Y is for Yam

Epe 1908

Lugard House was not boastful, regal or particularly grand as far as colonial homes went. It was in the corner of a field at the top of a modest hill. Mide believed it was a mound, honestly; the family insisted she called it a hill. The library shelves were scanty and the architect’s attempt of an ‘orangery’ was clearly an afterthought. The dark floors were striped, bleached by the sun that snuck through the velvet curtains. The brass door knobs and floral arrangements (consisting mostly of hibiscus) were the only coloured things in the house, other than the staff. The rooms were small, the land was small, the fireplace was small. Madame Lugard preferred to call it ‘petite’, unlike herself. She was a short woman with a pinkish complexion, wide hips and full breasts that made the fabric of her dress strain every time she breathed. 

When Mide had first arrived, she thought it gargantuan. Back then, everything was big and bold and bursting with hope. To her it was wonderful, the best place she had ever lived, albeit from the even smaller rooms of the workers 'quarter’. Previously, Mide had lived in a tight bed in a tight room in a tight house. The house was so slim she was surprised her parents and siblings had managed to fit into it, the house couldn’t have been wider than a danfo bus. Lugard House was only small by colonial home standards, by ghetto home standards it was gigantic.

She didn’t often think about her parents. Her father was a carpenter so the Yoruba masks stashed in the back parlour reminded her of him. And her mother, a painter, had been the one to paint Madame Lugard’s powder room. Her mother’s artistry was one of the reasons they had taken her in, that and the fact that they needed a new governess. Their tiresome son had scared off  yet another nanny just before Mide’s parents’ passing. 

Their tiresome son, Maximilian Francis Fredrich Lugard, had grown less tiresome over the years. Mide had gone from hiding his practical jokes from his parents to hiding their secret rendez-vous. Stolen candies were traded in for stolen kisses and the pair were inseparable. Maxy wasn’t much younger than Mide. 3 years to be exact. Despite this, Mide had tried her best to look after him. As far as teaching went, she taught him French and arithmetic. She had only learnt so much from her neighbours growing up; luckily Maxy was a little slow so she hadn’t run out of things to teach him.

Rolling her hair across her scalp into intricate twists, she practised her vows like a mantra. Her smile was wider than the horizon, after all these years, she was finally going to marry Maxy. 

When she became his governess, she assumed her fate was sealed. When he grew older, she would tend to his siblings. When they grew older, she would move onto another house. When she grew older, too old to tend to children, she would retire with the money she’d saved and buy a small house in the middle of nowhere to wait for death to come. 

Maxy was older now. Taller too. His shoulders were wider than his father’s but his belly wasn’t as round, so the hand-me-down blazers fit funny. His hair was chocolate brown and his eyes sky blue. Mide often counted his freckles (unsuccessfully) to see just how many spanned across his nose and cheeks. When Maxy had proposed, behind the worker’s quarter, next to the well on a summer’s night, Mide dropped the dream of retiring in a small house in the middle of nowhere. Instead, she dreamt about Lugard House and little children with pawpaw yellow skin running around. She hoped her children had light eyes, like him, half casts with light eyes had things easier. The dreams became more vivid as the days went by. Would they visit Lugard House in Hertfordshire? It would be grander and more magnificent than the one in Epe. It had to be. Madame Lugard spoke of it often, remarking to her husband that she wished to go more regularly. Were the streets lined with gold? Mide knew the staff were more in number, Madame Lugard had said there were three and thirty staff there, with extra following them when they travelled. 

In this Lugard House, all the staff were multitaskers. Kiki the chef was also Kiki the cleaner and Bolanle the gardener was also Bolanle the caretaker. Mide had worn many hats too, but on this day she was wearing a white one, to match the dress for her wedding.

The dress was a modest, boatneck that went down past her knees. The pencil skirt clung tight to the flares of her hips and the darts made it balance on her chest. Mide had used some of her savings to buy the white fabric for her and Kiki to sew. They had discussed the lunch menu for the day of the wedding. 

“Yam and egg or pounded yam? He loves pounded yam because it is ‘just like mash’ but I had yam and egg on special occasions when I was little”

“It’s your day. Have yam and egg.”

“It is our day.”

Kiki grumbled; Mide knew she was secretly happy. Mide was happy too.  

Happy.

Saint Valentine’s Chapel  was not known for happy couples. The couples were happy, but their circumstances often weren’t. Mide protested the venue because she didn’t want a secret wedding. Weddings were supposed to be loud, multicoloured ordeals, not quiet back alley transactions. “I don’t want too many people. The books aren’t balanced. When we have money I’ll give you a real wedding.” Mide persisted, despite Maxy’s rebuttals until he asked her “Is it me you want, or is it the lavish wedding?”  Arguments were not their thing so Mide caved, bought the fabric and asked for Kiki’s help.

The sunlight shone through the stained glass windows, shattering across the dark stone floors. Reverend Peter’s grape red gown trailed him as he walked across the aisle. 

Mide’s shoulders dropped. Reverend Peter’s eyes resembled those of a fish at the market, dull and grey. His cheeks were flushed, pepper red and as he approached Mide they grew redder still. 

“Olamide.”

“Reverend.”

“Good morning.”

“Where is Maxy?”

“He gave me this for you.”

Mide smiled. Maxy was a true romantic. When he had English homework, Mide did it all for him. All he ever wanted to do was read Byron and Keats and ponder philosophy. His notes and secret poems were Mide’s favourite things. He’d hide them for her, in plain sight. Under a flower pot, behind a painting, in a book. He’d speak in riddles to give her clues and she’d find them. Each one was more beautiful and doting than the last. Mide had kept them all under her bed. She had sewn a handful of them into her dress at the hems and collar.  

