The Other Side of Truth (5 page)

GRABBING THEIR RUCKSACKS
and the brown holdall, they bolted out of the cafe. They stood for a few seconds outside the door, scanning the crowds. Mrs. Bankole was nowhere to be seen. They ran to the flower stall, stopped and turned in every direction. No sign at all.

“What shall we do, Sade?” Femi’s eyes looked as bewildered as Grandma’s young goats when he chased them.

“Let’s wait a little in the cafe. Perhaps she has just gone somewhere for a few minutes.” Sade spoke without believing her own words.

Machine Lady was clearing away their table when they returned. There was still a little Coke in each of their glasses.

“I thought you had left,” she said bluntly.

Sade shook her head and Machine Lady shoved the glasses back onto the table.

The children sipped their drinks slowly, not wanting to reach the final drops. Both sat facing the window, their eyes constantly darting back to the clock as if, by magic, Mrs. Bankole might suddenly reappear. Neither wanted to move, although somewhere deep inside herself Sade sensed that
Mrs. Bankole had really left them. The piece of paper on which Papa had written the details of Uncle Dele’s college had gone with her. Mrs. Bankole had asked to see it when they were on the train and had put it into her bag.

“Do you want to order anything else?” Machine Lady’s voice was sharp. They had been sitting at the table for a while. Sade and Femi shook their heads.

“Well, this isn’t a waiting room! If you’re waiting for somebody, you need the waiting room.”

Unwillingly they slung their rucksacks on to their backs.

“It’s not even full,” grumbled Femi, loud enough for Machine Lady to hear as he picked up the holdall.

Keeping close to each other, they wandered through the station. It had been possible to ignore the wintry air while they had been rushing behind Mrs. Bankole or had been protected in the train and the cafe. But now the chill seeped through their flimsy cotton coats, down to their bones. Sharp gusts of even colder air struck them as they reached a large archway leading to the street. It felt like they were stepping into a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle. Sade grasped Femi’s hand and leaned against a shop window to keep out of the stream of passersby. Lagos was full of huge buildings but they were surrounded by light, air and space. Here each was packed up against the next. Together they loomed over the narrow pavements like a thick forest of brick, concrete and glass.

“What if we can’t find Uncle Dele?” Femi tugged her hand. His voice had the whine he used with Mama.

“Papa told us where he works. We’ll find the place.” Sade tried to sound confident.

At least she remembered the name of the college. She could see the letters as Papa had printed them.
LONDON COLLEGE OF ART.
But nothing else. She wondered if they should try stopping someone to ask. After Machine Lady in the cafe, she didn’t really fancy that. From her pocket she pulled out the four coins to check they were still there.

“We have to take a bus,” Sade added. “What did Mrs. Bankole say? Thirty something?”

Femi looked blank.

Two red double-decker buses, one behind the other, trundled around the corner. They watched them draw to a halt farther down the road. Was that perhaps their direction? Then another red bus rumbled by, this time without turning the corner. Or was that their direction? Or was it the opposite way? If only there was some clue. A bus approached them with a sign above the front window that said
BRIGHTON
.

“Brighton Rangers, Sade!” called Femi.

She couldn’t help smiling. Anything to do with English football, Femi knew about it. Uncle Dele had sent him a book on English football clubs, so he knew all about them too.

Together they began to read the place names on the buses and Femi nudged Sade whenever he recognized one from his book. Queens Park, Crystal Palace…But, of course, none of the buses or coaches carried a sign for
LONDON COLLEGE OF ART
.

And the more place names they read, the more frightened Sade felt. The eighty pence in her pocket could not be worth very much at all. Would it even buy them a bus ticket each? They could not afford to take the wrong bus and these buses
seemed to be going to dozens of different places.

Sade was beginning to recognize the numbers. A 36 passed followed by a 38. She was almost sure that Mrs. Bankole had said one of those. If only she had paid more attention.

“We’ll have to ask,” she said to Femi.

Most of the passersby kept their eyes fixed ahead as if intent on reaching some distant point. Sade hesitated, gathering courage to stop someone. She swallowed, trying to prepare her words. If she couldn’t catch someone’s eye, she would have to catch their attention some other way. A lady in a long black coat and a smart black turban-shaped hat was coming toward them. Her high heels seemed to make her walk a little more slowly than everyone else. Sade stepped forward.

