Roláyọ̀

Roláyọ̀ was in her room, sitting before her dressing mirror, searching for a specific pair of earrings—gold hoops with pearl raindrops—when her phone rang. She looked up from the drawer, stood and followed the sound of Tope Alabi’s voice to the pile of clothes on her bed. The phone was under a blue and white bùbá and the display showed it was 2 p.m.

“Mamz?”

“I’m outside your gate, are you ready?” Mide asked.

Roláyọ̀ was not ready. She had not decided on what to wear and still needed to give instructions to Agnes on what to make for dinner. She was also expecting a delivery from her gold supplier that was supposed to have arrived an hour earlier.

“Mamz,” Mide said, her tone switching to impatience, “please tell me you are ready. Today is not the day to be late.”

“Who said I wasn’t ready? I’m coming outside now,” Roláyọ̀ replied, her tone equally impatient.

“We have to be there by three. Come outside,” Mide snapped.

Roláyọ̀ hung up without responding. She picked up the discarded bùbá, pulled it over her head and decided she could do without earrings today. She picked up the bag on her dresser—not the one she would ordinarily have chosen— peered into it and hoped she had everything she needed inside. She was nearly to the bedroom door when she turned back, opened her jewellery drawer again and picked a set of gold chandelier-shaped earrings. She clipped them on, turned her head this way and that in front of her mirror, and smiled, satisfied. It would do.

“Agnes!” she called, as she walked into the living room, where her husband, Bayo, was seated in an armchair, BlackBerry in hand, while watching the news. She took a few steps back and peeked into her sons’ room: her oldest, Kareem, was sprawled across the bed in deep sleep, snoring slightly. Her youngest, Tade, was absent.

“Tade is not back?” Roláyọ̀ asked, shutting the door on Kareem’s snoring. The boy’s lesson teacher was due any minute now—2 p.m., ironically—and Tade was supposed to already be at the dining table with his books. He was barely passing any of his classes and had failed the mock WAEC exams at his tutoring centre last week. Roláyọ̀ could not see any evidence that the private lesson teacher was helping.

“He’s not back,” Bayo answered, glancing up at her. “Where are you going?”

“Alumni get-together.”

“Okay.” He turned back to his phone.

“Did you remind him to come home early?” she asked, knowing that he had not. He probably did not even know when the boy left home. Bayo sighed without looking up from his phone, without responding, his posture relaxed and insouciant, seemingly immune to his wife’s palpable irritation.

“AGNES!” Roláyọ̀ screamed.

“Ma!” a diminutive middle-aged woman came in from the direction of the kitchen; her hands covered with soap suds, her feet bare. At the sight of the foam, Roláyọ̀ saw red.

“You could not wash your hands before coming? To show me that you were not playing?”

“No ma,” Agnes said, even though that had been her intent. “The way you shouted, I wanted to quickly answer.”

Both women looked at each other, Agnes with feigned deference.

“Cook beans tonight. There is a delivery coming from Mummy Junior, I bought some Ankara material. When she gets here, call me immediately. Understood?”

“Yes ma.”

“I don’t want beans,” Bayo said from his armchair.

Roláyọ̀ ignored him.

She continued to Agnes, “Text me when Tade comes back. Make sure you call me when the delivery gets here.” She looked at Agnes squarely, her eyes passing a silent message; this was not the first time Roláyọ̀ would ask the woman to be complicit in an illicit jewellery purchase she wanted hidden from her husband.

“The Ankara delivery?” Agnes asked.

“Yes,” Roláyọ̀ answered. “Ankara delivery.”

“Yes ma,” Agnes replied, again, confirming the shared deceit. Some of the suds on her hands had dried, and Roláyọ̀ watched as a bubble detached from its cluster and descended slowly to the tiled floor.

“I don’t have credit ma,” Agnes said blithely.

“You don’t have credit?”

“I don’t have credit,” Agnes replied evenly.

“I will transfer to you,” Roláyọ̀ said curtly.

