total amount she received for dancing.
“I got the most in the family,” she said.
“Where is everyone?” I asked.
She scratched her hair. “My stepmothers are sleeping. My brothers and sisters are still sleeping. My father, I don’t know where he is.”
She reached for her behind.
I screwed up my nose. “I think you’d better have a bath.”
One o’clock and the entire house was awake. Sheri’s stepmothers had prepared akara, fried bean cakes, for everyone to eat. We knelt before them to say good morning, they patted our heads in appreciation. “Both knees,” one of them ordered. I found myself looking at two women who resembled each other, pretty with watery eyes and chiffon scarves wrapped around their heads. I noted the gold tooth in the smile of the one who had ordered me to kneel.
In the veranda, the other children sat on chairs with bowls of akara on their laps. The girls wore dresses; the boys were in short-sleeved shirts and shorts. Sheri had changed into a tangerine-colored maxi length dress and was strutting around ordering them to be quiet. “Stop fighting.” “Gani, will you sit down?” “Didn’t I tell you to wash your hands?” “Kudi? What is wrong with you this morning?” She separated a squabble here, wiped a dripping nose. I watched in amazement as they called her Sister Sheri. The women were called Mama Gani and Mama Kudi after their firstborns.
“How many children will you have?” Sheri asked, thrusting a baby boy into my arms. I kept my mouth still for fear of dropping him. He wriggled and felt as fragile as a crystal glass.
“One,” I said.
“Why not half, if you like?” Sheri asked.
I was not offended. Her rudeness had been curtailed by nature. Whenever she sucked her teeth, her lips didn’t quite curl, and her dirty looks flashed through lashes as thick as moth wings. She knew all the rude sayings: mouth like a duck, dumb as a zero with a dot in it. If I said “so?” she said, “Sew your button on your shirt.” When I asked “why?” she answered, “Z your head to Zambia.” But she was far too funny to be successfully surly. Her full name was Sherifat, but she didn’t like it. “Am not fat,” she explained, as we sat down to eat. I had already had breakfast, but seeing the akara made me hungry. I took a bite and the peppers inside made my eyes water. My legs trembled in appreciation. “When we finish,” Sheri said. “I will take you to the balcony upstairs.” She chewed with her mouth open and had enough on her plate to fill a man.
The balcony upstairs resembled an empty swimming pool. Past rains had left mildew in its corners. It was higher than my house and standing there, we could see the whole of her yard and mine. I pointed out the plants in my yard as Sheri walked toward the view of the lagoon.
“It leads to the Atlantic,” she said.
“I know,” I said, trying not to lose my concentration. “Bougainvillea, golden trumpets... ”
“You know where that leads?”
“Yes. Almond tree, banana tree... ”
“Paris,” she said.
I gave up counting plants. Downstairs, two of the children ran through the washing lines. They were playing a Civil War game: Halt. Who goes there? Advance to be recognized. Boom! You’re dead.
“I want to go to Paris,” Sheri said.
“How will you get there?”
“My jet plane,” she said.
I laughed. “How will you get a jet plane?”
“I’ll be an actress,” she said, turning to me. In the sunlight, her pupils were like the underside of mushrooms.
“Actor-ess,” I said.
“Yes, and when I arrive, I’ll be wearing a red negligée.”
“Em, Paris is cold.”
“Eh?”
“Paris is cold. My father told me. It’s cold and it rains.”
“I’ll have a fur coat, then.”
“What else?” I asked.
“High, high heels.”
“And?”
“Dark sunglasses.”
“What kind?”
“Cressun Door,” she said, smiling.
I shut my eyes, imagining. “You’ll need fans. All actresses have fans.”
“Oh, they’ll be there,” she said. “And they’ll be running around, shouting, ‘Sheri. Voulez-vous. Bonsoir. Mercredi.’ But I won’t mind them.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll get into my car and drive away fast.”
I opened my eyes. “What kind of car?”
“Sports,” she said.
I sighed. “I want to be something like... like president.”
“Eh? Women are not presidents.”
“Why not?”
“Our men won’t stand for it. Who will cook for your husband?”
“He will cook for himself.”
“What if he refuses?”
“I’ll drive him away.”
“You can’t,” she said.
“Yes I can. Who wants to marry him anyway?”
“What if they kill you in a coup?”
“I’ll kill them back.”
“What kind of dream is that?”
“Mine.” I smirked.
“Oh, women aren’t presidents,” she said.
Someone downstairs was calling her. We looked over the balcony to see Akanni. He was wearing heart-shaped sunshades, like mirrors.
“What?” Sheri answered.
Akanni looked up. “Isn’t that my good friend, Enitan, from next door?”
“None of your business,” Sheri said. “Now, what do you want from me?”
I smiled at Akanni. His sunshades were funny and his war stories were fantastic.
“My good friend,” he said to me in Yoruba. “At least you’re nice to me, unlike this trouble maker, Sheri. Where is my money, Sheri?”
“I don’t have your money,” she said.
“You promised we would share the proceeds from last night. I stayed up till five this morning, now you’re trying to cheat me. Country is hard for a poor man, you know.”
“Who asked you?”
Akanni snapped his fingers. “Next time you’ll see who will drive you around.”
“Fine,” Sheri said, then she turned to me. “Oaf. Look at his face, flat as a church clock. Come on, let’s go back inside. The sun is beating my head.”
“Now?” I asked.
She pressed her hair down. “Can’t you see I’m a half-caste?”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or feel sorry for her.
“I don’t mind,” she said. “Only my ears I mind and I cover