The Other Side of Truth Page 4

  “Temperature in London today is eight degrees Celsius…”

  Perhaps Uncle Dele would bring something warm for them to wear. Their cotton coats would certainly not be enough. Sade shivered.

  CHAPTER 7

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  NOTHING TO DECLARE

  “DON’T SPEAK UNLESS YOU HAVE TO,” Mrs. Bankole warned them. She had smiled good-bye to the flight attendant, but her fleshy cheeks now seemed to stiffen at the corners of her mouth. Mrs. Bankole lowered her voice despite the clatter of feet and squeaking of luggage wheels along a corridor that seemed to have no end. Sade read Femi’s sullen face. Who would they want to speak to anyway? To say what? It was going to be difficult enough talking to Uncle Dele. Sade hoped Uncle Tunde had done all the explaining on the telephone and that he wouldn’t ask more questions. How could she ever put the terrible pictures in her head into words?

  “Hi there! Ain’t you kids gonna freeze?”

  It was the American. The black eyes on his outfit now peeped out from beneath a great black coat that matched a wide-brimmed felt hat.

  “Oh, they’ll be fine!” Mrs. Bankole replied quickly. “My brother will bring their winter coats to the airport. You know they don’t feel the cold like me with my old bones!”

  She laughed lightly and pretended to quiver a little underneath her own mock leopard-skin coat. The American glanced curiously at the children.

  “Uh-huh? Well, have a good time!”

  Neither Sade nor Femi said anything. He looked a little puzzled. With large strides, however, he was soon well in front of them.

  At Immigration Control everyone came to a halt. Most of the passengers joined a long winding queue underneath a bright yellow sign with the words OTHER PASSPORTS in thick black letters. Mrs. Bankole shepherded the children into another shorter queue marked EUROPEAN COMMUNITY PASSPORTS. It was moving more rapidly. Sade saw the American, near the back of the long queue, staring across at them. She shifted her gaze to the desks ahead of them at each of which perched a figure in a dark suit.

  “Yemi, take this! Ade, come!” Mrs. Bankole thrust her small case into Sade’s hand and led them up to the box. Mrs. Bankole held out her passport. In silence The Eyes behind the desk traveled down to the book, then sideways. Sade could just see the top of a computer. The Eyes suddenly flicked back to them, resting briefly on each in turn. As if taking three snapshots. Sade’s stomach tightened and for the first time she began to worry about the passport. The Eyes were taking much longer than the Brass Buttons. Everyone else in this queue had gone through so quickly. What would happen if she and Femi were questioned? It wouldn’t take long before the truth came out. And then? What if they were put on the next plane going home? The Eyes would tell the police in Lagos. Perhaps the police would try to use the children to get Papa…

  Femi was fidgeting, stubbing one sneaker against the floor. Mrs. Bankole looked at him sharply. Sade wished she could send a message into his mind of what the Eyes could do. He shouldn’t draw their attention. But Femi seemed in his own world. One hand on Mrs. Bankole’s case, he swiveled around as if suddenly changing direction with a football.

  “Ade!” Mrs. Bankole’s voice carried a lightning warning.

  Suddenly the Eyes relaxed.

  “Practicing for the World Cup is he?” the man said, handing back the passport.

  “Oh thank you, officer!” Mrs. Bankole’s face lit up, storm avoided.

  Sade was surprised by her own little leaps of relief.

  A ramp led down to Baggage Reclaim. Suitcases, boxes and bags were lunging out on to conveyor belts that circled through the large hall. People crowded close, grabbing cases, pulling and pushing trolleys. It was not long before the little brown holdall was flung out on to the conveyor belt followed by Mrs. Bankole’s large maroon suitcase.

  Fastening the buttons of her shiny leopard-skin coat, Mrs. Bankole led the way underneath a green NOTHING TO DECLARE sign. Sade pushed the trolley with Femi dragging his feet beside her. Ahead of them, a small group of men and women stood in white shirts and black trousers beside a row of empty tables. Beyond was a large doorway. Was Uncle Dele waiting outside there, scanning all the faces? Just like they used to do in Lagos, when they went to the airport with Mama and Papa. But these buildings seemed even more enormous. What if he was waiting somewhere else? How would they find him?

