The Angels Are Upon Us

Mom is fond of saying the angels are upon us every time something good happens to us unexpectedly. Last week, we were in the kitchen peeling yams on wooden stools with the door wide open because there was no light and it was stuffy. Using her arm to wipe the sweat off her face, Mummy had said, 'It's too hot. I hope they bring light soon' and on cue, the ceiling fan began to move and the fluorescent lamp buzzed twice before switching on. She had sighed in relief as she dropped the yam she was holding in order to enjoy the soothing breeze of the fan above us. The pores on our skin were on fire and like water, the breeze had quenched the flames. Mummy looked at me some seconds later before she smiled and said, 'Ah, the angels are upon us.'

Today, as she stirs the pot of beans she’s preparing for dinner I ask, 'Mom, why do you always say that phrase?'

She replies, 'I say it because I know God has seen that we need some help and has sent the angels down to assist us.'

'Why don't you think it's God helping us on His own?'

'He's helping us through the angels. You have to understand that God is God and the angels help Him carry out different tasks while He works on the big ones like your daddy’s job. Isn't it God that made the rich man down the road hire your daddy to make the furniture for his new house?’

I nod in agreement. Ever since Dad was hired to make furniture for Mr. Bello —the rich man that lived down the road— he'd been able to pay for my brother and I's tuition fees without a problem. 'It’s truly the work of God,' I say. 'But Mom, what makes you think more than one angel is upon us?'

'We all have two angels watching over us, that's why I believe they move in groups of two. I also believe that it's only the angels of higher ranking that work alone. Why do you think Angel Jibril was responsible for revealing the Quran to Prophet Muhammad peace be upon him, and Angel Mikail is responsible for the rewards given to good people in this life?' She pauses for a few seconds before she continues; the confidence is obvious in her voice now.

'That is my theory anyway.'

I laugh. Mom has so many theories that it is impossible to keep up with all of them. I watch as she taps the edge of the wooden spoon on her palm before licking the small trail of beans and pepper the spoon leaves. She nods at the taste before replacing the lid on the pot.

'Falila, bring out the plantains from the store,' she says.

I go into the store to find the plantains. It's a small room in the kitchen, about the same size as a broom closet but wider. It has provisions arranged on the wooden shelves and baskets of onions, yams and potatoes on the floor. The basket for plantains is empty.

'Mummy, the plantains have finished.' I say as I walk out of the tiny room.

'Then you'll have to buy some from Mrs Tijani. I told your daddy that he would have beans and plantain tonight. The man has even sent a text saying he's looking forward to dinner.'

'I'm not surprised. That man likes food too much,' I say mischievously.

'Let him hear you,' she says as she eyes me. 'It's because I play with you too much that you think you can make fun of my husband. Your sharp mouth will soon put you into trouble,' she warns as she pretends to slap me with the back of her hand. I feel the heat of the slap that could have been anyway.

'Sorry mom , I got carried away.' I laugh nervously.

She waves my apology away with her hand as she unfolds the inside of her wrapper to reveal folded amounts of money.

'Buy six yellow plantains. Make sure they aren't too soft. I don't want to drink oil tonight,' she teases. She has started again.

'Mummy don't start this soft plantain versus hard plantain argument again. You want to start an argument?' She laughs deeply as I say exactly what she expected me to say.

'There's nothing to argue about. Soft plantain isn't appealing at all. At all, at all,' she says as she shakes her head vigorously.

'I'm going to leave before this argument intensifies but I want you to know that soft plantain is the reason many men make love to their wives at night.' I begin to back away quickly.

'I will sit on this child!' She screams as she chases me out of the kitchen. 'And change out of those basketball shorts before you leave this house,' I hear her shout as I run up the stairs. I could still hear her laughing as she walks back into the kitchen.

Mummy told me I had the freedom to dress as I pleased in the house but if I were to step out, I would have to leave in a skirt or dress. As I take off my shorts, I remember the last time I'd worn them had been during a fight with Fatiu, my brother. Fatiu is a year older than me. We both attend the University of Lagos but anytime Fatiu sees me in public he pretends he doesn't know me. I can't blame him, though. He's popular on campus and I don't live up to the name of being his sister because I prefer to wear baggy jeans and basketball jerseys instead of heels and fashionable outfits. I don't even wear makeup.

Anyway, on the day we fought, he was angry at me for some reason so we argued in the compound.

