A Number of Inconveniences
By Victor Ola-Matthew
Mama fell. She is in the hospital.
Luqman’s text shook Ridwan when it arrived, a silent notification and a gentle buzz. His heart raced as he opened the chat to type something, but their younger sister beat him to it.
Is she okay?
Luqman immediately assured them that she was. But the panic remained. Their mother had fallen in the bathroom while getting ready to have her bath. Luckily, their tenant’s daughter, Helen, heard her cries. The front door had to be destroyed with a hammer before they could enter the apartment and transport her to the hospital, Luqman narrated via text, as though he was there.
Thank God she’s okay, Ridwan finally texted, closing the conversation. He had not intended to, but there was nothing left to say.
Ridwan stood in a custodial closet, surrounded by mops, brooms and other cleaning paraphernalia, staring at the closed group chat as though another text message might appear. No one was typing. He was hit with a familiar sense of unease. He should have been the one sharing the story of their mother’s fall in the group chat with the casualness that Luqman had, though he knew he could never have been that casual. He wouldn't even have told his siblings that their mother had fallen if he were still in Lagos. He would have silently, without bothering anyone, taken care of her just as he had always done before he moved to France for another master’s degree.
He lived in Villeurbanne, which he found too practical for his liking. Rows of concrete apartment blocks, tram lines, kebab shops, laundromats, and student bars filled the streets. Sometimes, it felt as though every street was another alley, cramped up with purpose for each building right up to the promenade. The city was built for walking and biking, and that, at least, he appreciated. In early spring, it tried to cough a charm out of its modernism, and Ridwan, settling into his new life here, began to appreciate the smell of fresh bread from boulangeries carried in the cool air, and the daffodils and crocuses springing up in the small park not too far from his shared apartment. At first, he was convinced he hated France, only to realise after months spent in Lyon that what he truly despised was his being in France. It played out in his head that in comparison to his siblings, he had gotten life's shorter end of the stick: wrestling with a new language, grinding through another master’s that he did not need, with no prospects of marriage any time soon. He did not like his stick.
His brother, Luqman, who was three years older, lived in Baltimore with his Iranian-American wife and their four-year-old, Layla. He worked as a product manager at a bank, contributing the most to their mother’s allowance, having achieved stability living in America for over eight years. In a stream of good luck, his sister Rofiat, the youngest by four years, had met her Nigerian husband at a Detty December party in one of those new Lebanese bars in Victoria Island. He was a Nigerian with Canadian citizenship, and as he often put it, he was “looking to settle,” and now she lived in Alberta with their one-year-old. Ridwan could have tried for jobs in America or Canada, both of which he had once visited, but he never applied. Both his siblings were married and building families, and he did not want to be a burden, depending on them as he settled. Even more, he feared that he would come into disfavour with their spouses playing the role of a wretched, unsuccessful and leeching brother-in-law, though the fear stemmed from movies he had seen and stories he had heard about situations like this. His fears were not real. If anything, he feared they would reject him and devise an excuse not to have him stay. The fact that neither of them had suggested he apply for jobs in their countries was enough warning, and he could not bear to hear that.
Instead, he applied to work in the United Kingdom, and when that did not work out, he withdrew from his savings and applied for a master's degree in France. He would, from there, in his big plans that he had adapted from a post on Nairaland, migrate to the United Kingdom. All he needed was to endure for a while, and he was a master endurer. Once, his mother had prayed for him in Yoruba: This is my most patient. Lord of heaven, reward him with the fattest bone. The prayer gave him a lot to think about, including his disbelief in proverbs. He had come too late in the race with his siblings, and the only bone there was to take was France, and his French was barely any good.
His co-worker, a much older woman, Claudine, entered the closet. There was barely enough room for them to move in the space.
“Eh, Reed-van! Ça va?”
“Bien, Claudine,” he smiled sheepishly, pushing a cleaning cart after her. He plugged his earpiece in and played some Sound Sultan.
***
Mama can’t stay alone anymore. We need a plan, and quickly.
When Luqman’s text came in this time, he was not as unsettled as he had been three days ago. He had spoken with his mother the next morning, and a desire to scold her formed up in his mouth as they spoke in Yoruba.
