playful reasons to touch him when she showed him to a seat or handed him a cup of tea. It was harder to read Mr Broadstone, though Muna thought she saw distaste in his eyes each time Yetunde pushed another sugared almond or cream-filled bun into her already bloated face.
Idleness had made her fatter. She claimed she was comfort-eating out of grief for Abiola but Mr Broadstone suggested it might be better to show her grief in more obvious ways. She must learn to cross her hands over her heart each time his name was mentioned, produce tears on demand and whisper in a quavering voice when she spoke of the day he went missing. These were the reactions that judges and juries expected from mothers, and she needed to win their sympathy if her case against the police were to be successful.
Muna wondered why Mr Broadstone cared so much about Yetunde receiving payment until Olubayo asked his mother how much he would earn from the settlement. Too much, Yetunde told him. It was a bad system that said those who suffered pain and bereavement could only be recompensed through the efforts of lawyers. Mr Broadstone hardly needed the money – he was wealthy already – but he’d be paid handsomely if they won their case.
Muna knew then that Jeremy Broadstone was a false and shallow man. He was paying attention to Yetunde on a promise of money, which meant his smiles were insincere and his sympathy a pretence. And that pleased her. For all the powder Princess brushed on her face, the perfume she sprayed on her neck and the time she spent on her hair, the skinny white didn’t like her enough to show compassion for free.
As the hour of Ebuka’s arrival drew close, Yetunde’s frustrations boiled over. With Olubayo at school, she expressed them openly to Muna. This wasn’t fair. She’d never wanted to be Ebuka Songoli’s wife. Her parents had arranged the marriage without ever asking her if she could learn to love him. She had tolerated him all these years because he went to work and earned good money, but she couldn’t abide to spend every day in his company.
It was bad enough that she’d had to share a bed with Ebuka and allow him to maul her whenever the mood took him, but to have to clean his private parts and deal with the stench of his faeces and urine … The idea was abhorrent to her. She couldn’t do it. If it had been in her power, she’d have refused responsibility for him and left him where he was. This vile country was to blame for the ills that had befallen him. Let the English assume his care instead of insisting that his wife must do it.
Muna waited until the tirade began to falter. I can care for the Master, Princess, she said quietly. It’ll be no different from cleaning Abiola. Smells worry me less than they worry you.
But instead of being grateful, Yetunde eyed her suspiciously. Do you hope to make me look bad?
No, Princess. I thought only to help you. Perhaps the Master won’t agree to my tending him. He may not want to be touched in his secret places by a girl.
Don’t pretend you haven’t done it before, Yetunde snapped. In any case he has no say in the matter. He must accept whatever arrangements I put in place. It’s high time he learned how badly he’s impoverished us through his stupidity.
Of course Yetunde pretended love when Ebuka arrived, running to plant juicy kisses on his cheeks inside the large, sliding-door taxi, but she did nothing to assist him out of it or into the wheelchair that the driver removed from the other side. The man was white-haired and elderly, and he eyed Yetunde cynically for a moment before asking her to move aside so that he could ease Ebuka from the seat to the chair. When he saw that she had no intention of helping her husband over the doorstep into the house either, he did that too, nodding to Muna who was standing in the shadows at the side of the hall.
He tapped Ebuka’s shoulder. ‘I’ll leave you with your daughter, sir,’ he said. ‘I hope things go well
Idleness had made her fatter. She claimed she was comfort-eating out of grief for Abiola but Mr Broadstone suggested it might be better to show her grief in more obvious ways. She must learn to cross her hands over her heart each time his name was mentioned, produce tears on demand and whisper in a quavering voice when she spoke of the day he went missing. These were the reactions that judges and juries expected from mothers, and she needed to win their sympathy if her case against the police were to be successful.
Muna wondered why Mr Broadstone cared so much about Yetunde receiving payment until Olubayo asked his mother how much he would earn from the settlement. Too much, Yetunde told him. It was a bad system that said those who suffered pain and bereavement could only be recompensed through the efforts of lawyers. Mr Broadstone hardly needed the money – he was wealthy already – but he’d be paid handsomely if they won their case.
Muna knew then that Jeremy Broadstone was a false and shallow man. He was paying attention to Yetunde on a promise of money, which meant his smiles were insincere and his sympathy a pretence. And that pleased her. For all the powder Princess brushed on her face, the perfume she sprayed on her neck and the time she spent on her hair, the skinny white didn’t like her enough to show compassion for free.
As the hour of Ebuka’s arrival drew close, Yetunde’s frustrations boiled over. With Olubayo at school, she expressed them openly to Muna. This wasn’t fair. She’d never wanted to be Ebuka Songoli’s wife. Her parents had arranged the marriage without ever asking her if she could learn to love him. She had tolerated him all these years because he went to work and earned good money, but she couldn’t abide to spend every day in his company.
It was bad enough that she’d had to share a bed with Ebuka and allow him to maul her whenever the mood took him, but to have to clean his private parts and deal with the stench of his faeces and urine … The idea was abhorrent to her. She couldn’t do it. If it had been in her power, she’d have refused responsibility for him and left him where he was. This vile country was to blame for the ills that had befallen him. Let the English assume his care instead of insisting that his wife must do it.
Muna waited until the tirade began to falter. I can care for the Master, Princess, she said quietly. It’ll be no different from cleaning Abiola. Smells worry me less than they worry you.
But instead of being grateful, Yetunde eyed her suspiciously. Do you hope to make me look bad?
No, Princess. I thought only to help you. Perhaps the Master won’t agree to my tending him. He may not want to be touched in his secret places by a girl.
Don’t pretend you haven’t done it before, Yetunde snapped. In any case he has no say in the matter. He must accept whatever arrangements I put in place. It’s high time he learned how badly he’s impoverished us through his stupidity.
Of course Yetunde pretended love when Ebuka arrived, running to plant juicy kisses on his cheeks inside the large, sliding-door taxi, but she did nothing to assist him out of it or into the wheelchair that the driver removed from the other side. The man was white-haired and elderly, and he eyed Yetunde cynically for a moment before asking her to move aside so that he could ease Ebuka from the seat to the chair. When he saw that she had no intention of helping her husband over the doorstep into the house either, he did that too, nodding to Muna who was standing in the shadows at the side of the hall.
He tapped Ebuka’s shoulder. ‘I’ll leave you with your daughter, sir,’ he said. ‘I hope things go well
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