'I will beat you', he shouted.

'Come and beat me, if you have the liver.' I retorted.

He approached me and we began to wrestle like village men competing for a title. As we scuffled, we were oblivious to the sound of footsteps coming towards us. The only sounds we could hear were the abuses we rained on each other and groans as we struggled to grab each other's legs in order for us to lift and slam our opponent onto the ground. Once that happened, the fight would be over until another day. I heard someone exclaim 'Ah!' but we carried on fighting. Fatiu had left a spot open so I was able to carry his skinny legs and lift his equally skinny body onto my back.

'Ah!' the voice exclaimed again.

I slammed Fatiu onto the ground.

'AH!' the voice screamed. 'Fatiu! Come here.'

I looked up and had seen Dad's tall and lanky frame standing a few feet away from us. His dark face attempted to fight the laughter erupting from his mouth and failed terribly. Fatiu had gotten up from the ground, dusted off his clothes and walked towards him slowly. The shame was evident on his face.

Realising that he couldn't fight it any longer, Daddy allowed himself to laugh till all form of humour had left his body, then he became serious and asked, 'Do you think it's good to put your hands on women? Answer me.'

I couldn't see Fatiu's face from where I was standing but I was sure his face contorted before he whined, 'But Dad, she's the one who—'

'Shut up! I've told you not put to put your hands on women. Haven't I?'

'Yes sir', Fatiu mumbled. At that point, I could detect the mixture of anger and shame emitting from Fatiu's pores.

Dad is a woman's right activist, which is sort of rare because as he stated, most men his age didn't know jack about women's rights nor acknowledged that women should have rights at all. The day the gender equality bill was rejected in Nigeria, Dad had come home in a dark mood and didn't speak to any of us until dinnertime. At the dinner table, he'd expressed his disbelief that a bill able to move the country one step forward even if it was at the pace of a turtle, could be rejected due to misogyny and misdirected religious beliefs. He'd also stated that this decision had taken the country several steps back into the olden days. Due to all the discussions he had with his mother as a child about real life issues, Dad ensured he had the same discussions with us. Last week's topic had been about violence. A man shouldn't hit a woman and woman shouldn't hit a man. Period. The message was loud and clear. So Fatiu felt guilty because he'd disobeyed Daddy. He hated disappointing our father.

'If you'd been eating like we've been advising you to, do you think your sister would have been able to carry you like that? See what has happened now. Go inside my friend.' He hissed.

I tried to explain to Dad about our genes and the fact that we'd inherited his lanky frame. He'd listened to my explanation before stating that people could also be shaped by their environment and then went on to give me work that involved researching the nature versus nurture debate. Sometimes, strangers are amazed at how intelligent my father is because he makes furniture. They have no idea that if he'd been given the opportunity to go to university he might have ended up being a professor or even a doctor. Despite being poverty-stricken, my father has never allowed poverty stop him from acquiring knowledge.

Fatiu walked inside quickly, mumbling in anger as he took each step. Then Dad turned to look at me and raised up his arms with balled fists, the way people do when they hail someone.

'Queen Falila. I hail you. You beat your brother in a fight? Champion.' he sang as he walked towards me, shaking his levitated arms for emphasis. I blushed. Fatiu had been scolded while I'd been hailed; the score between us was now 2-0 with me in the lead. I was so distracted that I didn't see Dad reach out and pull one of my ears till I felt a sharp tug.

'Ouch, Dad.' I said in pain.

'What was last week's topic of discussion on? You never listen to instructions.' He said as he twisted my ear harder. I winced; it felt as if my ear was on fire.

'You can't seem to comprehend that you're no longer in secondary school. You should act like a lady. If I see you fight again, I will deal with you mercilessly,' he warned as he gave my ear a final twist before letting it go.

'Now, get out of my sight and change out of those ugly basketball shorts.'

****

As I walk out of our compound, I'm greeted by the noise of horns as a number of vehicles zoom past. We live in a house around the Anthony area and living here is to live with the knowledge that peace can only come at night. The horns of cars in traffic are the songs we hear constantly around here, and what contribute to the traffic are the narrow roads and the presence of businesses. The parking spaces for these businesses are usually small areas in front of the building itself. Chains attached to stands with 'No Parking' signs on them prevent outsiders from obstructing some of these parking spaces. It can be a place of confusion where looks of frustration are observed on the faces of people driving home from work and on the faces of passengers in yellow buses, sweating as they wait in the traffic that is usually along the entire expressway. Despite all of that, Anthony can also be a place of joy where old Nigerian songs can be heard at loud volumes on certain streets filled with buildings that have supermarkets with red Coca-Cola signboards bearing the name of the shop and wooden kiosks in front of others.