  They were almost by the door when a voice stopped them.

  “Over here, please!”

  A short woman by the tables beckoned them. She had pepper-red lips and a bob of cassava yellow hair.

  “I would like you to open your cases, madam.”

  Femi stepped closer to Sade, suddenly showing interest.

  “But—I have nothing to declare,” Mrs. Bankole said with determination.

  Sade remembered Black Beret the night before and how Mrs. Bankole had managed to avoid unpacking everything.

  “I want you to open your cases please, madam,” Pepper-Red Lips repeated. This time Sade heard her stress the word “cases.” The lady wanted to check their small brown bag as well.

  Mrs. Bankole was about to heave the large suitcase onto the table when a man with a face as stiff and sharp as a rock hurried across to Pepper-Red Lips. He whispered something in her ear.

  “Please follow us and bring your luggage with you,” Pepper-Red Lips said quietly.

  Sade saw Mrs. Bankole hesitate for a second. Then, drawing back her shoulders, she raised her head and stretched her neck proudly. A peacock preparing for a fight. She was as short as Pepper-Red Lips but her green headdress gave her a couple of extra inches.

  “Why do you ask me this? What’s going on here?” she demanded, her tone rising boldly.

  “We are Customs Officers, madam,” answered Rock Face. Hardly a muscle moved in his face. He kept his voice down. “We are empowered to examine your goods. By law you are—”

  “All right, all right!” Mrs. Bankole threw up her hands. “Do your work but just hurry up! My husband is waiting for me.”

  Sade and Femi glanced at each other. Mrs. Bankole had said nothing to them about her husband.

  Rock Face unpacked and Pepper-Red Lips examined. As the stacks of brightly colored material next to the maroon suitcase grew taller, Sade thought of stalls in Alade Market. Almost thirty bubas with matching wraps and headscarves. A small mountain of decorated leather sandals. A mound of carved bracelets and gold bangles. Everything looked new. At least Pepper-Red Lips worked neatly. Not like the swarm of police who had tipped out Papa’s suitcase when they had seized his passport. But Pepper-Red Lips seemed to be looking for something well hidden. When she came to Mrs. Bankole’s toilet bag, she smelled and touched the contents of each jar…and suddenly Sade realized what they were after. Of course. Drugs! She had heard Papa and Mama talking about drug smuggling; how poor people could be tempted by the money. Papa had written some articles. Did Mrs. Bankole smuggle drugs as well as children? She didn’t look very poor. Whatever would happen to them if Pepper-Red Lips found anything? Surely Uncle Tunde wouldn’t have let them go with Mrs. Bankole if he thought she was a drug smuggler? Nervously Sade chewed her thumb, watching the officers work in silence while Mrs. Bankole sat with her arms folded grimly.

  “What are you going to do with these? Sell them?” The suitcase was empty at last and Pepper-Red Lips stood in front of Mrs. Bankole’s goods.

  “They are presents.” Mrs. Bankole waved a hand as if swatting a fly. “For family, friends…everyone likes to have something from home.”

  Pepper-Red Lips raised her eyebrows.

  “You have rather a lot of family and friends, don’t you think?”

  Before Mrs. Bankole could reply, Rock Face pointed to the brown holdall.

  “Did you pack this yourself?” he asked smoothly.

  “The children did,” Mrs. Bankole replied.

  “We still need to check it,” he said.

  Sade slipped her arm around Femi and he didn’t push it away.

  “U
ncle Dele’s waiting for us!” he muttered so that only his sister could hear.

  Their small bundle of clothes looked odd next to Mrs. Bankole’s stacks. Wouldn’t the officers wonder about the oddness? But, no…Pepper-Red Lips was showing interest in Sade’s gold thread aso-oke. She examined the small matching blue bag, pressing the padded satin lining between her fingers. She handed it to Rock Face and his thick fingers began to crawl all over it. Sade wanted to shout at them, grab it away. It was her bag! The one Mama had sewn specially for her. The only thing she had of Mama’s now.