A church scavenger hunt for a last poem was even more romantic. Mide imagined Kiki would be envious and gleaming when she told her this. After the honeymoon, that is. 

Maxy didn’t say where they were going but Mide assumed it was somewhere far like Port Harcourt or Sokoto, there were so many beautiful places they could go. Maybe he had been saving up and was going to take her out of the country to Benin or Cameroon. Either way, Mide’s heart thrummed in anticipation. 

Until it stopped. 

The scent of the sweet vanilla she wore dissipated. The lights from the windows turned grey. The taste in her mouth soured.

‘It is with deepest regrets, my darling Mide, I bid you farewell.’

She flipped the paper back and forth, hoping the words would run around and rearrange themselves. Her tears fell, smudging the ink and it still didn’t change the words. 

‘I am married to a French woman. Her family wealth, status and connections make her the best suited for me and my obligations to my family.’

The talk of duty, wealth and suitability bled into one. “Miss Mide? Would you like to sit down?” 

“Miss Mide? Are you ok?” Mide looked down at the child. Big blue eyes and yellow hair like straw. “I am Christopher, just looking outside the window.”

“You are not paid to look out the window, wistfully reminiscing.”

“Yes Mam.”

“Your old Madame’s house just burnt down, you know.”

“Pardon?”

“Yes, they say it was a freak accident but I’m sure the negro chef did it on purpose.”

“May I go and visit it?”

“Why?”

“To pay my respects to the family.”

The woman sighed. She was entirely different to Madame Lugard. She was tall and slender, her neck so slim Mide wondered if it would snap one day, leaving her head to roll. Her temperpent was different too. Where Madame Lugard was whiny and docile, Madame Lawley was blunt and snappy. “If you must.”

“Let the girl have the weekend off.”

“Whoever will tend to Christopher?”

“You will. Mide, why don’t you head back there and see the family.”

“Yes sir. Thank you sir.”

Mide rushed out the room, she didn’t need to look at Madame Lawley to know she was glaring at her. Mister Lawley was rather fond of Mide. He was the only person that Madame Lawley would listen to. As wiry and disagreeable as she was, she was an obedient wife.

Mide’s hands shook as she tried to pack her bag. “Wetin be this one now?”

“I’m packing?”

“You dey pack?”

“My old Madame’s home burned down. I am going to send my regards.”

“You dey craze? You think say dem be your family?”

Mide sighed, buckling the bag. It was the most expensive thing she owned. Maxy gifted it to her, so she could pack for their honeymoon. The honeymoon that ultimately never happened for her. It was leather, brown like his hair and the buckles sparkled like the brass door knobs at Lugard House. It reminded her of him. 

Lots of things did. The days when the sky was the bluest were hard, she’d look up and see his eyes. The speckled guinea fowl reminded her of the freckles she never finished counting and on the days she had to teach Christopher English… Well each time she read Keats she felt her heart retreat a little more.

“I’ll be back on Sunday Bayo.”

Bayo huffed. 

Lugard House was now Lugard Mound. Or rather, Lugard Hill. From afar it was obvious. Not just because Mide had memorised the house as part of the skyline; because it was a black smudge in the middle of blues and greens. It looked like charcoal, drawn onto the skyline, it was so out of place. As she got nearer, the black smudge became more defined. The door frames stuck out like jagged wooden teeth. The brick base was showered in ash, like powdered sugar on the cakes that used to line the dining room table on special days. 

The smell of burning wood hung in the air, even then. The air tasted bitter. 

Mide’s eyes stung. The fire had been unforgiving, all the memories at the house were gone. There was no makeshift orangery full of chatter, no wall behind the kitchen for secret rendez-vous and no sunbleached striped wood. Madame Lugard’s powder room art was the only thing Mide had left from her mother and it was gone too. There were several shards of mirror covering in ash. Mide dusted a piece and looked at her reflection. Her skin was lighter now, it had faded over the years, her eyes drooped and the line that ran from her nose to her mouth was now a trough.

Walking around the wreckage she saw a figure in the corner. It was a Yoruba mask. As deformed as it was, it was still in one piece. 

The workers’ quarter was the only thing left standing.

Kiki and Bolanle hadn’t written to her. She also hadn’t written to them. After being stood up at the altar, she’d fled to Lawley House, abandoning the two. Had they grown to disdain her? The best moments at Lugard House were with them. Regret flooded Mide. Her lungs felt waterlogged and the tears streamed down.

Wood creaks pierced the silence. Someone was in the workers’ quarter. She’d walk in there and apologise and promise to write letters and explain what had happened. Maybe she should knock for, every apology requires at least basic social graces.

The door creaked open.

“Mide?”

Maximilian’s skin was worn like old paper but his eyes were still sky blue. His freckles had blurred into one and the years had painted his brown hair white-grey. His cheeks and belly were rounder, fuller the years away. “I just came to pay my respects.”

“The funeral isnt till next week.”

“The funeral?”

“My parents were trapped in the fire.”

“I’m so sorry.”

 Mide watched him intently. His eyes don't sparkle like they used to and worry had etched lines into his skin. Would he have looked like this if he’d married Mide? Would they have had a gaggle of children? Mide’s jaw clenched at the question. She should still despise him like she did on the day. Like she did every day for all those years.

“It’s lovely to see you.”

It was lovely to see him also. And yet, Mide’s face remained stoic.

“I guess I should explain myself.”

“No need.”

Mide waved her hand in dismissal. There was a need. After the crying and the hysteria and the weight loss there was a need. She didn’t have the strength to go ahead and relive the agony…

“Ok then. Let’s eat.”

“Eat what?”

“I have boiled yam.”

THE END