By the grace of God
Bummi and Augustine migrated to Britain where he again could not find work befitting his qualifications
he settled into the seat of a minicab until he had saved enough money to set himself up in business (import-export)
and researched trade possibilities between Britain and West Africa via the sweatshops of Turkey, Indonesia and Bangladesh
sadly, London was more expensive than he had imagined, saving was impossible and when the Nigerian economy went on a downturn, he had to send cash transfers back home
*
Bummi and Augustine agreed they were wrong to believe that in England, at least, working hard and dreaming big was one step away from achieving it
Augustine joked he was acquiring a second doctorate in shortcuts, bottlenecks, one-way streets and dead ends
while transporting passengers who thought themselves far too superior to talk to him as an equal
Bummi complained that people viewed her through what she did (a cleaner) and not what she was (an educated woman)
they did not know that curled up inside her was a parchment certificate proclaiming her a graduate of the Department of Mathematics, University of Ibadan
just as she did not know that when she strode on to the graduation podium in front of hundreds of people to receive her ribboned scroll, and shake hands with the Chancellor of the University, that her first class degree from a Third World country would mean nothing in her new country
especially with her name and nationality attached to it
and that job rejections would arrive in the post with such regularity she would ritualistically burn them in the kitchen sink
and watch them turn to ash to be washed down the plughole
which is why when their daughter was born, they named her Carole without a Nigerian middle name
*
Augustine worked nights, collapsed fully clothed on to their bed, smelling of the cigarettes he smoked all day and the can of extra stout he drank when he got home
just as Bummi dragged herself out of bed
the space once occupied by God was now hollowto join her tribe of bleary-eyed workers who emerged into the dimmed streetlights of her new city to clamber aboard the red double-decker buses that ploughed the empty streets
she sat in sleepy silence with others who had hoped for a better life in this country, huddled in her eiderdown jacket in winter, her feet in padded boots, longing to sleep, afraid to miss the stop for the office building where she scraped away hardened faecal matter in toilet bowls and disinfected everything that came into contact with human waste
where she hoovered up dead skin cells into vacuumed fluff, mopped and polished floors, emptied paper baskets and rubbish bins, cleaned keyboards and wiped down monitors, polished desks and shelves and generally made sure everything was spotless and dust free
striving to do her best, even if her job was not
*
Augustine said the least he could do was be a good father to Carole, as his mother continued to advise him by letter
do not be distant, authoritarian and uncommunicative, my son, be close to your daughter when young and you will remain so when she is older
Bummi loved seeing her husband play rough-and-tumble with Carole, pretending he was a horse as she rode on his back for hours
giddy-up, Papa, giddy-up
she loved it when he made Carole a doll’s house from market crates, painting it, furnishing it with cardboard furniture, making dolls from pegs—what an exceptional man he was
she felt sad when he said to her one day, if we cannot make it here, perhaps our child will
*
Augustine
dear Augustine, who died of a heart attack while driving over Westminster Bridge transporting drunken partygoers in the early hours of New Year’s Day
after too many unbroken nights with junk food on the go
doubling his salary in the busiest period of the year while halving
his already unknowingly, genetically, chronically heart-diseased life
*
Bummi lost her Faith the minute she walked into the Chapel of Rest and saw her beloved Augustine lying there in body only
his brown complexion was drained of life and tinged with grey
his mouth was forcibly closed, his jaw clenched shut, as if pinned together
she imagined legions of singing women sifting the rivers and creeks to remove the thick slicks of grease that had polluted themhe did not open his eyes when she entered to look lovingly at her
he did not hear her when she spoke to him, he did not hold or soothe her when she sobbed
she decided there was no great spiritual being watching over her, protecting her and the people she loved
*
Bummi went through the motions of going to her church, the Ministry of God, it was expected, she found solace with her friends there
but she no longer believed any of the words that came out of her mouth in prayer or psalms or hymns
the space once occupied by God was now hollow, and with no god to promise everlasting salvation, it hit her hard how much she was on her own
and how she and Augustine had been trapped in a despair that had paralyzed their ability to snap out of it, devastated by the weight of a rejection that had not been part of their dreams of migration
and she asked herself—how can I rise above my situation in order to raise my child as the sole wage-earner in a parenting situation of one?
she asked herself—do I not have a degree in Mathematics? further, do I not possess the intelligence to acquire a first class degree in Mathematics, without even sleeping with the professor?
do I not enjoy the challenge of problem solving?