  She swallowed her words, keeping her lips pressed tight. But when Pepper-Red Lips flashed out a pair of small scissors from her pocket to snip at the seams, Sade couldn’t stop herself.

  “No!” she cried. “Don’t cut it! Please!”

  Mrs. Bankole shot out her arm to hold Sade back.

  “You people have seen everything already. What are you doing now?”

  “Parents sometimes use their children to carry illegal substances,” Rock Face stated bluntly. “If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear.”

  Sade trembled and forced herself to watch as Pepper-Red Lips cut the threads that Mama had sewn with so much skill and love.

  It was another hour before Pepper-Red Lips and Rock Face let them go. They had found no drugs but insisted that Mrs. Bankole pay import duty on the other things. She argued loudly but, in the end, she paid. When, at last, Sade and Femi trailed behind her into the Arrivals Hall, there was no sign of Uncle Dele anywhere.

  CHAPTER 8

  VICTORIA STATION

  VICTORIA…VICTORIA…Sade repeated the name to herself of the station where Mrs. Bankole said they would get off. Buildings, streets, roofs, telephone wires, trees, cloudy sky and now dirty tunnel walls hurtled by outside the train window. Inside the compartment, the passengers reminded Sade of a page in her children’s encyclopedia illustrating people from all around the world. A map above the opposite seats showed a long blue line, looped at one end with a picture of an airplane. Little squares and circles, each with a name, were dotted along its length. So many different stations! Another map showed many different colored lines, weaving in and out of each other, and dozens of other stations. It would be so easy to get lost. Why hadn’t Uncle Dele come to meet them in this gigantic city? Sade felt her stomach encircled and twisted by a web of ever-tightening wire.

  The trouble at Customs had clearly upset Mrs. Bankole. She was also clearly annoyed not to find their uncle at the airport. Now she would have to take the children to Uncle Dele’s college. There had also been no sign of a “Mr. Bankole.” Mrs. Bankole did not mention him again but began to grouse about having to drag all her baggage around London. It seemed that she meant the children too.

  Waiting for the train, a little distance from the other passengers, she had whispered a strong warning. On no account were the children to tell anyone her name. Ever. Even if they were made to admit that they had entered the country by pretending to be someone else’s children. She threatened that if they ever mentioned her name, the agent who had helped them in Lagos would hear about it. Then he would never help their father and Papa would not be able to join them.

  Throughout the journey Mrs. Bankole was silent, except when they changed trains from the map’s blue line to the green and she told them to stay close. At Victoria, Sade helped push the large maroon suitcase onto the platform, then hurried to keep up as Mrs. Bankole pulled the case behind her. Femi tagged farther behind with the brown holdall.

  “Be quick! Those airport people made us late,” Mrs. Bankole said forcefully. “I have to meet someone before we take the thirty-six to your uncle.”

  Sade noticed that Mrs. Bankole no longer called them “Yemi” and “Ade.”

  Mrs. Bankole steered her way through the crowd, up stairs, escalators and along winding corridors to the ticket machine. A metal bar lifted to let each of them out.

  “Hurry now!” Mrs. Bankole rushed on, leading them into an area of shops and stalls, all under a vast roof. Turning the corner they almost tripped over a young man sharing a sleeping bag with a dog. Both the man and the dog had narrow, pointed faces and startled eyes.

  “Can you spare any change?” the man asked. Mrs. Bankole ignored him. People were hurrying in all directions while others stood staring up at an enormous notice board. Mrs. Bankole headed toward a cafe.

  “Oh, he’s still there!” She sounded relieved. “Wait here, you two!”

  A large, heavily built man was just coming out of the cafe entrance, making his way between the tables outside. Mrs. Bankole hurried toward him. Before he had even opened his mouth, he looked fierce. His face was square with his hair cut as level as a table, descending to a flattened U shape on his forehead.

  “Where have you been? I had to ring the airport so many times! Your plane landed nearly four hours ago!” he said angrily. Sade could tell from his accent he was Nigerian. Was this Mr. Bankole?

