Irehobhude O. Iyioha

The Partners

She raked the room with her eyes quickly, a thick folder wedged under an arm. The hall was brimming, as she’d expected: men and women in austere suits and burnished shoes standing in clusters, clutching the slim stems of wineglasses. She knew some faces; the familiar ones had returned this year. This was her third time at the Inn and Packers Partners’ Annual Meeting: the first one she’d attended was held in Qatar and the second in Vancouver. Her decision to come to London this year was personal and potentially momentous: she’d been thinking a lot about London since Bame died. Two years of a blissful union, a lifetime with asthma, one breakneck drive through a dim and rutted highway brought on by a routine attack of his symptoms, and he was gone. She’d come into London a few days before the two-day meeting to see the city. And maybe make up her mind whether this could be home.

Weaving through the noisy crowd, she reached the buffet table loaded with appetizers. She edged her folder onto one end of the table. A piece of paper peeped out of a corner of the folder. She’d deliberately slid the paper into that position so she could remember it. On it her sister, Itan, had written the mobile number of a friend in London she’d asked her to call. A saucer in hand, she skimmed the offerings on the table: the usual cheese, ham, éclairs and other eclectic assortments of hors d’oeuvres with a refreshing garland of lemon-glazed shrimp. She made her choice and reached for the tray. Suddenly, she felt his fingers against hers just as she touched the cheese tray.

“I’m sorry,” the man said on a laugh as he pulled back quickly.

“Oh, no worries,” she said, without glancing up, “I didn’t know anyone behind me had an eye for the cheese too.”

“The blue cheese is my favourite.”

She straightened up and met his gaze. He was at least a head taller, with powerful shoulders and an assured carriage. He wasn’t svelte. He had mass where it needed to be and it showed in the way his fitted suit hugged his body. His movements were easy and light. She looked nervously at his face: the green eyes and manicured brows and the carefree fall of a lock of dark hair over his forehead. His face was familiar. He was the senior partner across the room who had echoed her vision for the Company’s growth in the African region.

“I wasn’t reaching for the blue cheese. Haven’t touched it in ages.”

“Okay then,” he said, his eyes scrutinizing her face.

He loaded a small pile of ham and cheese onto his plate, knifed a fork across one end and scooped it up. Then he watched as she made her choices.

“Is this your first time here?” he asked.

His eyes were unwavering. They quietly observed her through a hood of dark lashes. She shifted away from the table, with an ample helping of Gouda, ham, and shrimp, and returned his scrutiny.

“In London, yes. But I’ve been through a couple of these meetings already.”

“New partner! Nigerian?”

“How did you know?”

“It shows.”

“What do you mean, ‘It shows?’”

“I meant no offence.”

“None taken. What did you mean?”

She was intense. People always said she came across that way. She could sense him assessing her mood, mentally tiptoeing around her and picking his words. But she’d never cared about people trying to place her in a box and didn’t now.

“Well, the fall of your words, your intonation, the way it falls on the ears.”

“Ok? So? Just that?”

“Eh… And –” he turned away and grabbed an extra helping of ham, “ – your name.”

“I didn’t tell you my name.”

His eyes fell to her chest.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, Ms. Ono…, ‘Oh’.”

“And you are – let me see –” She read the names on his lapel.

“I am Daren.”

“Daren D. Eaton. What’s the D?”

“Delmar.”

“Hm.”

She felt uncomfortable under his stare and didn’t know why exactly. Maybe it was his good looks, his forthrightness and air of brashness. It had to be the latter two, the qualities that reminded her of herself. She hadn’t felt this unnerved by a man’s presence since Bame. Bame had evoked the same girly nervousness in her and two years of marriage had had little effect on how she felt about or around him. Since she took his body home to his people, completed the traditional burial rites and made her peace with the fact, she’d stilled herself to every opportunity to admire anyone else.

Itan was constantly worried about her. Twice she’d introduced her to her own friends in the hope of igniting a connection. The first man was two years younger – not that she cared – and couldn’t stop talking about his ‘guys in the hood’ whom he met often in New York and who ‘kind of like really dug hip-hop and rap’ and ‘caps’ and fine jewelry. She was polite. Always was. That was why she said nothing about rapping to Jay Z’s lyrics in front of her bathroom mirror or belting out ‘New York’ in the shower and following it up with a rap. That kind of truth-telling would bring his affection upon her and pave the way for subsequent incivility – on her part. So, with her gap-toothed and affable smile, she told him she liked jazz and soul and classical literature – she was actually a classicist, she said – and hated hats and trousers but loved skirts flirting just around her knees covering the vitals appropriately. Then she bade him good-bye.

The second man, in his forties and already bald in the middle, tried to impress her with an invitation to Mr. Billy’s. He boasted about having eaten in all the fast food restaurants in Lagos Island. It was a big deal for him – being able to afford the expensive jumble cuisine at Mr. Billy’s. When she first declined, using work as excuse, he interjected with his own assumptions.

“If you’re watching your weight, we can go to Melusa’s.”

Melusa was the high-end restaurant in the heart of Victoria Island offering a variety of Nigerian dishes – egusi, ogbono, edikaikong, pounded yam, cocoyam porridge, fresh fish pepper soup, jollof rice and dodo, bushmeat stew, amala, gbegiri and ewedu and everything else that made her mouth water. But she turned him down again. It was easy to say ‘no’ as long as it was parceled as a future alibi. She’d be away with Bame – and the men didn’t need to know her Bame was now with God, both lounging on clouds of memories, losing themselves in the pleasures of fine wine and laughter. And if she wasn’t, she’d be distracted by daily routine, her thoughts lost on distant things and on things that filled her days, like huge case loads, important phone calls, and laundry. Sometimes, the unspoken excuse was her favourite TV shows or just the desire to have a quiet night when she replayed moments with Bame, frame by frame.

Pages: 1 2 3