Tinuke is the only one not watching her father flail around in the water. She’s messaged a friend, changed back into jeans and a halter top, and sneaked away. Sami waits for her outside the front gate in his father’s Range Rover. They drive to the Eko Hotel where Sami buys drinks and they sit outside beneath a parasol. They chat, but mostly just smoke while Tinuke stares at the pool. “Wish they’d both drown,” she mutters, thinking of her father and his latest girlfriend.
“Forget about them,” Sami says, standing up. “At least you’ll soon be back at boarding school, at least your father has the money to send you away!”
“I don’t care about his money,” she snaps, wishing Sami didn’t have to bring everything back to money.
“Look, we’ve been here for hours, let’s go to the beach,” he suggests, trying to cheer her up.
“Not now.” She sighs, standing up. “Shit!” she whispers.
“What?”
Tinuke indicates with a jerk of her head.
“Shit,” Sami mumbles, turning to see the fat man striding toward them. Mr. Adewale glares angrily at the table with the bottles of beer, the half-eaten suya, and the empty pack of Marlboro Lights.
“Get out!” he shouts.
Sami backs away, but not before Mr. Adewale grabs him by the shirt and slaps him. Sami yelps in pain.
“Daddy!” Tinuke screams, wishing her friend wasn’t such a wimp, such a little boy.
Mr. Adewale takes his daughter and marches her past the hotel guests, back to his car. The driver, thinking he and the radio were all there would be for the next few hours, is dozing when Mr. Adewale arrives and flings his daughter across the backseat. In his rage, Mr. Adewale forgets that he’s brought Nadia to the hotel and left her waiting by the bar.
“Never,” he shouts at Tinuke, “will I see you with any stupid boys again, behaving like a tramp and a whore! And from now on, there’s no more going out! You hear? You hear?”
“Leave me!” she cries.
“Did you fuck him?” he shouts.
The driver glances in his rearview mirror, his eyes widening at the look of fury on the girl’s face as she leans forward. What he doesn’t see is how hard she’s squeezing her legs, her hands futile against her father’s hand, thrust between her thighs.
Back at the house, Mr. Adewale storms past the gardeners and the security guards who look away sheepishly, knowing they too will suffer for this.
“Leave me alone! Stop dragging me!” Tinuke screams, wriggling from her father’s grip.
“Come back!” he shouts, as Tinuke runs, clutching her face where he’s just slapped her. “Go outside and clean the pool. From now on you’ll stay at home. No going out and no returning to England! No more boarding school for you. You’re staying here, where I can keep my eye on you.”
“No way, I’m not staying!” Tinuke screams, running to her room and locking the door behind her.
An hour later, the house is quiet. Mr. Adewale, barely able to stand after the afternoon’s exertions, lies down. Mrs. Adewale watches him as he starts to snore, kisses her teeth in disgust, then returns to thoughts of what to wear for the evening prayer meeting. She cannot decide what is most likely to impress her new pastor. Straight-laced or seductive? Cheap or expensive? The church has just launched its sacrifice drive, requesting congregants to give at their highest level — in naira, dollars, pounds, or euros. Failing that, people can donate their cars, houses, or land. And seeing that she has helped the pastor redesign the pledge forms, she knows she must be careful not to dress too flamboyantly.
Mr. Adewale stirs. He sits up, still complaining of a headache. Mrs. Adewale sighs, goes to the bathroom, opens the medicine cabinet, and takes out some pills. “Here, dear,” she says, offering him more than he needs. He throws them back quickly, almost chocking on one before he stands up and waddles over to the window. “Careful,” she calls, guessing that the reason he races out has something to do with what he must have spotted his neighbors doing outside. But she has better things to do than fuss over him. She must dress for tonight and find out what that girl Cecilia is up to.
Cecilia is downstairs chopping plantains and wondering when Tinuke might reappear. She’s never seen so much anger on a child’s face. She heats her oil and starts frying the perfectly sliced yellow circles of which she is most proud, using a fork to turn them when they are golden. By next week, God willing, she’ll have other maids working for her. And all she’ll do is fry plantains and polish silver. But then, what is she thinking? If all goes according to plan, she’ll never have to work again. She forgets about Tinuke until she hears someone shouting and runs out to see what’s happening. Master is racing down the stairs, shirt undone. He opens the sliding doors that lead to the pool, and there is Tinuke, dressed in a red bikini, smoking.
“Tinuke!” Cecilia calls out in warning, seeing that the girl is wearing headphones and her eyes are closed. The father cannot abide cigarettes.
Seemingly unaware of who has just arrived, Tinuke dips a foot into the deep end and nonchalantly splashes water. Try me, she’s thinking, just try me, as her father rushes toward her.
“What are you wearing?” he shouts, snatching roughly at the strap of her bikini top. Tinuke’s hand moves as if to cover the exposed breast, only to lash out instead, striking him hard across his neck. Cecilia sees it all. One leg goes up, the other follows, and then he falls, banging his head on the concrete as he lands. For one uncertain moment, the head lolls back over the edge of the pool, and the shoulders follow, and then with a rapid whoosh and a half-hearted splash, all of him slips in and under. Tinuke throws the butt of her cigarette into the water after him. She waits for a minute, then another. Then she screams for help.
What Are You Going To Do?
by Adebola Rayo
Onikan
When the traffic inches forward, I watch as the wheel cover on the car ahead of me moves, jutting out ever so slightly and spinning almost independently of the wheel. For a brief moment, I imagine it flying off, cutting through my windscreen, and slicing my head down the middle. I hold onto that image, thinking it would be an interesting way to die. I only wonder if it would be painless, if I’d be dead before I realized what happened.
I imagine that the last thing I would see is the wheel cover hurtling through the air, and that I’d be shocked and fascinated by the horror of it, not knowing that it was coming for me. Would I die immediately, or would my head, split in two in the last moments of consciousness, recognize that my eyes were seeing from farther apart than usual?
The traffic is starting to build up. I knew it would if I left work this late, but my attempt to leave at five p.m. on the dot was thwarted when my boss dropped a folder on my desk at a quarter to five and sat on my table. I hated it when he did that. What was it about me that made him feel comfortable enough to plop himself on my desk? And why did he like these last-minute tasks so much? I was convinced he did it on purpose, deriving some sort of satisfaction from making me stay back. Knowing that, unlike my colleagues, I wouldn’t try to convince him to let me turn it in in the morning.