Chapter Five

As was customary, Henry went to the early-morning Sunday mass service with his mother at the St. Charles Boromeo parish, Victoria Island, and then he came back to the house. Rosalie herself prepared the Sunday meal, and she spent three hours in the kitchen displaying her culinary skills much to the consternation of the gentle Mrs. Oyono who was fluttering around the whole house like a butterfly, dusting non-existent specks of dust from the impeccable furniture and muttering to herself and grumbling as if her employment had been terminated. ‘I wonder why she even keeps me here,’ she kept on saying over and over again.

Henry spent his own time before the TV, watching an episode of the extremely popular La Usurpadora, though his mind was only half on it because he kept on wondering about his father and what his mother had told him about the man trying to write him out of his will. He had to find a way to confront his father, he knew, and that meant that he had to cancel the sex appointment he had with the sexy dancer, Phoenix.

He wrote out a note, put the note in an envelope along with some money and gave it to Andrew, the son of the gardener, to go to the Drummer Club at the Oniru Beach side of Victoria Island and give it to Phoenix.

‘There will be something for you when you return,’ Henry assured him, winking conspiratorially. Then he went up to his room to get ready for the child-naming dinner party they were intending to go to at their uncle’s breathtaking home at Ikeja. He had to hurry to join his mother who was complaining about not wanting to be trapped in the traffic jam. It was really unfortunate, but the truth of the matter was that the traffic situation in Lagos was ten times worse than in any other part of the country.

When they got to the house, Rosalie drove her Bentley coupe up the curved driveway to the front entrance, and as they got down from it, she was waving and talking to acquaintances and friends. The house was magnificent, modeled by a French architect after the stunning homes of the French upper class and it was elaborately furnished with imported French walnut furniture and rose-marble floors bordered with sienna-red marble.

The dressing code for the day was blue gowns and expensive lace dresses with pink scarves for the women, blue tuxedoes and expensive native Agbada for the men. Henry had complied with the code, but Rosalie, always the social deviant, had donned on a sleeveless, velvet sheath dress that hugged her trim figure and was slit up the front to reveal some long legs that had been the sensation during her time on the screens.

‘You look wonderful, dear,’ Alfred Johnson beamed at her, and, having spent several years in London and imbibed some of their cultures, he kissed her on the cheeks. ‘Your husband is here with a young woman who says she’s here at your invitation. She’s a real beauty, but she can’t light a candle to you, yes?’

‘Yes,’ Rosalie replied, smiling tightly. But it was obvious to Henry that she had no inkling about what Alfred was talking about. Though she remained outwardly calm and in control of herself, Henry could sense her recoil into an inner shell, her face an artificial mask that hid the inner terror within.

The party was held outdoors. There were bars and buffet tents and dancing tents spread out over the grounds, and there was a highlife band playing. But the house itself was off-limits. The mansion, the guest bungalows, the tennis court, and the swimming pool were all roped off and barred by security men.

The guests frolicked on the lawn, eating and dancing, plus gossiping for the obligatory four hours. The younger generation of the Johnson clan congregated together, leaving the older ones to discuss their business and their stocks and their love affairs and their women and the problems that came with being among the members of the upper echelon of the society. There was Cilia, the cousin who schooled in England; there was Dominic, the post-graduate law student at the Law School in Victoria Island, Lagos; there were so many of them. They chatted merrily, the young adults sneaking beer around under the censorious eyes of their watchful parents, the older youths swigging theirs without a care in the world.

‘What’s happening over there?’ asked Janet, nudging Henry with her shoulder. She was the daughter of Chinua’s younger brother, a sweet-faced girl with a sunny disposition and an easy manner. As kids, they’d played together, and even now, they were still very fond of each other and still met for drinks and the occasional dinner whenever they could.

Henry looked in the direction she’d pointed which was bathed in the artificial glow of electric bulbs and what he saw made him to frown with apprehension and disapproval. Chinua was standing before Rosalie, with a young woman on his arm. He lurched forward, and it was obvious that he had gotten tipsy, and he was speaking loudly, gesticulating wildly at Rosalie and the young man that stood beside her. The other family members were talking, and from the look of concern on their faces, which was mixed with malicious expectation, it was obvious that something was going down between him and his wife.

‘I married a whore!’ Chinua stated loudly in a drunken voice as Henry reached them. The merriment had been suspended, and everyone were about to witness a squabble. ‘She thinks she’s something because she’s appeared before TV once or twice, but I tell you that underneath all that bones and fair skin is a nonentity.’ He lumbered forward but was restrained by the young woman who was planted firmly by his side. ‘She’s nothing, so I’ve decided to get myself a real woman.’