“Excuse me, please—” But before she could even ask her question, the lady pulled away. Her gloved hand shot up as if to ward Sade off.

“No. No, thank you!” The words shot out. The lady did not even look at Sade as she scuttled by. Sade edged back, astonished. It was like having a door slammed in her face.

“So rude!” Femi exclaimed.

The lady had treated her like a beggar! What was that saying of Mama’s?

A beggar must be prepared to wait
.

But this was even more horrible! Did Mrs. Gloved Hands think she would catch a disease if she spoke to them? And they weren’t begging! All they wanted was to know the way to Uncle Dele’s college.

“Try him, Sade!” Femi indicated a man carrying a briefcase.

Sade took a deep breath and started again. No one else pulled away but most of the replies were brisk. No. Sorry. Never heard of it. Don’t know, love. Others just shook their heads. She was beginning to despair when someone said, “Can I help you?”

A young man with a rucksack slung over his shoulder had overheard her question and stopped. If the long twists of corn-colored hair that hung down to his shoulders had been darker, they would have suited an egungun mask.

“Take the thirty-six, just down there,” he said. “Ask the bus driver to tell you when to get off. College is on the main road. You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you,” replied Sade. She tried to return the young man’s smile but her face felt quite stiff with the cold.

The number 36 bus driver’s eyes were also friendly. He looked as if he could be Nigerian, thought Sade, until he repeated her words in an accent she did not recognize. His words rose upward, as if they might fly away into a song.

“You want the College of Art? They take students so young these days?”

He laughed at his own joke as he slid their four coins into a machine that rolled out a ticket strip. It was exactly the right money, no change. Sade gripped the metal pole.

“Can you tell us when we get there, please?” she asked. It was an effort to keep her voice steady.

“Jus’ leave it to me!” he replied, shifting back to his
steering wheel and revving the engine.

Soon they were traveling over a large bridge. For a few seconds they glimpsed a postcard view of London up the river. Like the one Uncle Dele had sent them. Big Ben above the Houses of Parliament. They had placed the card on the sideboard next to the small chrome and black radio on which Papa listened every morning at breakfast to the BBC World Service broadcasting from London. It became a family joke that the BBC controlled Papa and breakfast. Everyone had to be quiet. Mama would put her finger to her lips if Sade or Femi started to talk. It had been like that only yesterday morning. Before their world had turned upside down. Before they had been propelled to this other side of the world. Now here they were on a bus just a bridge away from Big Ben itself. Thousands of miles away from home…from Papa, Uncle Tunde, Mama Buki…Grandma and all the family…and, most terrible of all, from Mama…forever and ever. Never again would Mama be able to tell them to be quiet so that Papa could listen to his news from London. Never. Nothing made sense except the terrible aching inside Sade. Certainly none of the images that slid across the window screen outside the bus made any sense. The things she saw might just as well be cardboard cutouts on a film set that they had entered by mistake. The problem was that there was no exit.

But now they were on their way to Uncle Dele and at least he was one person who came from their real world. He would take care of them.

“London College of Art!” the driver almost sang.

Sade and Femi stepped down from the bus. In front of them rows of gray stone steps led up to large glass doors. Behind a ground-level window, some students sat at long tables working on small clay sculptures. Carrying the holdall between them, they climbed up to the entrance and pushed open the heavy glass door.

“Can I help you?” The face of the lady behind the counter was neatly framed by silky brown hair.

“We are looking for Doctor Dele Solaja, please.” Sade tried hard to appear poised.

“Is he expecting you?”

“We don’t know,” blurted Femi.

Miss Silky Neat looked curiously at them.

“I haven’t actually seen him come in today. In fact I haven’t seen him for a while. But I’ll try his department for you,” she said, picking up the telephone.

Miss Silky Neat lowered her voice but the entrance hall was quiet and they could hear everything she said.

“Oh? For a whole week, you say?…No, I thought I hadn’t seen him for a few days…Oh dear!…The police? What have they said?…”

Silent and horrified, the children waited for her to finish and explain. Miss Silky Neat put the telphone down. For a couple of seconds her face was strangely flustered, before she composed it again.

“Dr. Solaja hasn’t been in for the last week, I’m afraid.”