Her phone rang loudly and shrilly. She glanced at it, nodded at Agnes, and walked out the front door in haste.

——–

“Is this what you normally wear to a Babaláwo’s house?” Roláyọ̀ asked, settling into the passenger seat of Mide’s SUV.

“What is wrong with what I am wearing?” Mide asked, glancing down at her outfit. She was dressed immaculately, as always, in a razor-sharp, starched-to-attention kaftan top with a matching skirt.

“Nothing,” Roláyọ̀ replied. “I just thought you would tone it down for this visit.”

Mide glanced at her friend without responding. It was not the first time Roláyọ̀ had made a jab at her dressing. Over the thirty or so years since they met in secondary school and became as close as sisters, Roláyọ̀’s casually poisoned barbs had become less frequent—but still, they surfaced.

“What do you think people wear to a spiritualist’s house?” Mide asked, starting the car and merging onto the main road.

Roláyọ̀ barked with laughter. “Spiritualist? Àbí oníṣègùn? Babaláwo. Say it.”

Mide shook her head. “Okay. What do people wear to a Babaláwo’s house?”

“I don’t know. This is my first time. It’s you people that go often that should tell us.”

“All black. Head to toe. No makeup. Solemn assembly style. No jewellery so you don’t blind Ìrúnmọ̀lẹ̀ with bling.”

Roláyọ̀ snorted and both women burst into laughter. They drove in comfortable silence for a while.

“Are you sure about this, Mamz?” Mide asked quietly. They were on Third Mainland, stuck in slow-moving traffic behind a Julius Berger truck.

“I am sure,” Roláyọ̀ replied. She looked out of the window. She had been sure for months

Are you sure? was the first thing Mide asked that day, two and a half months ago, when Roláyọ̀ came to her house unannounced, her entire being frazzled, her eyes unfocused.

When she finally calmed down on Mide’s couch, she explained in an emotionless voice that her containers had been seized at customs and not only did she not have money to clear them, she also did not have money to repay the loan she took for the containers.

“My luck is terrible, Mamz.”

“Your luck is not bad,” Mide said, an arm around her shoulders.

Roláyọ̀ laughed mirthlessly. “Look at me. Look at my life. None of my businesses have worked. Bayo is useless. My children are—” She stopped, pressing her face into her palms, shocked by her own words.

It was not just the containers. She owed Mummy Junior for gold she could not afford but could not live without; she owed stylists for the many bùbás, olékù, and kàbà she loved; she owed her wig vendor. Sitting on Mide’s couch, she mentally tabulated the millions she owed and felt a despair so deep she began crying silently.

“I want to see your Baba,” she said finally, looking Mide square in the face.

“Roláyọ̀—”

“No. I must see him.”

Three years ago

They had gone out for a party – a birthday or wedding, she couldn’t quite recall, but she remembered they had been wearing matching aso ebi in honor of the celebrant(s) – and retired to Mide’s beautiful new house in Gbagada. Roláyọ̀ had decided to stay over, not wanting to face traffic.

They opened a bottle of wine and then a bottle of whiskey and before long, both women were tipsily recounting stories of their days at FGGC Ijaniki. They talked about Mide’s first marriage, rehashing the faults and cracks that led to her husband leaving her for an older woman. They spoke about Bayo, and Roláyọ̀’s deep disappointment and regret at marrying a man for a potential that had not and seemed would never materialize.

When they exhausted their relationship travails, they gossiped about their friends – Issy who moved to the UK and cut everyone off; Kosi who was dating a man young enough to be her son and Toromo with her addiction.

And then, when they reached the point of drunkenness where everything was funny, Roláyọ̀ asked Mide the one question her friend had never fully satisfactorily answered. “Mamz,” she asked, giggling, sliding from the leather chair to the camel skin rug that covered the entire living room.

“Yes?” Roláyọ̀ responded, giggling as well.

“Talk true. How did you get money for your dealerships?”