‘That’s enough!’ Henry bellowed savagely amidst horrified murmurs and the exchange of glances. ‘You shall not insult my mother like that again!’

‘Do not interfere, Henry. Let him rave; he’s perfectly drunk and does not know what he’s saying now.’ Rosalie’s voice was low and perfectly controlled but her eyes looked deadly.

Chinua let out a harsh bark of laughter that seemed to reverberate through the grounds. He was feeling buoyant with his intoxication, and the retaliation of his son goaded him further. ‘Rosalie is a prostitute,’ he snapped, his voice deadly, his face excited. He was drunk, and high too, angling for a fight with his son and his wife.

Rosalie smiled, and it was as much for the absurdity of the statement as for the assemblage that was soaking up everything that was going on. ‘He’s talking about me being with the son of his uncle,’ she said. ‘And that is ridiculous.’

And then Chinua swung one fist which caught the shell-shocked young man beside Rosalie squarely on the jaw, and there was a collective gasp from the family. At that moment, something snapped within Henry, and he felt a feeling of pure unadulterated hatred sweep over him and he lunged forward, one hand knocking the young woman who was his father’s date－ oh, the cheek of the man!－ out of the way, his right fist connecting with his father’s jaw. Even as the man let out a bellow of rage, he continued to swing his fist, and one by one, his blows flew out and thumped into Chinua’s body. He continued to punch and yell, never letting up. He wanted to kill the bastard because the man was a disgrace to the family; a womanizer who had dared to bring an outsider into the family gathering, a man who had dared to accuse his wife of infidelity when he was the unfaithful one. And then Henry could feel a million hands on his shoulders, peeling him off the body of his father, and he fought and kicked against the hands that held him, but they held him fast.

‘You son of an ashewo! ’ Chinua raged as blood poured from his mouth. ‘You ungrateful son of a whore! You shall pay for this!’ He swayed unsteadily on his feet, and then he drew the young woman to his side roughly. ‘Do you all see this woman?’ he demanded. ‘I will marry her and get this whore and her filthy son out of my house and my life.’

A wave of astonished murmurs rang through the family, including Henry. Chinua was smiling winningly now, as though savoring his victory. Then something seemed to happen to him. Suddenly, the smile was wiped from his face so fast, there was no expression waiting to cover the ensuing blankness. He seemed to be suspended between the world of the living and a dream of unreality. A great spasm rippled through his frame, and then he stumbled forward and collapsed on the ground.

‘She’s poisoned him,’ Rosalie said quietly but succinctly, one long finger pointed towards the young woman. ‘That wine in her arm must be poisoned.’ Her face was as blank as a china mask, and as hard.

For a long moment nothing happened, and it seemed as though time had been suspended. Then a scream erupted from a female throat, and, as if acting on a signal, the other women began to scream, each voice screeching with the loudness of an Irish Banshee, all of them wanting to outdo the others.

Though struck dumb by what had transpired, Henry looked at his mother, and there she stood, her face emitting no emotions whatsoever, her face a frozen mask of total blankness, her eyes narrowed. And from within the depths of her eyes Henry could almost swear that a light of triumph shone in her eyes, and that coldness seemed to seep from her towards him, enveloping him. He had the thought then that if indeed the young woman had poisoned his father－ the young woman stood there petrified with shock, a look of terror on her face－ there was no doubt that Rosalie had done something too.

There was no way on earth that the look on her face could be mistaken; she had done something.

One of the older men－ a distant relative who was a general surgeon－ bent forward towards the body of the man which was contorting with spasms, and then he shook his head sadly. It was a sign of doom, an indication that death loomed threateningly. Already some of the women were wailing like sirens, and the men were shedding silent tears and shaking their heads in the way only a man can do.

Henry stood there, thoroughly shaken, sobs racking his body. To his eyes, everything seemed to be happening as if through a great mist, and then the implication of the death of his father dawned on him with great force. He was now the man of the house, the heir to the empire. And through the loads of kohl that darkened her eyes, they shone out at him like lighted orbs, and she was nodding at him, a sure sign that it was all over now; they had won the battle against Chinua Johnson.

‘How could this have happened?’ he asked of no one.

‘Thank the lover of your father, my son,’ Rosalie replied quietly, but her voice rang with clarity, and then the young woman who had been basking in the glory of being declared the wife-to-be of the great Chinua Johnson spun on her heels and fled. Nobody tried to stop her flight; nobody touched her; there were no screams to the guards to block her exit from the compound; there were no restraining hands to hold her slim figure back, no accusing tongues to yell at her to confess her sins. She just fled, and was never seen nor heard from again.

