Sleep Well, My Lady Page 4

  Bertha rose and went out to the landing. There, at the top of the staircase, she waited for her husband.

  He started as he saw her. “Oh,” he said. “You’re still up?”

  “I’m still up. Why are you so late coming home?”

  “What do you mean?” Augustus stopped four steps down from her.

  “Did you enjoy yourself?” she asked.

  “Enjoy myself? Where? When?”

  “You know exactly what I mean. With her.”

  He finished the climb to the top and faced Bertha. “What are you talking about?”

  “You had sex with Lady Araba, didn’t you?”

  “What? I did not! What gave you that idea?”

  Bertha leaned forward slightly and sniffed. “Agh! I can smell her.” Her face twisted with revulsion. “And you’re drunk. Where did you two go to drink and have sex? To a hotel? Or to her house?”

  “Bertha, stop. How do these things get into your mind?”

  “You disgust me.” She turned back to the bedroom but stopped before she entered. “I can’t live with you anymore, Augustus. I’m moving out, and I’m taking the children with me.”

  NINE

  Three years before

  Soccer great Asamoah Gyan bought a three-million-dollar mansion at the top of a hill with a spectacular view of the Weija Dam west of Accra and not far from upscale West Hills Mall. The winding route to the home was by private access only, so you had to be the cream of the crop to ascend to Asamoah’s palace.

  Lady Araba was one of the select few who’d made the grade and received an invitation to an evening birthday bash at Asamoah’s house. The bulk of the event was around the lit-up turquoise pool on the second-floor balcony, from where one could see the twinkling lights of the city of Accra miles away. A small cluster of partygoers hung out on the third floor, which overlooked the crowd around the pool. There was a lavish amount of food and plenty to drink. The music for the first part of the evening was with a live band backing Adina, one of Ghana’s high-profile female performers, and then it was DJ Breezy who provided the jams at earsplitting volume. Where Asamoah lived, there were no neighbors to disturb.

  Asamoah made the rounds and talked to Araba for a few minutes while she was in conversation with a group of three people she had joined. She had a little wine, then wandered into the large gleaming foyer adjoining the balcony. It was devoid of any furniture—just a vast empty space. From the center of this foyer rose a grand spiral staircase that looked like it went to heaven.

  The noise of the party was somewhat behind Araba as she wandered into a room off the foyer. It was full of Asamoah’s trophies, awards, and photographs, all bolted securely to the wall or locked away in illuminated glass cabinets. Araba was somewhat transfixed by a soccer shoe, presumably Asamoah’s, cast in gold.

  “Would you ever wear something like that?”

  Araba turned. The voice behind her to her right belonged to a man she recognized at once. “Augustus Seeza! What a surprise!”

  “How are you, Lady Araba?” he said, his tone like warm syrup. “Nice to see you again.”

  They embraced lightly.

  “Let’s see,” Araba said. “Is it about a year since I was on your show?”

  “Around that, yes,” he said.

  She smiled. “How are you?”

  “Very well. I saw you from across the pool, but you weren’t paying attention to me. I was gravely wounded.”

  She laughed. “Aw, so sorry.”

  He inclined his head with a grin. “Not a problem at all. Are you by yourself this evening?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “How could that be? There can’t be any eligible bachelor in Ghana who would not want to take you out.”

  “That’s not the question,” she countered. “The question is whether there’s an eligible bachelor with whom I want to go out.”

  “An excellent answer. In my line of work, I appreciate that. My next question is if I may show you around Sam’s mini-museum. I know about pretty much all the items.”

  “Are you good friends?”

  “Yes, although I also know him in a professional capacity. I interviewed him after the 2014 World Cup debacle, and in my opinion, it was one of the best interviews I ever did.”

  “I remember,” Araba said.

  “Are you a football fan?”

  “I turn into one when it’s the Africa or World Cup and Ghana is playing,” Araba said. “Otherwise, only peripherally.” She turned to a portrait of Asamoah done in charcoal. “I like this. I often prefer charcoal or pencil to color.”

  Augustus knew the history of the painting and whose work it was, as he did the details of each trophy. At length he said, “I hope I’m not boring you with all this football trivia.”

  “Not at all,” she answered truthfully.

  “Can I get you a drink?”

  “I’m okay, actually.”

  “Then let me show you something.” He put his head around the door to make sure the coast was clear. It was. He put his fingers to his lips while beckoning Araba to follow him. He led her to the opposite side of the foyer and up a short flight of steps, took a sharp left, and opened a door at the end of the staircase. They ended up on a small, solitary balcony far from the party crowd.

  “Wow,” Araba said. “The view’s even more spectacular from here.”

  “Yeah,” Augustus said, clearly pleased with himself. “It’s one of the house’s little secrets Sam let me in on.”

  “Nice,” Araba said, gazing out. She thought she could make out sections of town by how bright the lights were. The older parts of the city, like Usshertown and Jamestown, were the “black holes” in the dance of lights. The evening was cool now, and somewhere from below, a flowering jasmine bush was sending up light dabs of perfume in the air.