  “The problem was in Customs! It’s not my fault!” Mrs. Bankole retorted. “We were stopped.”

  “We?”

  Mrs. Bankole hesitated.

  “Let me get these children something to drink first,” she said. “Then I’ll explain.”

  The man stared at them, scowling.

  “Children? Whose children?”

  “I said that I will explain in a minute.”

  “What have you got yourself into? Are you mad?”

  Mrs. Bankole grabbed Sade’s hand and thrust some coins into it. She pointed to the counter inside the cafe.

  “Get something. I’ll come soon.”

  Without giving them time to reply, she pushed them through the door and hurried back outside. Femi pulled a face and made his way to the counter.

  “Coke, please, and one of those,” he said to a pink-cheeked woman with a white cap. He pointed to a square of chocolate cake.

  “The same please,” added Sade.

  As soon as the words were out, she realized she should first check that the five coins in her hand would be enough. But before she could say anything, the white-capped woman had turned her back and was already pressing a lever on a machine and briskly pouring their drinks.

  “Four twenty,” she said, sweeping two plates of chocolate cake on to the counter. Hiding her nervousness, Sade offered all five coins and watched the pink fingers dance across the buttons on the till. Without looking at the children, the woman slapped four small silver coins back on to the counter.

  They carried their drinks and plates to a table. When Mama or Papa had taken them to eat out at home, the waiters often talked and joked with them.

  “Machine Lady!” Sade whispered to Femi but he was too busy burrowing into his cake to reply.

  Outside the cafe, Mrs. Bankole and Mr. Bad Temper had moved a little farther away from the cafe door and were standing in front of a flower stall. If this was Mr. Bankole, he didn’t look at all happy at seeing his wife again. Sade couldn’t hear what they were saying but from their expressions and hands, it appeared they were still arguing. At times, Mrs. Bankole glanced uneasily across at the cafe.

  “Sade?” Femi had finished his cake and most of his drink when he paused to look up at his sister. “Why do you think Uncle Dele didn’t come to the airport?” His voice was small.

  The criss-cross wire around Sade’s stomach tightened. Perhaps the panicky flutterings showed on her face because Femi quickly changed the subject.

  “Let me see their money,” he said, stretching out his hand.

  Sade passed him a small silver coin. She examined one herself, running her forefinger around the edges. It was almost round but had little corners.

  “She’s their queen,” said Femi.

  On the other side was a rose with a crown.

  “It says ‘twenty pence,’” said Sade. “So we’ve got eighty. I’m sure she’ll want them back.”

  But when Sade looked up in the direction of the flower stall, the place where Mrs. Bankole had been standing with Mr.
Bad Temper was empty.

  CHAPTER 9

  WHERE IS UNCLE DELE?

  GRABBING THEIR RUCKSACKS and the brown holdall, they bolted out of the cafe. They stood for a few seconds outside the door, scanning the crowds. Mrs. Bankole was nowhere to be seen. They ran to the flower stall, stopped and turned in every direction. No sign at all.

  “What shall we do, Sade?” Femi’s eyes looked as bewildered as Grandma’s young goats when he chased them.

  “Let’s wait a little in the cafe. Perhaps she has just gone somewhere for a few minutes.” Sade spoke without believing her own words.

  Machine Lady was clearing away their table when they returned. There was still a little Coke in each of their glasses.

  “I thought you had left,” she said bluntly.

  Sade shook her head and Machine Lady shoved the glasses back onto the table.

  The children sipped their drinks slowly, not wanting to reach the final drops. Both sat facing the window, their eyes constantly darting back to the clock as if, by magic, Mrs. Bankole might suddenly reappear. Neither wanted to move, although somewhere deep inside herself Sade sensed that Mrs. Bankole had really left them. The piece of paper on which Papa had written the details of Uncle Dele’s college had gone with her. Mrs. Bankole had asked to see it when they were on the train and had put it into her bag.

  “Do you want to order anything else?” Machine Lady’s voice was sharp. They had been sitting at the table for a while. Sade and Femi shook their heads.