Black Sunday. Tola Rotimi Abraham

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      This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

      Copyright © 2020 by Tola Rotimi Abraham

      All rights reserved

      ISBN: 978-1-948226-56-1

       Jacket design by Nicole Caputo

       Book design by Wah-Ming Chang

       Illustration by Nicole Caputo

      Catapult titles are distributed to the trade by Publishers Group West

      Phone: 866-400-5351

      Library of Congress Control Number: 2019944287

      Printed in the United States of America

      1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

      For Afolarori, Oluwatomi, Akinloluwa, and Oluwaseye

      Iya ni wura, Baba ni dingi.

      YORUBA PROVERB

      Mother is gold, Father is a mirror.

      CONTENTS

       Part 2

       How to Wear Mom’s Jeans

       How to Receive from God

       We have to Talk About Girls

       How to be the Teacher’s Pet

       Part 3

       How to Lose Your Lagos Lover

       Something Happened on the Way to Love

       Stacy’s Boys

       The Beautiful People and the Beloved Country

       Part 4

       This Old House

       Black Sunday

       Acknowledgments

       1

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       HOW TO BE A STUPID GIRL IN LAGOS

      BIBIKE

      1996

      THERE WERE MANY easy ways to be a stupid girl in Lagos. We were not stupid girls. We were bright with borrowed wisdom. We never paid full fare to drivers of yellow city cabs before we arrived at the final stop. We did not wear any kind of visible jewelry walking around busy streets like Balogun. When we went to Tejuosho market and a stranger shouted, “Hey. Fine girl. Stop, see your money for ground,” we never stopped to look.

      When many of the ECOMOG soldiers were returning from peacekeeping in Liberia, flush with UN dollars, we were still protected prepubescent girls, yet we knew to avoid the one we called Uncle Timo, the one who gave all the little girls Mills & Boon paperbacks wrapped in old newspapers.

      MY TWIN SISTER and I were almost stupid girls once, and this is how it begins, with Ariyike and me lost on our way home from school. I am holding on to her out of habit; she is pulling away, walking up to and talking to every stranger we meet, asking over and over, “Uncle, please, where can we get a bus to Fadeyi?”

      We are walking home from secondary school. Today is the first time we have been allowed to come home by ourselves. Our younger brothers, Andrew and Peter, attend Holy Child Academy, the primary school that shares a fence with the military cemetery where all the agbalumo trees grow. They don’t need to be picked up. The church bus drops them off every day at half past four.

      I am thinking of school and today’s government studies class and gerrymandering, how I like the way that word sounds, well calculated and important, like meandering, only with purpose. Everything is better with purpose.

      I am also thinking of Father, who likes to say our government studies teacher is verbose:

      “Mr. Agbo fancies himself a university lecturer, he is always going off tangent, completely missing the point.”

      And of Mother, who likes to say: “We pay a lot of money for you girls to go to that school.” Or: “You girls should listen to Mr. Agbo. He is a brilliant man.”

      We have walked for almost twenty minutes, and now we make our first stop, to buy roast plantains and groundnuts from the woman who is selling them under a 7 Up canopy. She is amused when we ask if she has any cold drinks for sale.

      “Can you see any fridge here?” she asks. “Will I keep the drinks in my brassiere?” We are waiting for our plantains when Ariyike stops a stranger on a motorcycle. He is a tall man wearing combat shorts and a black T-shirt that says GOT MILK? in bold white print. They take a few steps together, her listening, him pointing. When she is done, she comes back under the canopy. I clench my right fist

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