Reading the Ceiling by Dayo Forster Page A

will point the spout downwards and pull his hand upwards, making the tea froth into the tiny glass cups. He will pour it all back into the teapot and make it boil, thicker, blacker, sucking the tannin out of the leaves. When he’s satisfied that it’s almost ready, he will pour little tasters for the group to confirm his analysis. Heads will nod, or they will rudely tell him to continue his work, to deepen the flavour, to not lighten his hand or they’ll choose someone else.
    I go to bed early and leave them to it. Despite the threat of mosquitoes easing their way through holes in the netting, I open my bedroom window.
    I can hear them.
    â€˜Ayodele? Yes, she’s good to me, good for me. Right age too. Young ones want to go discoing every night. Older ones lose elasticity and only talk about who’s died and who’s born. She’s in the middle. I think she’ll do me right.’
    â€˜Your first wife was a fine woman too. Gave you three goodlooking, well-brought-up children.’
    â€˜I’m not saying I haven’t been lucky. But Bilor stopped delivering the goods soon after our third child was born. She couldn’t see the point.’
    Hearty laughter, one note brays out a nasal honk – Musa’s laugh. Fred’s laugh is mixed in too – heh heh heh. Then Musa’s voice: ‘That’s why you went sampling.’
    â€˜Man, you can’t blame me. I had needs that had to be met. We all do.’
    A back is slapped. The night carries the hollowed thump. ‘Boy, we know you well. Which of us has not been tempted? We’ve all been there. At least you didn’t leave her.’
    â€˜Not that I didn’t think about it. Bilor did many things well. She kept the house clean, she held on to the dalasis I gave her. She didn’t seem to hear the gossip. So, it worked for all of us.’
    â€˜Say it again! Don’t we all like the good women in our houses and the bad ones in our trousers.’
    More laughs which rumble, almost seem to stop, then catch again and carry on.
    When they come to pick him up, they come early in the morning. Even the loudspeakers on the mosque in Latrikunda have not been turned on. They come in a quiet white Peugeot, and back up its duck-behind in our driveway, blocking Fred’s navy Honda with its crumpled back door. I am awake anyway. I often am, letting the sounds carried on the mixed air of early morning keep me company. Most of the footsteps are quiet treads of boots with thick plastic soles. Then there is the scratchier sound of a smooth-soled pair, wiping grit out from under it on the first step on our verandah.
    The knocks on the glass pane are smart, sharp. Three times. Three knocks.
    As I feel my way out of bed, Fred turns and grunts in his sleep. I misjudge the opening of the bedroom door and the edge sears into my big toe and wrings an aah of intense pain from my lungs. I wait to find myself and then limp out. My feet meet the rough softness of our sitting room rug and I hobble along to the front door, not quite ready to put a light on inside the house.
    The bulb on the verandah reflects off the shorn shiny head of a young man in dark sunglasses. He stands with his legs slightly apart in a pair of khaki trousers. His short-sleeved shirt is made of a printed leopard fabric and cropped just above the hip. When he sees my face peering out at him through the curtains, he lets his right hand swivel back so I can see he has a holster on.
    â€˜Special Investigations. We’re looking for Frederick Adams. He lives here.’
    I cannot find any questions to ask. No time to think. No place to consider hiding him in. My head nods itself and I pull away from the door. Back to our bedroom where I try to shake Fred up.
    â€˜Men at the door. They want you.’
    He turns over onto his back and blinks up at me. A plank of light falls into the room from the corridor. He’s never easy to wake.
    The knocking is repeated