they would normally send me somewhere remote.’
‘Like Burundi.’
Deola nods. She need not pretend her job is as glamorous as Subu’s. She admires Subu’s business savvy. She was not as motivated as Subu was during their accountancy training. Subu was promoted to manager after she was made redundant. Subu was first to buy a flat.
‘What’s going on, Shoe Boo?’ she asks.
‘I thought I should check up on you.’
‘Have you decided on the flat?’
‘I’ve left it in God’s hands.’
God? Deola thinks. Doesn’t He have more important things to worry about than a speculative property investment in Shanghai? She was raised around Christian and Muslim relatives and celebrated Easter, Christmas and Eid ul-Fitr. In university, she dabbled in transcendental meditation and Quaker prayer meetings. She would have joined the Church of Scientology just to see what they had to offer if they hadn’t asked her to fill out a questionnaire. Subu was brought up in the Celestial Church of Christ. As a child, she wore white gowns and buried curses in the ground. Subu is now a member of an American Pentecostal church in London. It is democratic in the sense that anyone can be a pastor, and capitalistic in the sense that her pastor encourages his congregation to be prosperous. She attends single-women fellowships and prays that God will use her as a conduit. Deola finds it hard to take Subu’s church seriously, particularly as she grew up with Subu’s pastor and remembers him with a Jheri curl, dancing to the Gap Band’s ‘Oops Upside Your Head’. But she has seen how well Subu has done in her career and once in a while is tempted to join. Most of the time, it seems like a moral obligation to avoid churches like that, but perhaps God doesn’t give a hoot about hypocrisy or squandering of tithes. Perhaps all He really does care about is that He is loved, honoured and obeyed.
‘What are you doing this weekend?’ she asks.
Subu hisses. ‘I don’t know, but there is this car show.’
Subu’s ideal weekend outing is to the electronic shops on Tottenham Court Road. She gets excited about gadgets and machinery like digital cameras and surround-sound systems.
‘I was even at a funeral yesterday,’ she says.
‘Whose?’
‘One man in our church.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘They say it was his liver.’
‘Hah? Any kids?’
‘Three.’
‘Three.’
‘All under the age of ten.’
‘Please tell me his wife was working.’
‘I heard she was catering. I don’t know them very well.’
There is a Nigerian crowd in London that Deola is not part of. People who came in the nineties when the naira-to-pound exchange rate plunged. They came to work, not to study or to get professional training. They settled in Lewisham, Peckham, Balham and any other ‘-ham’ they could transform into a mini-Lagos. Through her church family, Subu gets invited to their owambe functions, where they dress up in aso ebi, play juju music, spray money and eat jollof rice and fried goat meat.
Deola finds it odd that Nigerians go to funerals as if they are social occasions that anyone can gate-crash – they just show up, look sad and leave. She has been to three funerals, all three in Nigeria. The first was her grandfather’s. Her mother had to pin her head tie in place. She was that young. The second was for a governor of her secondary school, Queen’s College. Her headmistress asked for class representatives and she put her hand up. The funeral was at Ikoyi Cemetery and she attended it in her Sunday uniform and beret. It was terribly hot and people arrived by the busload. The third was her father’s funeral at Victoria Court Cemetery and his was just as crowded. Her relatives forced her to dance at the reception following his funeral, but she didn’t think that at sixty-seven he was old enough for her to celebrate his life.
‘I’m going home soon,’ she says.
‘Anything?’ Subu asks.
‘I’m going for work. They want me to look at a couple of NGOs.’
‘Thank God,’ Subu says.
God again, Deola thinks. Is this a habit, an affectation or a fear of life? Whatever it is, it releases a puerile desire in her to upstage Subu by declaring she is a nonbeliever.
‘In Lagos?’ Subu asks.
‘One is in Lagos, the other is in Abuja. Nothing special, but my father’s five-year memorial will coincide and at least I can be with my family for that.’
‘How are they?’ Subu asks.
‘Fine.’
‘Still with the bank?’
‘Still with the bank.’
Deola’s mother lives in Lagos, as do her brother, Lanre, and sister, Jaiye. Her father was a founder and chairman of Trust Bank, Nigeria. Her mother owns shares in the bank. Lanre is deputy managing director of the bank. Jaiye is a doctor and her practice has a retainership with the bank. Her family has survived without her father, but it might not have without the bank.
She asks about Subu’s mother, who is also widowed and lives in Lagos.
‘My mother is well,’ Subu says. ‘Harassing me as usual.’
‘Still?’
The pressure to marry is relentless. Being single is like trying to convince a heckling audience your act is worth seeing. Subu could be the chairman of her bank and her mother would say, ‘But she could be married with children.’ Subu could be the prime minister of England and her mother would still say, ‘But she could be married with children.’
Deola worked as an account officer for Trust Bank after she graduated from LSE, during her national service year and the year after. Her mother tells her to come home for good, to work for the bank, by which she means Deola ought to find a man to settle down with. She drops hints like, ‘I saw this fellow and his wife. She’s expecting again,’ or ‘I saw so-and-so. They have another one on the way.’
‘My family wants me to come home for Christmas,’ Subu says.
‘Will you?’
‘Naija? Naija is too tough. No water, no light. Armed robbers all over the place and people demanding money. I told my mother to come here instead. I will send her money for a ticket. Let her come here and relax.’
Subu, too, has a British passport. She refers to Nigeria as home, but she never goes back. She sends money home to her family and her mother stays with her whenever she is in London, sometimes for months. Nigeria, for her, is a place to escape from.
‘Are you going home for Africa Beat?’ she asks.
‘Africa Beat is based in South Africa.’
‘Why?