“You fell and you did not tell me,” he said.
“But mo sọ fun Luqman and he told all of you.”
“You know what I mean,” he said, feeling betrayed. “When was the last time you saw Luqman? Does Luqman know where you put your gèlè or your shoes?”
“Ridwan, ṣe o n bínú sí mi?” Her tone made it unclear if she was warning him or apologising. She awaited his reply.
“Rara, how can I be angry with you? You scared me, but how can I be angry with you?” he said too calmly, his sarcasm almost too respectful.
“Má bínú. Don’t be angry,” she said, kissing her teeth and indulging him, but not entirely. She told him that the doctor had advised against her staying alone at home anymore, and then she broke into a brief rant about the doctor’s silliness. Did he not know that sixty-five was a few years short of twenty-five? For most of her life, their mother had been a civil servant and a widow raising three children, and work or parenting preoccupied those days until her children began to move out and start new lives. She tried to parent them from her cellphone, but that did not take as long. Nobody wanted to sit and talk with her for hours, especially after her retirement, when she had so much time.
Luqman, afraid that his mother would sit idly and succumb to dementia, built a provision store, knocking open the compound wall to face the street. He never asked if it was what she wanted in her retirement and assumed it was the kind of pastime women her age enjoyed, and since he could afford it, no one bothered to question it. At first, their mother hired a young girl to run the store while she sat on the verandah re-reading books from her library, but then the girl began to steal from the store. It took a while to notice, but eventually, the business shrivelled up, and they spoke nothing of it again. Ridwan knew their mother was delighted to have the store off her hands. He was the only one in the country, driving home to visit her twice a month, and staying over on the weekends he showed up. He was the one who followed her to the hospital for her biannual check-ups, who negotiated with the contractor, who lugged cartons of biscuits and sweets from the wholesaler. He knew his mother was better off reading books and attending parties on Saturdays.
Faced with Luqman’s latest text, Ridwan tried to piece together a response, but the gears in his brain jammed. Rofiat was offline, so he had enough time to come up with a response. He thought of replying, Yes, you’re right, but that sounded simple. It lacked the pragmatism that Luqman had. He thought of jumping right into a solution, but I can check who knows a home care agency, sounded forward. He felt one of them would oppose a caregiver—probably Rofiat—with stories about caregivers who had done evil by their employers.
He stepped into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water, his phone in his hand, still searching for the right words to type. His roommate’s cat, Félix, danced over to where he stood as though he had something to tell him. Rofiat’s typing dots appeared. She would obliterate him in seconds. He set the glass down and wiped his hand against his purple t-shirt. Félix leapt onto the counter, which startled him, though it shouldn’t have. His thoughts vanished again. When he returned to his keypad to finish typing, what do you have in mind? Rofiat had already sent her a message.
Kaz lost his job, so things are tight right now. But I agree, we need a plan.
“Shit.” He smacked his palm over his face, disappointed in himself. He sent his message anyway and, in a petty act of revenge, startled the cat. Félix bolted off the counter. Ridwan emptied the glass in a single swallow and disappeared into his room.
***
The night before Ridwan’s flight to France, his mother came into the room to pray for him. It was routine. She had done this for every child, all of which he had witnessed, though he was the first to move out to his place in Lagos. In the days before, he had sold his car and ended his lease on the last day of the month, and moved back into the family house. His mother, who usually slept with an ankara wrapper tied around her chest, wore a nightgown that night. She waited for permission to come in after a knock, her eyes perusing the room from the moment she stepped in.
“This one. Won't you take it with you?” she asked, pointing at a purple Cadbury t-shirt on his bed. She had seen him wear it multiple times as a comfort shirt, she knew it had sentimental value, but she never asked why.
“No,” he said, waving the idea off. The t-shirt was a relic of his last relationship with a pretty woman named Abby, who liked to bury her face in his clothes. “You don’t always seem to know where you’re going or what you’re doing,” she told him on the day she ended things with him. She had been right. He did not know, still did not know and was never brave enough.