  “I would love to take you out one of these evenings,” Augustus said. “May I?”

  She gave him a sharp look. “I thought you were married.”

  He made a face. “Separated, now. Don’t say you’re sorry, because I’m not.”

  “Okay.”

  “My wife, Bertha, is crazy,” Augustus continued. “Crazy with jealousy. She imagined time and time again that I was cheating on her. She even thought I was fornicating with you.”

  Araba pulled back her head sharply. “With me?” she asked in astonishment.

  Augustus nodded. “The night I interviewed you, she became convinced I was having an affair with you—or planning to. She accused me of flirting with you on TV.”

  “Were you?” Araba asked with interest.

  “Did you feel like I was?” Augustus said.

  “Not in so many words.”

  “I would have liked to,” he said, “but we can’t do that on TV. Unprofessional.”

  “Yes,” Araba said cautiously. “But a woman knows.”

  “You’re saying my wife was right about my flirting with you?”

  “Maybe,” Araba said coyly.

  “Oh, really,” he said, facing her.

  Araba laughed and looked out at the view again.

  “So?” Augustus said.

  “So, what?”

  “When do I get to take you out?”

  “You have your phone on you?” she asked.

  He took it from his pocket, unlocked it, and handed it to her. Araba put in her number and gave the phone back. “There. Call me and we’ll talk.”

  When Araba spoke to Augustus that night, she was open to romance. Her mind had often been in flux on the subject. Sometimes she was “looking for love,” but other times, disillusioned by her choices of men out there, she simply couldn’t be bothered.

  She liked the fact that Augustus was separated, but she cautioned herself. In one sense, he was liberated and available, but separations weren’t permanent i
n the way divorce was.

  Augustus was gracious and smart. He had a good sense of humor. He was handsome. What was there not to like about him? In the first few months after Asamoah Gyan’s party, he took her to the poshest places in town, many of which Araba already knew. She was not starstruck in any way, even when she met some of the country’s most famous music, TV, and movie stars. Augustus paid for everything when he and Araba went out and seemed determined to impress her. When he took her to Paris for a week, she acknowledged that she was impressed. Yes, that was certainly memorable.

  He preferred to spend time with Araba in her home rather than his. It didn’t take long for Peter and the security team at the Trasacco’s front entrance to recognize him and his car and wave him through with a smile. He tipped them generously, which made him a favored guest. They were courteous to him and discreet about his visits. At night, they were supposed to record the plate numbers of all visiting vehicles and cancel them out on their exit, but with the regularity of Augustus’s social calls to Araba, sometimes staying overnight, they relaxed that requirement.

  At times, Araba felt uneasy when she was out with Augustus at parties or clubs. Sure, they had fun, but as she watched him down all that hard liquor, worry began to stir. She didn’t understand why he had to drink quite so much to have a good time, and after several months of seeing Augustus, she wasn’t sure if their nights out were for the company and social exchange as much as the opportunity to drink.

  After an all-night party one Sunday morning, Kweku-Sam pulled up to the Trasacco Valley entrance with Araba and Augustus riding in the back of the Audi. Sako the security man was on night duty, and he waved at them as they went through the open gate without slowing down much. Augustus had dozed off beside Araba, snoring lightly against the soft music playing. When Kweku stopped at the front door of the house, she roused Augustus. “Wake up, honey.”

  Augustus muttered something and sat up groggily while Araba went around to the other side to help him out of the car. He leaned against her as they made their way inside and draped himself heavily over her in the grand hallway. “Let’s have sex,” he slurred.

  “I don’t think you’re in any state for that,” Araba said firmly. “Come on, let’s go upstairs. Hold on to the railing.”

  Augustus made it up to the top of the stairs with a valiant effort and from there made a beeline for the bedroom opposite, where he flopped onto the bed with a groan. Grunting with the effort, Araba pulled his shoes off and then began to tackle his shirt and pants. As she did so, he tried to pull her down to him.

  “Honey, stop,” she said. “Let me get you ready for bed.”

  His pawing at her became clumsier and more insistent. His breath was heavy with alcohol. He sat up for a minute, swung Araba down onto the bed, and got on top of her, muttering, “Let’s have sex.”

  Araba had a sudden, horrifying flashback of her father, and with strength she didn’t know she had, she pushed Augustus off her and slapped him across the face. He touched his cheek where she had hit him and looked at his palm in disbelief. “Why?” he said.

  “You can sleep there or do whatever you please,” she said, turning away. “I’ll be in the other bedroom, and it will be locked, so don’t bother.”

  Araba slammed the door behind her and walked across the landing to the second of four bedrooms. She locked herself in, undressed, put on a T-shirt, and got into bed. She switched off the light, but then heard Augustus behind the door begging to be let in.

  “Go away!” she yelled.

  A long silence ensued, and then she heard him padding back down the hallway.