“Where is he?” Sade asked boldly.

“Well, he hasn’t rung and apparently there has been no reply from his flat for the whole week. It’s so unlike him. I am
told that the police are following it up.”

Sade and Femi glanced anxiously at each other. The lady inspected them again with a new curiosity.

“How do you know Doctor Solaja? Is he a friend—or a relative?”

“He’s our—” Femi began.

“Friend—a friend of the family,” Sade interrupted. “Can we have his address?”

“We don’t give out personal information about staff. But perhaps you should see someone from the department.” She leaned forward, frowning slightly. “You might have some information that could be useful to the police.”

“We have to go, thank you,” announced Sade quickly.

Before Miss Silky Neat could say any more, Sade had turned around with Femi in tow. Struggling with the holdall, they heaved open the heavy glass door. Only when they reached the bottom of the steps and were out of view did they stop. They stood shivering beneath the lifeless branches of a bare tree while the chilly afternoon air wound long shadowy fingers around them. Ahead of them, the khaki-gray mottled bark of the trees lining the road reminded Sade of a row of soldiers in camouflage.

“I want Papa…and Mama!” Femi whimpered.

Sade put her arm around him. The tears she wanted to cry were frozen.

IT WAS BETTER TO KEEP WALKING.
Try to find somewhere they could shelter. The clock in the college had said half-past four but the sky was darkening fast. Lights now glittered everywhere. Splashes of yellow from streetlamps, car headlights, buses with windows ablaze and shops with neon signs replaced the dull grays of the day. They kept to the main road. There were so many side roads, most of them smaller and quieter. Never would they have been allowed to go wandering alone like this in Lagos. Yet here they were, in another great sprawling city, with absolutely no idea of where they were, nor of where they were going. With Uncle Dele missing, they were now completely and utterly alone. If anyone asked where they came from and what they were doing, whatever should they say? How could they explain what they were doing here, two children alone, in London? Two children who were not meant to be here…who had tricked the Eyes at the airport. Even thinking about the questions they would be asked was too frightening.

It seemed to Sade that they had been walking for miles. Femi began to straggle behind.

“Where are we going, Sade?” he groaned.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe we’ll find somewhere.”

Whenever they stopped, the icy wind speared even more fiercely through their thin layers of cotton. Other people wore thick coats, many with hats, scarves and gloves. Everyone seemed in a hurry. Probably they were already on their way home for the evening. No one took any notice of them. It was as if they were invisible.

They reached another row of shops. Femi tugged at his handle of the holdall.

“Do you smell that, Sade?”

Her brother pulled her toward the smell of frying fish. She was hungry now as well. In a shop with plate glass across the whole frontage, people were queueing at a long white counter. A man with a white cap was shaking a basket of chips. There was no point waiting and looking—it only made the hunger worse. But when, a little farther along, they came to a cafe with red checked curtains and matching tablecloths, they stopped to stare inside. A waiter was serving two platefuls of what looked like rice and stew to a couple sitting by the window. When the waiter looked up, he frowned and shook his head at them. Embarrassed, they turned away. A customer opened the cafe door and a gust of warm air brushed past them. A second later the warmth and scents had vanished. How long could they manage like this with no money and no food?

It was when, however, they came to a shop with plantains and yams piled up by the doorway and windows heaped with bags of rice and gari, that they could not resist going in. The
shop smelled of Lagos. Spices, oils, dried fish and fresh vegetables were all crammed onto overflowing shelves. Bottles and tins did extraordinary balancing acts like on Mr. Abiona’s stall.

“Plantain chips!” Femi whispered.

He picked up a cellophane packet, brought it up close to his face and sniffed it before slowly replacing it. They walked through the shop, squeezing past a couple of other customers in the narrow passages. They took their time examining items on each side. After circling twice, they still wanted to delay returning outside into the biting wind. But the man behind the counter had become suspicious.

“What is it you children want?” he demanded.

Sade and Femi hesitated.

“If you are just waiting for someone, then wait outside, please,” he stated in a no-nonsense tone. Sade felt blood rush to her face. He thought they were thieves! Of course she and Femi wanted something…something to eat! But they could hardly say, “We’d like some plantain chips please but we have no money.”

Femi responded before Sade.