I walk past the Mosque as I make my way to Mrs Tijani's kiosk. Mrs. Tijani has been my mother's best friend since they were children. They grew together in Ibadan and moved to Lagos around the same time before they got married and moved into the same neighbourhood. They are entirely different from each other in terms of looks and personality. My mother is short and petite with fair skin while Mrs.Tijani is tall and curvy with dark skin. My mother is outgoing and a chatterbox while Mrs. Tijani is quiet and reserved but unlike my mother she can be extremely intimidating when she wants to be.

The windows in the Mosque are open and I can see children having their Arabic lessons; their mouths are moving as they repeat after the teacher. I can still remember my Arabic lessons in this Mosque and I begin to recite the Arabic alphabets as I approach the main road. There are a number of traders selling different foodstuffs weighed down on wooden tables on both sides of the road. Mrs.Tijani and her juicy plantains come into view as I recite to myself.

Alif.

Mrs. Tijani roasts plantains in addition to selling them and the aroma has travelled along the road and into my nostrils.

Baa.

Maybe I'd buy one or two in case Mummy wants as well.

Taa.

Someone is walking very close to me even though there's a lot of space around. It's making me uncomfortable.

Thaa.

I quicken my pace. Two more steps and I'd be directly in front of Mrs.Tijani.

'Jiim—'

The person grabs a handful of my shirt and makes me stop in fear.

'I will tear your shirt if you do not give me your number,' a voice says roughly.

I look down at the hand holding my shirt. The hand is covered in little scars and I can see the outline of veins, it looks as if it's ready to yank my shirt off my body any minute. I look up at the person. I have never seen this man in my life, yet he looks at me as if I owe him money.

'Ehn?' I ask. There is no way he said that he'd tear my shirt if I didn't give him my number.

'I said if you don't give me your number, I will tear your shirt', he says again.

His dark face is frowning but I can tell he's about the same age as me. Twenty. Twenty-one. Whatever. I'm distracted by the disgust on his face. He's looking at me as if I smell and it irritates me because it's clear his aggression is masking some sort of insecurity. He's probably afraid I'd reject him and in order for him to prevent that, he's decided to grab my shirt so he can get what he wants without a fight. Typical.

'Remove your hand from my shirt!' I shout. His grip tightens.

'I will tear your shirt o!' He shouts back. 'Give me your number.'

'Are you crazy? I said you should leave my shirt and you're still asking for my number.'

'See ehn, I will show you madness today. Do you think I don't know who you are? Your father makes furniture and you go to the University of Lagos. Do you think you are better than me because you're in university? I also went to school oh and I can speak good English.'

I become terrified. I want to ask how he knows all these things about me but he's speaking quickly without allowing room for interruption.

'I went to Arabic school with you and you never noticed me then. I always see you walking around here, buying plantains from this woman,' he says as he points to Mrs. Tijani.

My fear prevents me from speaking. When someone tells you details of your life like that, you can't help but feel exposed. It's as if the person has stripped you of your clothes and has left you to stand naked in the middle of the road for everyone to see.

A party had been thrown for me at the Arabic school when I'd gotten admission into UNILAG earlier this year. Had he been there? How many times had he seen me buy plantains from Mrs. Tijani? Had he been planning to accost me all along? Did he know where I lived?

'Please, let go of my shirt,' I say.

'Give me your number.'

'Let go of my shirt.'

'Give me your number.'

'I'm not giving you my number so you better let go of my shirt!' I scream.

Everyone is watching now but no one tries to do anything about it.

Some shout, 'You're playing hard to get. Give him your number,' in Yoruba.

Others yell, 'Give him what number? See the way he's holding her. Does he want to tear her clothes?'

Yet no one tries to help me.

This man isn't Fatiu that I can slam onto the ground. This man could strip me naked without any effort.

As we stare at each other, I know neither of us is going to give in. It seems as if we're both going to die here. As tears form at the bottom of my eyes, I wish I hadn't wasted time teasing Mummy or changing my clothes. If I'd left the house immediately after receiving the money for the plantains, I doubt I would have run into this man then I wouldn't have to be here, humiliated as I wait for a strange man to decide my fate. Finally, someone walks towards me from behind. It's Mrs. Tijani.