the more she asked, the more she understood she must do what Augustine was himself too weak to do
she was going to become someone who employed others, rather than someone waiting to be employed
she was going to become the proprietor of her own cleaning company, which would be an Equal Opportunities Employer, like all other cleaning companies
she wished Augustine was around to share the joke
*
that night she dreamed of employing an army of women cleaners who would set forth across the planet on a mission to clean up all the damage done to the environment
they came from all over Africa and from North and South America, they came from India and China and all over Asia, they came from Europe and the Middle East, from Oceania, and from the Arctic, too
she imagined them all descending in their millions on the Niger Delta and driving out the oil companies with their mop and broom handles transformed into spears and poison-tipped swords and machine-guns
she imagined them demolishing all the equipment used for oil production, including the flare stacks that rose into the skies to burn the natural gas, her cleaners setting charges underneath each one, detonating from a safe distance and watching them being blown up
she imagined the local people cheering and celebrating with dancing, drumming and roasted fish
she imagined the international media filming it—CNN, BBC, NBC
she imagined the government unable to mobilize the poorly paid local militia because they were terrified by the sheer numbers of her Worldwide Army of Women Cleaners
who could vaporize them with their superhuman powers
afterwards, she imagined legions of singing women sifting the rivers and creeks to remove the thick slicks of grease that had polluted them, and digging up the land until they’d removed the toxic sublayers of soil
she imagined the skies opening when the job was done and the pouring of pure water from the now hygienic clouds for as long as it took for the region to be thoroughly cleansed and replenished
she imagined her father, Moses, a simple fisherman, steering his canoe through the transparent waters of the creeks, a man who was still supporting his family in the dignified tradition of their ancestors
she imagined her mama, in good health, taking it easy while farmhands looked after their land
which had not been stolen by his relatives because Moses had not died
she imagined Augustine, a Green Finance Economist coming up the garden path of their house wearing a business suit and with a smart briefcase
returning from chairing his latest Economics and the Environment conference at the United Nations in Geneva or New York
*
Bummi needed an injection of cash for driving lessons and other start-up costs; what to do when everybody she knew was living hand to mouth
except for Bishop Aderami Obi of her church
who started to behave differently towards her after Augustine died
who began to visually gorge upon her body whenever he saw her, like she was the first course, main course and dessert merged into one
when he talked, it was to the bountiful breasts Augustine had worshipped
when he put a reassuring arm around her after church, he slid his hand lightly down her back, sweeping it over her buttocks so slyly nobody else would notice
when she tried to move out of his way, he pressed closer to her
Bishop Obi was a rich man, a powerful man, his congregation of 2,000 bestowed upon him the gift of omnipotence in his bidding to do God’s work on earth
and he behaved as if it was his right to pester his female parishioners, in which case, it was her right to ask him to loan her the money to start her business
had they not paid a tithe of 10% of their monthly conjoined income into his begging bowl for many years? money they could ill afford
Augustine had believed the pastor’s sermons, that to commit financially to his church was to commit to God, and to commit to God would lead to prosperity untold and a reserved front row seat in heaven
she saw it for what it was, a very lucrative business for a very clever man
her husband had also been a clever man, except his brains were fried with garlic when it came to believing every word that came out of Bishop Obi’s mouth
he would not be swayed otherwise, even when the bishop bought a private jet and a private island in the Philippines
with his parishioners’ money
*
one Monday evening when there was no service scheduled, the pastor arranged to meet her about her loan in the parlor of the old bingo hall that was now his mega church
she let him undress her with his greedy hands in the vestry
she let him excitedly caress her released C-cup breasts—as if it was Christmas
she let him pull down her lacy new undies (ten for the price of one)
she gasped and groaned as if in ecstasy when he entered her, taking too long to expel his little devils into the plastic black sheath that pumped her until he cried out, blessed be his holiness! blessed be his holy name! God O continue de place everybody for dis world and belle go continue to dey sweet everybody, hallelujah! Sister Bummi, hallelujah!
Bummi smiled demurely at the pastor when his goal had been achieved, and swiftly reassembled herself
she wrapped herself back up in her blue and purple outfit and retied her headscarf while he re-zipped his flies and re-buckled his belt
she was now a businesswoman
this was her first transaction
__________________________________
Excerpted from Girl, Woman, Other. Copyright © 2019 by Bernardine Evaristo. Reprinted with the permission of the publisher, Black Cat, an imprint of Grove Atlantic, Inc. All rights reserved.
