Being Lara by Lola Jaye Page B

wide-armed piece of clothing—brushed lightly against the floor and was embroidered with a shiny lime-green thread. His forehead had always reminded Yomi of the large loaves of bread she collected from the market every morning, his teeth the color of corn Ola would grill on the fire.
    â€œYomi, how are you?” he asked in Yoruba as she stood up from kneeling in greeting.
    â€œI am well, sir,” she replied in English.
    Ola had designed the table immaculately with a choice of glistening white rice, or ẹ bà red bubbling chicken pepper stew, and egusi prepared with stark green spinach. The bright yellow corn on the cobs and small bowl of fried plantain added to the colorful display.
    Yomi’s younger siblings sat in another room where Ola would join them after she’d served the elders.
    Just as Chief formed his palms together in preparation for grace, Yomi imagined the moment frozen in time, acknowledging it as one of her happiest. The man she loved, eating with her family and the chief—the most respected man in the area. It was all too much and she was just so happy.
    They began to devour Ola’s feast.
    â€œSo, Henry, what is it you majored in, again?” asked Daddy.
    â€œEnglish, maths, and philosophy, sir,” replied Henry, between a mouthful of ẹ bà as Yomi swelled with pride at the two men in her life conversing happily.
    â€œWhat is it philosophy can do for you in the working world?” asked Chief as he held on to a large chicken leg midair.
    Henry sipped some water before answering. “Sir, I am of the belief that it broadens my mind, sir. Allows me to ask questions about life, sir.”
    â€œNo, the real subjects are accounting, law, and medicine,” countered Chief, with Daddy guffawing and nodding his head in stiff agreement. Yomi hid her displeasure, suddenly irritated at this apparent ganging up against Henry. Daddy had always been so nice to Henry, and such questioning was so unlike him.
    â€œMay I pour juice?” asked Ola, oblivious to the undercurrent of bad feeling lurking in the dining room. Yomi was desperate to avert the dangerous route the conversation had taken, yearning instead for Mama’s words of support. But none came.
    â€œYes, please,” said Henry. As Ola obligingly stood by to fill Henry’s glass, Yomi dismissed her with a wave and poured the juice herself. It was a clear message to all assembled that Henry was more than just a friend, a near future husband and the man she loved.
    â€œYomi will make an excellent wife,” said Daddy.
    â€œThank you, Daddy.” Yomi smiled back at him sweetly, glad the conversation had switched and that someone was at last acknowledging her beliefs. Perhaps this was why Daddy had been questioning Henry so. He had been assessing his suitability as a husband! Yomi placed her hand to her chest, as if that would contain her rising excitement. She turned to Henry, who smiled back at her, forking fried plantain to the sound of Chief loudly sucking residue soup from his large index fingernail.
    After Henry had left, Yomi helped Ola clear up the dishes, as Daddy and Chief sipped on Guinness in the sitting room. As she bent down to close the cupboard door, Yomi was startled to feel a slight brush against her buttocks.
    â€œHello, my dear,” said Chief, a half-full bottle of Guinness in his hand. “I came to get a glass, I broke the other one.”
    â€œOh, Chief, I will fetch you another glass and Ola will clean it up. A man should not be in the kitchen,” she said, having decided the hand incident must have been an accident.
    â€œThank you, my dear.”
    She reached her arm up to the top cupboard to reach the glasses, aware of his eyes following her every move.
    â€œThank you, my dear,” he said as Yomi poured the remaining Guinness into the glass, his eyes still and very watchful, drinking her in, almost devouring her, the room eerily quiet with the