'Leave her alone. What kind of rubbish is this? Do you want to tear her shirt? You better leave this place before I open my eyes.' She shouts as she closes her eyes.

There is fear in his own eyes as he immediately lets go of my shirt. I'm surprised at how quickly he lets go but maybe it's because he didn't expect anybody to help me. The fact that Mrs Tijani poses as an obstacle to his goal scares him to the point that he begins to back away, quickly. As I said before, she can be extremely intimidating when she wants to be.

I sigh in relief and think the ordeal is over but he begins to shout 'Prostitute! Prostitute! You will not give me your number but you can give it to old men and lecturers! Prostitute!'

He shouts with such vigour that it seems as if I've stolen something from him and he's shouting 'Thief! Thief!'

Mrs Tijani grabs my arm, drags me to her stall and attempts to distract me by asking how many plantains I want. I'm still shaking from anger and fear so I find it hard to focus on the words coming out of her mouth. I study the plantains and choose the six I want, trying to distract myself from the man that is still shouting behind me. I can hear him walking backwards into the road as he screams. Can't he just leave?

'This child isn't watching where he's going', the woman on the table next to Mrs Tijani says in Yoruba. She's about to warn the young man to watch where he's going but Mrs Tijani puts her hand on the woman's thigh and signals at her not to say anything. I am no longer paying attention as I count the right amount to give Mrs Tijani.

'Idiot. Do you think you're better than me? Stupid girl. Prosti-'

It happens so fast; the screeching of a vehicle, the sound of impact and finally, silence as though an angel had passed by. Then chaos follows.

Everyone on the street is focused on the scene behind me. The woman next to Mrs Tijani is on her feet, trying to see what has happened.

I finally turn to see a body in the middle of the ground covered in dust. The body is moving, and some people are checking to see how badly the man has been injured. Luckily, he's only sustained minor injuries on his body and a gash on his forehead.

A trail of blood rolls down the side of his face as more people run towards the man to help him. The driver of the yellow bus that hit him is pacing back and forth in anguish while his passengers alight the bus to take a glimpse at the fate of the man on the ground. I can't help but think of the traffic this accident would have caused if the man had been killed. It's close to rush hour, Dad will be home soon and Mom will be wondering what's taking me so long.

The man takes heavy breaths as he remains on the ground in shock and pain. He turns his head to look in my direction and catches my gaze. A thought comes in to my mind that I try to flick away, but it lingers like the sound of a mosquito flying around my ear. It demands attention and a reaction and so I react, by laughing.

I walk closer to the man and I look him in the eye and say 'Look at where your entitlement has put you. You said you know good English right? So you must know what entitlement means. Fool.'

One of the spectators that watched as the man held my shirt shouts, 'Ahn ahn, is that fair? A bus hit the man and you're abusing him. Shame on you.'

I wave my hand in dismissal. 'Mister man, please mind your business. Were you not part of the people watching as he harassed me? Shame on you!' The spectator keeps quiet and looks away uncomfortably.

As the man that harassed me remains on the ground, groaning in pain and embarrassment, one of the passengers from the bus shouts, 'Stand up now, do you want to cause traffic?'

I laugh to myself as I return to the side of the road to collect the bag of plantains from Mrs Tijani.

'Thank you', I say. My gratitude is not just for the plantains.

She smiles in response and I smile back as I begin to walk back home.

Dare Art Alade's 'Fuji Music' is playing loudly, drowning out the horns of vehicles and the chatter of the people gathered around the injured man on the ground. When I reach the end of the street, I look back and see that the man has been carried to a bench on the side of the road and the passengers of the yellow bus have re-entered the vehicle. Someone is tending to the gash on the man's forehead as he winces in pain. His right hand is covering his face, as if he's embarrassed about his accident, and my heart can't help but feel vindicated.

 The upbeat tempo of ‘Fuji Music’ passes through my ears again and I dance to the beat in response while singing along. With everything that transpired between the man and me at the main road, it's safe to say that Mummy was right; the angels are upon us.

A gust of wind encircles me with the same rotating movement of a tornado and I imagine the wings of my two angels fanning me as they dance by my side. They may have flown me home without my knowledge because I return in good time and the plantains are sizzling in hot oil before the horn of Dad's car announces his return.