hush, your grammar is too much,” she said.
On the road to the park we kept to the sandy sidewalk. I planned to stay at the picnic until six-thirty if the rain didn’t unleash. My mother was at a vigil, and my father wouldn’t be back until late, he said. The sun was mild and a light breeze cooled our faces. Along the way, I noticed that a few drivers slowed as they passed us and kept my face down in case the next car was my father’s. Sheri shouted out insults in Yoruba meanwhile: “What are you looking at? Yes you. Nothing good will come to you, too. Come on, come on. I’m waiting for you.”
By the time we reached the park, my eyes were streaming with tears.
“That’s enough,” she ordered.
I bit my lips and straightened up. We were beautiful, powerful, and having more fun than anyone else in Lagos. The sun was above us and the grass, under our feet.
The grass became sea sand and I heard music playing. Ikoyi Park was an alternative spot for picnics. Unlike the open, crowded beaches, most of it was shaded by trees which gave it a secluded air. There were palm trees and casuarinas. I saw a group gathered behind a row of cars. I was so busy looking ahead I tripped over a twig. My sandal slipped off. Sheri carried on. She approached two boys who were standing by a white Volkswagen Kombi van. One of them was Damola, the other wore a black cap. A portly boy walked over and they circled her. I hurried to catch up with them as my heart seemed to punch through my chest wall.
“We had to walk,” Sheri was saying.
“You walked?” Damola asked.
“Hello,” I said.
Damola gave a quick smile, as if he had not recognized me. The other boys turned their backs on me. My heartbeat was now in my ears.
Sheri wiggled. “How come no one is dancing?”
“Would you like to?” Damola asked.
I hugged myself as they walked off, to make use of my arms. The rest of my body trembled.
“How long have you been here?” I asked the portly boy.
The boys glanced at each other as if they hadn’t understood.
“I mean, at the party,” I explained.
The portly boy reached for his breast pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes.
“Long enough,” he said.
I moved away. These boys didn’t look like they answered to their parents anyway. The portly one had plaits in his hair and the boy with the cap wasn’t even wearing a shirt under his dungarees. Damola, too, looked different out of school uniform. He had cut-off sleeves and his arms dangled out of them. He was smaller than I’d dreamed; a little duller, but I’d given him light, enough to blind myself. I pretended to be intrigued by the table where a picnic had been laid. The egg sandwich tasted sweet and salty. I liked the combination and gobbled it up. Then I poured myself a glass from the punch bowl. I spat it back into the cup. It was full of alcohol.
The music stopped and started again. Sheri continued to dance with Damola. Then with the boy in the cap, then with the portly boy. It was no wonder other girls didn’t like her. She was not loyal. I was her only girl friend, she once wrote in a letter. Girls were nasty and they spread rumors about her, and pretended to be innocent. I watched her play wrestle with the portly boy after their dance. He grabbed her waist and the other two laughed as she struggled. If she preferred boys, she was free to. She would eventually learn. It was obvious, these days, that most of them preferred girls like Sheri. Whenever I noticed this, it bothered me. I was sure it would bother me even if I was on the receiving end of their admiration. Who were they to judge us by skin shades?
I walked toward the lagoon where the sand was moist and firm, and sat on a large tree root. Crabs dashed in and out of holes and mud-skippers flopped across the water. I searched for my home. The shore line curved for miles and from where I sat I could not see it.
“Hi,” someone said.
He stood on the bank. His trouser legs were rolled up to his ankles and he wore bookish black rim glasses.
“Hello,” I said.
“Why aren’t you dancing?” he asked.
He was too short for me, and his voice wavered, as if he were on the verge of crying.
“I don’t want to.”
“So why come to a party if you don’t want to dance?”
I resisted the urge to frown. That was the standard retort girls expected from boys and he hadn’t given me the chance to turn him down.
He smiled. “Your friend Sheri seems to be enjoying herself. She’s hanging around some wild characters over there.”
That wasn’t his business, I wanted to say.
He pushed his glasses back. “At least tell me your name.”
“Enitan.”
“I have a cousin called Enitan.”
He would have to leave soon. He hadn’t told me his own name.
“Would you like to dance?” he asked.
“No, thanks.”
“Please,” he said, placing his hands together.
I swished my feet around the water. I could and then go home.
“All right,” I said.
I remembered that I sat on my sandals. Reaching underneath to pull them out, I noticed a red stain on my dungarees.
“What?” he asked.
“I’m sorry. I don’t want to dance.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t.”
“But you said... ”
“Not anymore.”
He stood there. “That’s the problem with you. All of you. You’re not happy until someone treats you badly, then you complain.”
He walked away with a lopsided gait and I knew he’d had polio. I considered calling after him. Then I wondered why I had needed to be asked to dance in the first place. I checked the stain on my dungarees instead.
It was blood. I was dead. From then on I watched people arrive and leave. More were dancing and their movements had become lively. Some stopped by the bank to look at me. I tried to reason that they would eventually leave. The day could not last forever. For a while a strange combination of rain and sunset occurred, and it seemed as if I was viewing the world through a yellow-stained glass. I imagined celestial beings descending and frightened myself into thinking that was about to happen today. My feet became wrinkled and swollen. I checked my watch; it was almost six o’clock. The music was still playing, and the picnic table had been cleared. Only Sheri, Damola, and his two friends remained. They stood by a Peugeot, saying goodbye