“This food isn’t good. Not like in Lagos!” he said loudly. “Come on, Sade, we’ll go to another shop!”

They resettled their rucksacks and pulled back their shoulders before walking out. Neither of them looked in the direction of the counter but a lady’s voice followed them.

“Makes you wonder about some parents, doesn’t it, Mr. Mills?”

Cars were still streaming along the road but fewer people
were out walking now. They needed to find a place where they could at least huddle up together and try to keep each other warm. Somewhere near light, but also hidden. The small towels Mama Buki had packed for them in their holdall could be their blankets. They began looking for a shop entrance set back from the pavement that did not have a metal grille blocking it. When they came to the corner of one of the darker side roads, they hesitated. Perhaps there might be somewhere there? But it seemed quite deserted and more frightening. They carried on.

In the next block, Femi pulled Sade to a halt next to a narrow alleyway between two buildings.

“I can’t walk any more!” Femi’s voice quavered.

Sade peered into the alleyway. It was too murky to see beyond the entrance. The damp smell was like the open drains in Alade Market after a downpour. It would be horrible to spend a night in there. But before she could say anything, Femi thrust down the holdall just inside the alley and curled himself up like a snail on top of it.

“Femi, please—” Sade began. She broke off in horror as a shape rose up from the deeper shadows of the alley.

“Clear off! This place is mine!”

Femi sprung up wildly, colliding into Sade. The man’s arm swept down toward their bag and snatched it.

“I said clear off! Everything here is mine!” he growled like an old lion defending his den. His eyes were concealed under a hat but they had heard enough. There was not the slightest chance of retrieving their bag. They fled.

Rucksacks bumping on their backs, they kept running.
The man stayed in his alley but the terror followed them as they ran along a dimly lit parade. They were both panting by the time they reached the only brightly lit shop. It displayed posters of videos and a large sign saying
OPEN UNTIL 11 P.M.
! Breathing heavily, they pushed open the glass door and made for a corner as far as possible from the counter. For a minute or so they stood rooted to the floor, trying to calm down. Around them were shelves of videos. Instead of James Bond, Superman or any other video star, however, Sade still saw the terrifying Darth Vader of the alley looming up above them, his arm sweeping away their holdall. What would he do with their clothes? What would he do with the beautiful
aso-oke
Mama had made for her with its own matching bag? A bag with a broken lining. Mama’s present had barely survived the customs officer’s scissors only to be seized by a stranger in a stinking alley. What kind of place had they come to?

Femi dug Sade in the ribs and jutted his chin toward the back of the shop. A man was eyeing them from behind the counter.

“Can I help you?” he asked loudly. He didn’t sound as if he wanted to be helpful. Sade pursed her lips together. What could she say? The kind of help they needed was impossible. Mama would have understood how hopeless it was. She would have summed it up with one of her proverbs.

Even the best cooking pot will not produce food by itself
.

Of course they needed help!

“I said, can I help you?” Video Man repeated, a little more loudly and abruptly. Sade lingered a few seconds before extending her hand to her brother.

“Come on, Femi,” she murmured and turned toward the door. But at that moment the door was flung open and four boys with dark glasses and woolly hats pulled down low over their foreheads burst inside. Shouting and swearing, they sent video boxes flying off the shelves, then kicked the stands. Sade and Femi cowered back into the corner. The boys ignored them. Two of them ripped the posters from the window alongside the children. Laughing, they tore them into pieces. Video Man grabbed his telephone. He rasped out a message to the police. But as soon as he had slammed down the receiver and lifted the counter bar to chase his intruders, they darted back out into the street.

“That’ll teach you to mess with our mates!” the last one to leave yelled at Video Man. He punched the air as if they had just scored a goal. Seconds later a sharp crack shattered the front window. Sade and Femi had remained riveted in their corner, almost in a stupor. First Darth Vader of the alley, now this! But the sound of the crack, followed by glass splintering, sent Sade’s mind spinning.

Grabbing Femi’s hand, she bolted toward the door. They had to be well out of the way when the police came. But Video Man got there before them and thrust his key into the lock.

“Don’t think you’re getting away with this!” he puffed grimly. His face glowed a furious red.

“I know how you kids work together! Sent you in as decoys, didn’t they? Distracting me, so I didn’t see ’em coming! Well, you can tell your story to the police!”