Chapter 5 THE LAST AGBODEMU

The parlour was a long room at the front of the house, crowded with heavy sofas under crocheted covers and a glass cabinet of unused china. By the time Adesewa arrived, the family had already started to fill it.

She counted eleven people.

There was an elderly man with a walking stick and a cloudy left eye whom everybody called Baba Alani, and who sat in the best chair without being asked. There were two middle-aged sisters in matching ankara who whispered behind their hands. There were three young men in tight shirts, cousins of cousins, who had clearly come from Ibadan on the strength of rumour. And in the centre of the room, enthroned on the longest sofa in a gold lace buba and a towering gele, sat a woman of sixty who looked at Adesewa the way a market woman looks at a ripe pawpaw.

"Come, come, my daughter," she cried, arms opening. "Is this the child? Is this our Adesewa?"

"Good morning, ma."

"Ah ah, ma indeed! I am Titilayo, your aunt. Folarin's mother. My husband was the Chief's younger brother, may his soul rest." She embraced Adesewa in a cloud of perfume and gold bangles that clinked like coins. Then, still gripping her shoulders, she lifted her voice for the room. "Look at her, all of you! The last Agbodemu! God has been merciful to this family!"

Something cold slid down Adesewa's spine.

And never trust anyone who calls you the last Agbodemu.

She smiled, because a smile cost nothing, and said, "Thank you, Aunty. I'm only here to understand things."

"Of course, of course. We will explain everything."

Folarin entered behind her, in the same navy agbada as yesterday, and the room quietened. He took a position beside the cabinet and clasped his hands like a pastor.

"Thank you all for coming. The burial of our father, the Chief, will hold on Saturday, as is our custom. There are things that must be settled before then. The land. The house. The accounts. The traditional rites." His glance rested briefly on Adesewa. "And the matter of the new arrival."

"The new arrival is sitting right here," Adesewa said, "and can hear you."

Titilayo laughed shrilly. A cousin coughed. Baba Alani turned his good eye toward her with something that might have been approval.

"Our cousin is sharp," Folarin said. "That is good. I will be direct, then. This house is the family's. It has always been the family's. The Chief, in his old age, did not always think clearly. He may have signed things. He may have promised things to a girl he never met." He spread his hands. "I propose we handle this as a family, quietly, with dignity. We will offer Adesewa a settlement. In return, she signs a paper acknowledging the house is held in trust for all of us."

"What sort of paper?" Adesewa asked.

"A simple one."

"May I see it?"

He hesitated, a fraction. "It is being prepared."

"Then I will wait until it is prepared, and read it with a lawyer." She kept her voice pleasant. "I am an accounting graduate, cousin. I have been trained to distrust simple papers."

Somebody laughed outright. It was Baba Alani, a rusty cackle. "Folarin, my son, she is Akinwale's blood. Do not be a fool."

"Baba—"

"I am eighty-four, and I knew your uncle before your father was born. If that girl says she will read the paper, she will read the paper."

Folarin's jaw tightened. His mother touched his arm and said something in rapid Yoruba under her breath. Adesewa caught only fragments. Not now. Patience. Wait for Saturday.

When the meeting broke up, she stayed in her seat a moment longer, watching them file out. Titilayo's bangles chimed down the hall. The cousins argued about where to sleep. Baba Alani rose slowly, leaning on his stick, and as he passed her, he stopped.

"Daughter," he said, so quietly that only she heard it. "Which room did they put you in?"

"The east room. The one overlooking the courtyard."

"Good. Stay in the east wing." His cloudy eye drifted over her face. "Your grandmother slept in the west wing, and she was the last who did."

"Baba, what happened to her?"

"Ask Ronke." He tapped his stick twice against the floor. "And ask her why she keeps two plates for dinner."

He shuffled away before she could answer.

Adesewa sat very still. Two plates. In the kitchen last night, she had seen a tray prepared for her. Pounded yam, egusi, zobo. A second tray had been on the counter, covered with a white cloth. She had assumed it was for Kola.

She got to her feet and went to find the kitchen.

It was a long room with a stone floor and a wood-fired stove beside a modern gas cooker. Mama Ronke was alone at the table, shelling beans with the rhythm of a woman who had done it ten thousand times. She did not look up.

"Mama," Adesewa said gently, "may I sit?"

"This is your house, my daughter. You may sit where you like."

She sat. For a moment she only watched the old fingers snap pod after pod. Then she said, "Baba Alani says you keep two plates."

The fingers stopped.

"I only want to understand," Adesewa said. "I'm not accusing anybody. But I have been in this house for less than a day, and a voice has sung my mother's lullaby, a key has been placed under my pillow, and a family I never knew has started calling me by a title I was warned against. If there is somebody in the west wing, I need to know who they are."

Mama Ronke set down the bowl. Her hands were trembling. When she finally looked up, her eyes were wet, but her mouth was set like iron.

"I cannot tell you."

"Cannot, or will not?"

"Both." The old woman reached across the table and took Adesewa's hand, turning it palm up, tracing the crescent scar on the thumb with one cracked finger. "Child, I carried your mother on my back when she was small. I swore an oath to the Chief that I would keep a certain secret until a certain day. I have been keeping it for twenty years. If I break it too soon, someone will die."

"Who?"

"I cannot say." Her grip tightened. "But hear me. I am not your enemy. I have never been your enemy. Whatever Folarin says, whatever Kola says, whatever the police say, I have only ever tried to keep you alive."

"Then give me the truth."

"The truth will come to you." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Tonight, if you are brave. After the generator goes off, take the key and go to the west wing. Alone. Tell nobody. And do not bring the policeman."

"Why not the policeman?"

For answer, Mama Ronke shook her head slowly, and the grief in her face was so naked that Adesewa had to look away.

"Because there are things even good men should not be asked to see," the old woman said.

She picked up the bowl again and resumed shelling beans, and the conversation, Adesewa understood, was over.