In the corner of his room were two suitcases. One held all his belongings, pared down from what he was leaving behind. In the other, packed insistently by his mother, brimmed with dried food, with as many of his clothes as he could squeeze between bundles. The rest of the room was a mess, one that he could clean up in an hour; or a few minutes if he carelessly threw everything into the wardrobe.
His mother danced towards him, “Ọmọ mi n lọ si France,” she said. It was an excuse to get herself across the room to be closer to him. They both knew this, but he played along, smiling shyly as she swayed until she hovered over him. She had prayed for him at significant points in his life: when he left for university, when he began his first job at the marketing agency, when he moved into his own place in Lagos, and there he was, on the brink of another beginning in a foreign country at thirty-three. Dissatisfaction tap danced across the stage of his mind. He wished his mother would take her hand off his head, and that his knees would not succumb to the befitting posture at that moment. Yet, he knelt as she began to pray.
He remained there, half-attentive to the prayer, answering ‘Amin’ where fitting, unsure if they were praying to a Christian or Muslim God, or just a Yoruba one. Religion had been a blur his whole life, and he would lose it if he focused on it in the moment: even religion, he had not figured out. His mother prayed anyway. She prayed that evil eyes would not see him, and that favour would follow him like a moth to a flame. She prayed that he would succeed, and she prayed against death. She prayed that he would laugh, be laugh, laugh last and laugh best. In Yoruba, it rhymed to a rhythm, like a poem, an ordination. He thought of when last he had truly laughed, and a single teardrop fell from his bowed head. From his position, he saw no way out. He felt his life amounting to nothing and felt condemned to bear it. He shuffled through the prayers until, finally, they ended.
His mother sat beside him on the bed. For a while they were quiet.
“Ayọ̀mípọ́, you’re no longer a little boy. You’re a man. You may not be a lion, but you’re still a man. You may not know how to roar, Ayọ̀mípọ́, but you can speak. Speak. Life is not fair to those who don’t. You keep squeezing yourself in a corner when there’s space in the whole room, who do you think you’re inconveniencing but yourself?” He could feel her eyes boring into his neck from where she sat and refused to look in her direction. “Ridwan, in that place, don’t be like you are here. Speak. Even if your voice is small, don’t let anybody decide for you.”
Later, his mother returned with an envelope filled with dollar notes. Ridwan stood there, unable to accept it, but unable to return it either. He wanted to ask questions: what had she sold to gather the money, or if she had even sold anything. He had enough money to care for himself and did not want to inconvenience anyone. His mother wagged her index finger at him when she caught him contemplating.
“Take it,” she said.
***
“Cava Cava bon bien bien,” Rofiat joked when Ridwan appeared. He was the last to join the video call.
They agreed to discuss their mother’s welfare, as Luqman had suggested on the group chat. Sunday afternoon was the only time their schedules could align for a free hour.
Unlike Ridwan, neither sibling had work later that day, and he could tell from their ease. Luqman was seated on a chair on his patio, collecting the afternoon breeze. His wife had gone to fetch Layla from her parents’ house. He even flipped around his camera to reveal the glass of Baileys he was sipping on this relaxing afternoon. Rofiat, on the other hand, was in the kitchen making stew. Her husband was with the baby; it was a good time to cook.
“Rofiat, don’t stress me,” Ridwan said with a thin smile when she made another French joke. He was exhausted and stood by his balcony, inadvertently peering into the windows of the other building, which was his only view. Fully dressed for his night shift, he’d closed himself off from his roommate and the prowling cat in the cool breeze.
“Ẹ má bínú, but you’re supposed to be speaking some French by now.”
“I speak, but it’s not like you understand French, so ẹ jẹ ka sọ Yoruba. That’s the one we both know,” he said. He did speak French, and although the people around him teased him about his accent and mispronunciations, he was sure Rofiat would be impressed by it, but he was embarrassed. Her amusement would only come out as mockery.
“Are we looking into caregivers? I have to head to work soon,” Ridwan said.
“Caregivers? As in househelps?” Luqman said. “I was thinking it’s better if Mama moves abroad.”
It did not sound like a bad idea when Luqman dropped it. They would have to discuss what to do with the family house in Lagos—hopefully not sell it—but Ridwan did not think it bad, and so did Rofiat.