Mide had told her it was her inheritance from her father who passed away two years ago. Roláyọ̀ had been doubtful; Chief Ogunsemo was a rich man, but she could not reconcile the middle-class wealth with the hundreds of millions Mide’s businesses must have required. She had assumed that her friend must have some government connection; a minister or senator laundering money through the half dozen dealerships, high-end furniture shops and fine casual dining restaurants that Mide had established within an inordinately short period of time.

“My money,” Mide grinned widely and beckoned her friend closer. Roláyọ̀ moved until both women’s faces were close enough for them to smell each other’s alcohol laden breath. “Ogun owo,” Mide said and she leaned back laughing.

“Ogun owo?”

“Yes,” Mide answered still laughing. “Money ritual.”

Some of the alcohol haze cleared from Roláyọ̀’s head, “stop joking, now.” Mide sat up and slid down the leather chair again. She roused herself and sat up against the couch, “I am serious. I did money ritual. I used daddy.”

Roláyọ̀ burst out laughing, her drunkenness magnifying the hilarity of the situation, “please!”

“I am serious,” Mide said. “Mamz, look at me. I used my father for ritual. He didn’t die from sickness or anything. Come.” She stood up unsteadily and held her hand out to her friend, who took it cautiously, the ghost of laughter still on her face. Roláyọ̀ knew Mide was teasing but she wasn’t sure where the joke was headed.

Slowly, toddling, Mide led her friend upstairs, and walked to a room tucked into a corner – there were six bedrooms and bathrooms with two living rooms. The door was locked but curiously had a biometric machine affixed to the handle that Rolayo had never noticed. In fact, now that she thought about it, she had never thought of this room in all the dozens of times she had been in Mide’s house. Mide lived alone – her second husband and children were in the US – and rarely had visitors. None of her house staff lived on site, so the biometric door seemed excessive.

At this point, Roláyọ̀ felt uneasy, knowing instinctively whatever was behind the door was something she did not want to see.

“Do you want to see?” Mide asked calmly, daring her to say no. Roláyọ̀ nodded. Mide pressed her thumb against the pad, waited for the acceptance beep and then opened the door. Before entering she placed her hand into the room and turned on the light switch, flooding the room with bright white light. She opened the door wider and stepped in, waiting for Roláyọ̀ to do the same.

It was empty. The room had no furnishings except a white wardrobe to the left. Everything was white. The curtains, the tiles, the paint on the walls. Everything.

“Very funny,” Roláyọ̀ said rolling her eyes. Mide shook her head and walked towards the wardrobe. Roláyọ̀’s feet felt rooted to the spot where she stood as she watched her friend press her thumb to another pad affixed to the wardrobe.

“Come and see,” Mide said, a strange smile on her face. Roláyọ̀ walked slowly to the wardrobe and peeked around the door that Mide held open. She screamed loudly.

The wardrobe was bare except for an effigy of the late Chief Ogunsemo with eyes closed, dressed in a white and red robe. Her scream tapered off and she fainted.

When she came to, she was on the floor in the room, alone with the white wardrobe. She screamed again, scrambling towards the door on all fours, away from the wardrobe doors hiding the grotesque imitation of Mide’s father, frozen and bleached of life, propped against a wall, for his daughter’s perverse bidding.

She crawled out the room, stood unsteadily and ran downstairs.

Mide was in the dining room, waiting. “You are up,” she said mildly. Roláyọ̀ shook her head frantically, picked up her discarded bag and made her way to the door, flattening herself against the wall to maintain more distance from Mide.

“You know you cannot tell anyone what you saw,” Mide said standing, not quite blocking her way. “For your sake, Mamz. Please. I will explain everything—but you cannot tell anyone.” Roláyọ̀ nodded her head and ran out of the house. She kept running till she reached the estate gate.

The memory faded as the car slowed.

“We are here,” Mide said. “Are you sure? Once we enter, there’s no going back.”

Roláyọ̀ nodded. “I am sure.”

If Bayo would not be useful to her one way, he would be useful another.