Episode 1:
The Fire that Brought Our New Neighbors
It all started
with fire. The fire that burnt our neighbor’s house started in the middle of
the day, the time when most people are at work. But there are those whose place
of employment is the
home, and thanks to one of such people, a major disaster was averted.
The first person
to see smoke billowing from the visitor’s bedroom on the ground floor was the
house help next door. The house that caught fire was between two houses:
our house was on the left, and the house where this house help lived was on the right.
It was this house
help, according to another
neighbor, Mrs. Hassan, a retiree who lived further down the street,
who began to shout:
“Fire! Fire!
Somebody house dey burn o! Make una bring water!”
A flurry of
security guards, gatemen, meyguards, houseboys from the neighboring houses, and
other people who happened to be at home, pumped with adrenaline, scaled the
fence on the side of the alarm-raising house help’s house, which thankfully did
not have any barbed wire on it, and attacked the fire with a water hose and
buckets of water.
Before they began,
one of them had the sense to remove the “cut-out” for the house, turning off
the electricity.
This, they later
discovered, was a wise move, because the fire was caused by a faulty electronic
appliance.
By the time they
quenched the fire, it had already destroyed the visitor’s bedroom.
However, the flames did not reach the kitchen, which had two large gas
cylinders. A real blessing.
My family came
home to hear the good news: the fire did not spread to our house. Even
better, Mr. Martins, the unfortunate neighbor, and his family would be moving
out of the damaged house permanently.
Their moving out
brought an end to the nightmare that was Mr. Martins.
You see, while
others were busy with family devotion at 5:00am in the morning, this man
decided that reggae music was the best way to start his own day. And he
would play it at eardrum-bursting levels. Neighbors had called meetings, begged
him, and some had even threatened him to no avail.
“For the amount of
money I pay as rent in this house, I can play anything I like, whenever I like.” That was his defense.
So when Mr.
Martins and his family left our neighborhood, we celebrated. But if we
had known who was coming in his stead, we might have been less jubilant.
For months, the
house remained vacant and no effort was made to repair the damage.
However, one
Saturday morning, we woke up to the noise of a bull-dozer knocking down the
entire structure. As we later learned, someone was interested in that
property, but that
someone did not like
the architecture of the house as it stood.
So, the house was
knocked to the ground, and a new, ultra-modern, more-pleasing-to-the-eye
structure was erected in its place.
One month after
its completion, the new owners moved in.
It was the boy I
saw first, a smallish, big-headed, weak-looking thing who was probably 9 years
old. His name was Tokunbo, and I remember silently making another vow to myself never to marry a short
man.
He was the first
to climb out of the car, followed by his sister, who was taller than him but
was far younger. Her name was Omoyele, and even then, I thought she was
beautiful.
Lastly their
mother stepped out of the car, but her voice had travelled ahead of her body as
she harshly scolded the children for rushing out of the car before her. She
climbed out of the passenger seat on the other side, while the driver waited in
the car. We did not know they were the new owners until suitcases followed a
few minutes later.
It was then we
knew they had come to stay.
The owner of the
house was Mrs. Kofoworola Williams, a successful business woman, but more so, a
trouble maker who was used to getting what she wanted. Ever the social climber,
she was the sort of woman whose feet rarely stayed at home.
Once we became
aware of these facts, it came as no surprise to us to learn that within a week
of moving into our neighborhood, this woman had joined a local Pentecostal
church two streets away. Not too long afterwards, all sorts of reports, gist really, began
to reach our ears about Mrs. Williams and the dust she was raising in her
church.
To be clear, the
gist first reached the ears of Rosemary our house help, who then fed the gist
in juicy bite-sized morsels to my mother whose appetite for local gossip was
legendary.
While they were
seasoning the chicken for lunch on Sunday afternoon, Rosemary launched into a
detailed account of the latest thing Mrs.
Williams had done in church that very morning.
Apparently, after
the church service, Mrs. Williams had marched to the Media Ministry’s booth at
the back of the spacious church auditorium, and demanded to know why the camera
man did not focus on her face, for even one minute, during the two-hour
service.
Facing Mr. Lasisi,
the head of the ministry, who happened to be the only person available at the
time she arrived, she said:
“I pay my tithes
and offerings here. So, why didn’t you show me on the telly?”
“I don’t
understand Madam,” said Mr. Lasisi, clearly confused. “Is that what
you’re here for? Didn’t you come to worship God?”
Waving away his
questions, she said:
“Look at me well well.”
Mr. Lasisi who was
already looking at her well
well nodded
his head and said:
“Madam?”
Then, she twirled
around slowly, and repeated herself.
“Look at me well well.”
This time, Mr.
Lasisi said nothing, but just stared. She continued.
“You see me so? Am
I not fine?”
Mr. Lasisi was
dumbfounded. Sensing that this was no ordinary church member, he decided
to take a calmer approach.
Lowering his voice
by several decibels, he swallowed a bit, and said:
“See, Madam, we
are not here for–”
“Oga,
I said check me well
well. Am I not fine?”
At this point, Mr.
Lasisi realized she was not trying to get an actual answer from him, but wanted
him to listen to her.
“Okay,
Madam. I am hearing you.”
A smile spread on
her lips and then she said:
“God bless
you. Now, as I was saying, I am a fine woman. I don’t need anybody
to tell me that. If you look me up and down–” and here, she tilted the
well-manicured hand clutching the fuchsia purse at an angle and slowly swiped
the air upwards and then downwards, to match the words “up and down,” before
proceeding.
“–You can see for
yourself. See my dress. Is it not fine?” she asked, referring to
the sleeveless shiny gray dress she wore, with its slight V-neck. It
stopped slightly above the knee, showing off her long, toned legs.
“Yes, Madam.
It’s fine,” said Mr. Lasisi, his eyes appreciating first God’s creation, and
then acknowledging the elegance of her dress. He had figured out that she
didn’t want him to argue with her. Just listen. The sooner he did,
the faster she could finish and eventually, leave.
“Good. You
get me,” she said with a smile before continuing. “Now, those people you
show on the telly … or TV screen … Whatever you want to call it. Is their
cloth finer than my own?”
Without waiting
for a response from her only audience, she responded with a booming, “No.”
Then, she said:
“I bought this hat
–” she began, pointing with her clutch-wielding hand towards the elaborate
fuchsia, wide-brimmed Sinamay hat
elegantly placed on her head, “–from London, this shoe–” and here, she pointed
again at the matching, pointed-toe, pink leather sling backs that adorned her
dainty feet, “–from Italy, and this dress from Paris. You know what? That
makes me international. I-n-t-e-r-n-a-t-i-o-n-a-l.”
“So–” here she
reverted to a little Yoruba for help, not caring whether or not the man who
stood before he spoke or even understood a lick of Yoruba, “–e
jowo, e dakun, show me on the telly. God bless you.”
Mr. Lasisi who
thought he had seen it all, but apparently hadn’t, responded with:
“We will do our
best, Madam. God bless you too.”
That was the story
Rosemary told my mother that afternoon, and by the time she finished relating
what Mrs. Williams said to other people that same day, the pressure pot
containing the seasoned chicken was hissing, signaling that the chicken was
cooked and ready for stage two: frying. Stage three, of course, was
stewing.
By the time we sat
down to lunch that afternoon, I decided one thing: I did not like Mrs.
Williams, and I wanted nothing to do with her or her children.
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