She mobilized quickly, dispensing orders to her osu women via intercom. Ejem had yet to see any of the osu at work, but whenever she returned to her quarters from Odinaka’s or Doreen’s, her bed was made, the bathroom mirror cleared of flecks, the scabs of toothpaste scrubbed from the sink, and the rooms themselves held an indefinable feeling of having only just been vacated.
In less than the hour it took Ejem and the other residents to get themselves ready for the party, Odinaka’s quarters had become packed. Men and women, all clothed except Doreen, mingled and chatted. Doreen held court on the settee, sipping wine and bestowing coy smiles.
Ejem tried to join in, but even with the self-cloth, she couldn’t help feeling like the uncovered woman she’d been her entire adult life. Odinaka tried to draw Ejem into her circle of conversation, but after Ejem managed only a few stilted rejoinders, she edged away, sparing herself further embarrassment. Ejem ended up in a corner watching the festivities.
She was not aware that she herself was being watched until a man she’d seen bowing theatrically to Odinaka leaned against the wall next to her.
“So you’re the newest one, huh?”
“I suppose I am.”
“You seem reasonable enough. Why are you unclaimed?”
Ejem tensed, wary.
“What’s that supposed to mean, ‘reasonable’?”
He ignored the question.
“Do you know I have been trying to claim that woman ever since she was a girl?” He nodded toward Odinaka. “Our union would have been legendary. The greatest cloth weaver with the greatest cotton grower. What do you think?”
Ejem shrugged. It was really none of her business.
“Instead she’s busy collecting debris.”
Stunned by his rudeness, Ejem turned away, but he only laughed and called to someone across the room. Suddenly every laugh seemed directed at her, every smile a smirk at her expense. She felt herself regressing into the girl who’d needed Chidinma’s tight grip in hers before she could walk with her head high. She ducked out, intending to return to her quarters.
She ran into Delilah, who held a carved box under her arm, a prized family heirloom Ejem recognized from their many gatherings. It was one of the few objects Odinaka envied, as she could not secure one herself, unable to determine the origin of the antique. She was forever demanding that Delilah bring it out to be admired, though Delilah refused to let Odinaka have it examined or appraised, perfectly content to let her treasure remain a mystery.
Ejem didn’t particularly like Delilah. She might have been a mini Odinaka, but unlike Odinaka, Delilah was pretentious and wore her fine breeding on her sleeve. Ejem’s distress was visible enough that Delilah paused, glancing between her and the door that muted the soiree.
“Is everything okay?” she asked.
Ejem nodded, but a tight nod that said it was not. She watched Delilah’s concern war with the promise of fun on the other side of the door. Delilah’s movements, a particular twist in her shoulders, the way she clenched her fist, an angled tilt of her head, suddenly brought to Ejem’s mind the osu woman on the bus. Something must have crossed her face, because Delilah lifted a furtive, self-conscious hand to pat her hair into place—right where an identifying scar would have been if a government midwife had scored it into her head when she was six months old and then refreshed it on return visits every two years until she turned eighteen. That practice was the extent of Ejem’s osu knowledge. Her people lived side-by-side with the osu and they knew nothing of each other.
Looking at Delilah’s box, it occurred to Ejem that an osu girl—if she were clever enough, audacious enough, in possession of impossibly thick hair—could take her most prized possession—say, a fine carved box that had been in the family for many generations—and sneak away in the middle of the night. She could travel farther than she had ever been in her life, to a city where no one knew her. And because she was clever, she could slip seamlessly into the world of the people she knew so well because she’d had to serve them all her life.
Before the thought could take hold, the uncertainty in Delilah’s face was replaced by an artificial sweetness, and she patted Ejem’s shoulder, saying, “Rest well, then,” before escaping into the party.
Ejem was awoken at dawn by the last of the revelers leaving. She stayed in her apartment till eight, then took advantage of Odinaka’s open-door policy to enter her benefactor’s apartment. If she hadn’t been there herself, she would never have believed it had been filled with partiers the night before. In three hours someone, or several someones, had transformed the wreckage of fifty guests—Ejem remembered at least two spilled wineglasses and a short man who’d insisted on making a speech from an end table—back into the clean, modern lines preferred by one of the wealthiest women in the world. A woman who apparently collected debris, like her. She wasn’t exactly sure what she wanted to say to Odinaka—she couldn’t childishly complain that one of the guests had insulted her—but she felt injured and sought some small soothing.
She found Odinaka lounging in her bed, covers pulled to her waist.
“Did you enjoy yourself, Ejem? I saw you talking to Aju. He just left, you know.” She wiggled her brows.
Well. Ejem couldn’t exactly condemn him now. “We had an interesting conversation,” she said instead.
“‘Interesting,’ she says. I know he can be difficult. Never mind what he said.”
Odinaka pressed the intercom and requested a breakfast tray, then began to recap the night, laughing at this and that event she didn’t realize Ejem hadn’t been there to see.
After ten minutes she pressed the intercom again. “Where is my tray?” she demanded, a near shout.
Catching Ejem’s expression, she rolled her eyes.
“Don’t you start as well.”
Ejem opened her mouth to defend the osu women but shut it just as quickly, embarrassed not only by the unattractive revolutionary bent of what she’d almost said, but also because it felt so much like a defense of herself.
“You are just like Doreen,” Odinaka continued. “Look, I employ an army of those women. They have a job and they need to do it. You remember how that goes, right?” Odinaka turned on the television. A commercial advertised a family getaway that included passes to a textile museum where the children could learn how cloth was made. Ejem recalled a documentary she’d seen in school that showed the dismal dorms to which unclaimed women were relegated, the rationed food, the abuse from guards, the “protection” that was anything but. It had been meant to instill fear of ending up in such a place, and it had worked.
When the program returned, Odinaka turned up the volume until it was clear to Ejem she had been dismissed.
Ejem decided that her first foray in her new cloth would be to visit Doreen in her shop. Doreen would know just what to say to ease the restless hurt brewing inside her. She may even know enough of Delilah’s history to put Ejem’s runaway suspicions to rest. Doreen had invited her to visit the bookstore many times—“You can’t stay in here forever. Come. See what I’ve done. See what an unclaimed woman can build on her own.”
Wearing self-cloth in the safety of Odinaka’s building was one thing. Ejem dawdled in front of the mirror, studying the softness of her stomach, the firm legs she’d always been proud of, the droop of her breasts. She picked up the cloth and held it in front of her. Much better. She secured it in a simple style, mimicking as best as she could the draping and belting of the sophisticated women she’d encountered.
For the first time in her adult life, no one stared at her. When she gathered the courage to make eye contact with a man on the sidewalk and he inclined his head respectfully, she almost tripped in shock. It was no fluke. Everyone—men and women—treated her differently, most ignoring her as yet another body on the street. But when they did acknowledge her, their reactions were friendly. Ejem felt the protective hunch of her shoulders smooth itself out, as though permission had been granted to relax. She walked with a bounce in her step, every part of her that bounced along with it shielded by the cloth. Bound up in fabric, she was the freest she’d ever felt.