, for example. Or better still, I’ve glided in on my white peau de soie gown, the one with gold trim at the waist and an open back. This would explain why everyone has now turned to stare. For it was Antonio’s favourite too; though it might not have been, had I confessed that the dress was an anniversary gift from Caesar. The Home’s steamy dining hall disappears, replaced by the foyer of our house in Chanakyapuri.
This was my favourite of all the ambassadorial residences with its modern design and tropical gardens that always reminded me of Lagos. I’m standing by the entrance, which is tastefully decorated with paintings and sculptures. Caesar believed in showcasing the best of Nigerian art and because he had such a good eye we were owners of works by Enwonwu and Onobrakpeya even before they became well known. This is the house where, in the early 1970s, we hosted our first head of state dinner with senior Indian ministers, business leaders, and other ambassadors. So here I am, greeting guests with a touch of my gloved hand or the offer of a cheek for those who preferred to go with kisses. ‘Good evening sir! Welcome. Welcome madame, what a delight to see you again. Ambassador, what an honour – please do come and meet our head of state.’ And all the while I’m busy casting an expert eye over the floral arrangements of orchids and bird of paradise and watching my staff weave
gracefully amongst our guests balancing spicy canapés on silver trays. I make mental notes of various people I wish to introduce to others, as well as where I might reseat the lone bachelor who was invited for the sole purpose of equalling out the number of men to women around the dinner table. Rather than place him next to the banker’s wife as I’d been instructed, I now decide to seat him next to pretty Olivia, who looks thoroughly fed up with her ever-pontificating ambassador husband. And so the evening continues, as such functions did, filled with superficial chit-chat until the men retired to discuss the
important
things and the women were left gossiping and complaining about their servants. Then I would sneak off for a smoke in the gardens or a protracted visit to the powder room where I always kept a book of poetry. It was rare that I found myself missing the pomp and ceremony of those evenings, and yet tonight I long for just a moment of that time when I might enter a room and know that heads would turn. Know that every member of my staff would be attentive to even my smallest, most discreet request. Know that as hostess I had some power, at the very least, to request a drink. So what’s the worst that will happen if I now ask for a glass of wine? Still dancing, I make my way to an empty table, not noticing at first that people have started running. In the commotion that follows, I feel someone grab hold of my wrist. I think it’s an earthquake so I try ducking beneath a table. Then I feel someone lift me up.
‘My walker?’ I ask. ‘You mean all of this fuss is just because I left my walker behind?’