  Tears streamed down her face and plopped onto the pillow, her feelings lurching between fury and sorrow like a fitful pendulum. She loathed Augustus’s behavior when he was drunk. He had just degraded her in the worst way. She thought of other men who had done the same to her, beginning with her father. What was it about her that made them do this? Why could she not be the successful woman she was without the assumptions about her sexuality? Men saw her as food ready to be devoured, and women said nasty things about her online—accused her of being a slut. That was baseless and arose out of pure jealousy. Araba didn’t even like sex. It was overrated, not to mention painful sometimes. Most men didn’t understand how to touch a woman the right way. They appeared to think their own pleasure was the center of the sexual universe around which women’s heavenly bodies revolved.

  Araba cried until sheer fatigue dragged her into slumber. When she woke to the first signs of morning light, she sat up and rubbed her eyes, then looked around the room, wondering for a moment why she wasn’t in her usual bed before it hit her. She dropped back into bed and covered her head with blankets, feeling profoundly dreadful. Last night’s ugly episode with Augustus was triggering a new bout of melancholy. She had become aware of these spells of depression in her early twenties, but in retrospect, she realized that they had probably begun in her mid-teens. Sometimes they were so bad, Araba questioned her own worth. No one knew she was prone to depression. She hid it well and could function in spite of it.

  She didn’t want to get up this morning. She could work from home today. She started to doze off again, but woke to the sound of someone knocking at the front door.

  Oh, God. Just go away, please.

  But the knocking persisted. Annoyed, Araba put on her dressing gown and padded downstairs. She looked through the peephole to see who it was. Ismael. The guy just wouldn’t leave her alone. He was a sweet man, but sometimes it was a little much.

  Araba opened the door, and there he stood with a wide, tooth-chipped grin.

  “Good morning, madam,” he said. “How are you?”

  She turned on her smile. “I’m good, Ismael. And you?”

  “I’m also fine. Please, I brought you the plants you asked for.”

  He turned, knelt, and picked up a tray arranged with small pots containing some of the prettiest succulents Araba had ever seen.

  “Oh, how lovely!” Araba said.

  “Please, may I put them at the bottom terrace?”

  “That will be fine. Thank you. Wait, let me get you a little something.”

  Araba trotted upstairs to the master bedroom where Augustus was still snoring, his clothes strewn all over the floor. She grabbed two twenty-cedi notes from her purse and went back down to hand it to Ismael.

  He beamed. “God bless you, madam. Have a good day.”

  “You too, Ismael.”

  Araba returned to the bedroom, unraveled Augustus’s shirt, pants, jacket, and undershirt, and hung them all up in the walk-in closet. Then she got into bed behind him and put her arms around him. He stirred slightly, turned over to rest his head against her chest, and fell asleep again.

  TEN

  Two years before

  Araba didn’t visit her father and mother as often as she probably should. Their resentment over that was never expressed, but she was keenly aware of it. There were dark spots in her relationship with her parents, sores with scabs. Until the day Araba; her father, Fifi; and her mother, Miriam, decided to pull off those scabs and attend to what lay beneath, the wounds would go unhealed.

  Today, her parents had summoned her home. She wasn’t sure what the meeting was about, but she felt nervous and apprehensive.

  She pulled into the front yard of the house. When she stepped out of the car, Fifi’s two dogs ran up to her, smiling and tail-wagging. Oko’s car was here as well, parked next to his father’s.

  Araba knocked lightly on the screen door to the sitting room. “Ko-ko ko!” she called out in traditional fashion and then entered. She felt the stuffiness and dimness of the place press upon her at once.

  Fifi and Oko were sitting on the sofa. A soccer match was on, but Araba had the feeling they had been dedicating only half their attention to it. She couldn’t see her mother, but heard pots and pans banging around in the kitchen and
presumed it was Miriam.

  “Hello, Daddy,” she said, bending to kiss him on the cheek. He smelled a little musty.

  “How are you?” he said, his tone neutral—no sign of joy. Araba’s worry grew into distress.

  Oko stood up and embraced her. “What’s up, little sister?” But Araba thought he sounded strained.

  “I’m good. How’ve you been?”

  “You know—managing.”

  “Where’s Mama? Kitchen?”

  Oko nodded.

  “Hi, Mama,” Araba said, stepping into the kitchen and the delicious aroma of hot pepper soup.

  “Ei, Araba!” she exclaimed, smiling.

  Araba kissed her mother on the cheek. In her early sixties, Miriam was still very pretty and perfectly made up. She considered it her duty as a housewife, and her husband, the good Father, expected her to be well-dressed and coiffed at all times.

  “Can I help?” Araba offered.

  “Can you cut up the plantain and cassava?” Miriam said. “Then we’ll put them on to boil.”

  “Okay.” Araba waited until she and her mother were standing next to each other to whisper, “What is this meeting about?”

  Miriam avoided her gaze. “Daddy’s in charge of it,” she said, and that was all Araba would get from her, because Miriam took the backseat wherever or whenever Fifi was involved, which meant practically every situation except cooking and managing the household. Even there, he had considerable control, since he gave her the spending money.

  Miriam opened the rear screen door of the kitchen and yelled out for the house girl, who came running.