“That’s not a bad idea,” Rofiat seconded.
“That’s doable. I think her US visa is still valid,” Ridwan added.
They all nodded and hummed in agreement. Through one of the windows, Ridwan watched a couple at the kitchen counter: the girl dished food from a container onto plates while the boy, with his back to hers, shook a smoothie blender too close to his ear. They could have been siblings, but he had already concluded that they were together. He turned away to give them some privacy.
“But Mama can’t come to the US now,” Luqman said after a sip of his drink.
“Why?” Rofiat and Ridwan asked, almost simultaneously, their fears coming alive. The conversation switched into Yoruba with strews of English, accents and grammar dancing on the tongue.
“Now is not the time. You know how America is. Mama could slip and break her hip here, and they’ll hand us a bill bigger than a house in Lagos. Even with my job’s insurance, it won’t cover half of what she’ll need at her age, and we are trying to raise Layla, juggling a nanny and all of that. I think Canada’s better with its free healthcare and all.”
Rofiat entered before they could confirm whether Luqman was done talking. “Brother Luqman, jọ ma ṣe bẹ. I already mentioned that Kazeem is out of work. I’m drowning in nursing school right now as it is, and I’m also trying to support my family.” Her voice lowered in her last sentence. “We need at least four months to bounce back.”
The call went silent, but for Rofiat’s tap running. They were awaiting Ridwan’s contribution, quietly hoping that he’d save them the argument and inconvenience and take the responsibility, or at least come up with a clever solution. Though it was afternoon for Luqman and Rofiat, the sun lowered in Lyon. Ridwan watched three children ride down the street. He assumed they were riding home, then he assumed they were siblings. Cars lined both sides of the street, and the road was not wide enough for three of them. Two rode side by side, chatting, while the third followed behind, trying to keep up. They vanished onto the next street almost as quickly as they appeared.
“It has to be either of you; I barely have a life here. I have a roommate, even,” Ridwan said in English.
“It won’t be forever, ẹ̀gbọ́n, maybe five months. Kazeem would have gotten a job by then,” Rofiat said. There was genuineness in her tone, but Ridwan didn’t mind what she had to say. His choice to inconvenience himself had never been inspired by what his siblings said or didn't say. In fact, he was already calculating how he would make room for their mother to live with him. He would have to find a new place or get an air mattress in his room to sleep on. His mother would sleep on his bed. He would ask her to spend most of her time in the room because of Félix. Besides, his roommate was usually barely home. He knew that Luqman and Rofiat would continue to contribute to her upkeep, and maybe, although in theory, it was a responsibility he could bear. Perhaps—he tried to convince himself—he did not understand the difficulty of building a family and having a parent be a burden, since he was not married.
For a second, he thought about dating. What if he met someone captivating? Could he tell her on their first date that he stayed with a roommate and his mother?
Luqman was speaking again, backing Rofiat’s idea if Ridwan did not mind. He was saying something about how he did not want to burden him, but if Ridwan did not mind, they would provide everything he needed to care for their mother for the few months she would be with him. On the other half of his screen, Rofiat nodded in support, stirring the pot.
He remembered all the years he had stayed, held back by fear of leaving their mother behind and the uncertainty of doing first before thinking. He glanced at his siblings on the video call again. Rofiat had just returned to the frame, a cooking spoon in hand. France was already hard enough; all he wanted was to struggle on his own and find himself. He heard his mother’s voice again. She would be ashamed if she knew their conversation had led to her living with him. She would not say anything or be ungrateful, but he could hear her urging him to speak up, even if his voice was little, even if it wasn’t polite. No one could decide for him.
“In that case, we'd best look for a good caregiver. I cannot have Mama here right now,” he said after finding the words.
“Are you sure?” Rofiat asked. He did not reply.
“No problem,” Luqman said.
It was that easy.
Victor Ola-Matthew tells stories through multiple art forms. His work has appeared in the 2022 Afritondo anthology Rain Dance, BrittlePaper, and The Republic.
- All rights to this story remain with the author. Please do not repost or reproduce this material without permission.
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