Being Lara by Lola Jaye Page A

womanly frame. The familiar and comforting roundness of her body allowed Yomi to feel nothing but safety and no doubt kept Daddy away from the scandalous women in and around their street. Even without a head tie, her tough hair a little disheveled, Mama was clearly the most stylish and most beautiful woman in Chief Ogunlade Street. Six children had done nothing to dampen the light that radiated from the very pores of her dark skin, wherever she walked. And what strength, too. After Yomi had witnessed the birth of her youngest brother, Mama had merely rested a little, wiped her forehead free of sweat, and was quickly stooped over the stove assisting the preparation for that evening’s food.
    â€œYes, Ma,” replied Yomi, aware she would now need her shoes for the trip.
    â€œSo you don’t need to go to that thief Mrs. Apampa; you will go to the market instead,” said Mama in the very good English many thought had resulted from a trip to England one day in the past, when in fact Mama had never even set foot on an airplane.
    â€œYes, Ma.”
    â€œAnd take that foolish girl Ola with you! And if you see Mama Lanre on your travels, tell her to hurry up and come plait my hair. I do not have all day to wait for her! Foolish woman!”
    â€œWhy?” asked Yomi, not wishing to disrespect Mama but at the same time desperate to go to the market alone.
    â€œBecause I want my hair to look fine and not careless the way Ola does it!”
    â€œMama, I mean why is it so that Ola has to accompany me?”
    â€œWho will help carry the bags?” Mama’s eyebrows rose with latent irritation.
    â€œBut of course, I will take her,” Yomi conceded grudgingly. Mama was not a woman to be contradicted—nor was anyone older, for that matter. It was just not the done thing and Yomi wasn’t about to turn into that type of person.
    Yomi had no choice but to quickly come to terms with Mama’s decision, but this didn’t stop her indulging in a quick practice in front of the slightly cracked mirror in Mama’s bedroom, beforehand. Over the last few months Yomi had been busy mentally noting the way some of the fast girls swung their hips, commanding the attention of most of the single and not so single men in the area who shouted false declarations of marriage, a good life, and never having to worry about anything again. Yomi had quickly seen it as her duty to educate herself in the fine art of hip swinging on a daily basis until she’d perfected it. Until she managed to get his attention anyway. Because other than her scant knowledge of English literature, her hips were all she had.
    Large, slightly blackened plantain, two yams, and of course a bag full of overripe round peppers stood out in Yomi’s mental shopping list as she and Ola swung open the large iron gates of their home. Mama had been proud of these gates when Daddy first had them installed. Not only did they keep out the thieves and help prop up an array of shade-inducing trees, but also showed the community that her family was of a certain standard. It didn’t matter that they cooked on a one-ringed stove or that the fridge was past its best because of constant area electricity cuts; those gates represented perceived wealth others in the village could only dream of—and that’s the way Mama liked it, and if she were truly honest with herself, Yomi did, too.
    Yomi felt the rays of the sun, yet to reach their peak, soak into her skin as she focused on the route ahead, ignoring stares from the “ravenous” local men as she practiced her walk.
    â€œWhy are you walking like a snake?” asked Ola.
    They both giggled heartily, baring bright white teeth, as a car rode beside them, struggling with the bumpy surface that would lead to the main road. Life was busy in Chief Ogunlade Street: children balancing trays of bread on their heads ready to sell, a wave from a neighbor, Fuji music from an aged radio, the