*

CHINUA JOHNSON WAS buried two weeks after his death at his home town, Nri, in Anambra State of Eastern Nigeria.

Besides the burying crew, there many people in attendance at the funeral: there was the governor of the state along with his entourage and hangers-on; there were throngs of people from the business world of Lagos, and the entire community turned out en masse to the funeral; journalists and gossip columnists thronged the place. Due to the severe head infections she used to get when she cut her hair as a kid, Rosalie refrained from shaving her head bald as was customary; she had her jet-black hair hidden under a huge scarf and wore a very simple black dress. She stood there, tall and very elegant, chic and beautiful, withdrawn and remote, with Henry standing behind her. He made no attempt to comfort her because he knew that she needed no comforting about the death of the man who had chained her down into servitude.

He felt within him that she did not need the comfort he could give because she felt that there was none needed from him or any other person. She was free now from the clutches of the man that had been abusing her for years.

Rain was pelting down to the earth, and as the polished coffin which was now splattered with rain and mud was lowered into the ground, Henry felt the tears spring to his eyes. He had been at war with Chinua, but the man had been his father, and in his own twisted way, he loved him.

Then there were the condolence visits from the friends and the in-laws of the Johnson family, and Henry and his mother had to entertain them all. Rosalie sat in a huge chair in the magnificent living room of the house of her late husband, a stoic statue, her eyes hidden by huge Gucci sunglasses that masked her face, leaving Henry to nod and smile as the people came in with their gifts of clothes and drinks, all saying: ‘Sorry, ndo o,’ and some of the women had to shed the obligatory tears for the widow of the great man.

‘Nwam nwoke, ndo,’ they all said to Henry, meaning: my son, sorry. And he was nodding his head at them and accepting their handshakes. He was the man of the house now, and it was his duty under the native law and custom of the people to receive the people that had come to cry with them then as they were crying and grieving over the death of the great man.

Then when all was finally over, they went back to Lagos. The lawyer that had managed the affairs of Chinua Johnson called the family over to the Chinua mansion for the reading of the will, and Henry had to come down from campus to be a part of it. Then they all moved to the Probate Registry of the Ikoyi High Court were the Probate Registrar supervised the activities since the will had been filed there. There were bequests to family members and charitable organizations, but the real bulk of the estate－ the mansion at Victoria Island, the house at their hometown back in the east, the block of flats at Ikoyi and Surulere, his shares in various multi-national companies, and the ones in the import-export business the family ran, excluding the controlling shares that Rosalie had－ all were turned over to Henry.

Later on, when they went home after the lawyer had assured them that he and the other executor of the will were already applying for probate, Rosalie told him, ‘There’s one more thing, Henry. If you were to drop dead at any time－’

‘I am just twenty-two,’ Henry protested.

‘You can die at any time, Henry,’ Rosalie countered. ‘Never forget that. If you die, then everything your father left for you will be gobbled up by your uncles and their families. They are all vultures, and they won’t hesitate to grab everything that your father had left behind at the slightest opportunity they get. They will try to grab the company, though they cannot dare try to touch my share of it－ my lawyers will rip them to pieces if they dare try. I may get to keep this house, but what about the other houses and apartment buildings? I am nothing but a woman, and in this country, the odds are stacked high against me. You see the point now, don’t you, Henry?’

He nodded. ‘What do you propose?’

With a small smile, Rosalie leaned forward and patted his arm, strands of hair falling into her face. ‘You are going to produce a child, Henry.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Henry gasped, and his eyes were almost popping out of his head in undisguised shock.

Rosalie nodded, and her stunning face was wreathed in smiles. ‘I do not care if you are not in love, or consider yourself too young and unprepared for the task. But the point is that you shall sire a child, and I hope it will be a son. Afterwards, you can feel free to divorce the girl you married and I will arrange a fair settlement with her. Now, there is this list of pretty girls I would like you to see.’

And Henry knew that the net had been drawn tight. He’d always known that one day, he would be expected by the society to get it down with a woman, but what he had never expected was that it was going to be so soon, right after he’d truly lost his virginity to Phoenix at the Drummer Club. The girl he had slept with in the past did not count. Phoenix was the only that counted.

He knew that he would never go back to that club to look for the beautiful dancer ever again because the bell of responsibility was ringing, and he had to answer to it.

That night, when he went into his room and lay on the bed, he cried bitterly.