Escapades of Toun: Part I

Escapades of Toun
Part I – Love in a time of ageism

Toun noticed Marques for the first time on the shuttle bus which took staff from the office in Marina to the office in Ikeja. He was a roughly muscular man, greying, with a full beard and a deep West Indian accent. He was from Trinidad or Antigua or Saint Kitts. He was speaking with another commuter about the fuel scarcity, complaining about having to sit in traffic for hours on his way home because impatient drivers had queued up along the express way.

               Toun hadn’t quite been herself those early days at Phillips & Chain Oil; she was freshly employed and the weight of performance and expectation sat on her shoulders, heavy, refusing to adjust regardless of how hard she shifted it. She got home tired, overwhelmed, unsure she wanted to report to work in the morning, but the song that her parents and sister sang in her ears every evening was that of joy; finally, she had gotten a job that made her look respectable and like a serious madam.

               Toun was working with a difficult woman, one Mrs. Yerima, who was rude and either threatened by the younger woman or frankly just didn’t like her. Toun found herself leaving for lunch a couple of minutes early, just to stay away from her desk for longer. She spent her breaks in the kitchen on her floor, talking to Aunty Rachel, the tea lady, eating moin-moin and ogi, gossiping about the singers on MTN Project Fame. It was during these escapes that she got to know Marques, the West Indian in his forties who liked Nigeria so much, regardless of how much he complained about it.

               “It’s nice here,” he had said that first afternoon, taking a seat at the only table in the kitchen with Toun. “The people are nice.”             

               Toun hadn’t been in a mood to converse and had nodded and drifted her eyes back to her meal.

               “What’s your name?” Marques had asked.

               Toun sighed. “Adetoun. Toun.”

“I’m Marques.” He stuck his hand out and Toun shook it. “What do you do?”

               She had told him she worked with accounting and he had made a snide remark about Mrs. Yerima, to which Toun chuckled. They exchanged landline numbers and went their ways. She had forgotten about him until a few days later, an hour or so before closing on a Friday, when he showed up again in the kitchen with a used mug. She had been boiling water for coffee and Marques eyed the plugged kettle.

               “Coffee at this time of the day?” He asked.

               “I’m tired,” Toun responded.

               “Ah. You should rest plenty this weekend.”

               She nodded. “I’ll try to.”

               He dropped his mug in the sink, wished her a safe weekend and left.

               The kitchen visits then became more frequent, and Toun almost found herself looking forward to Marques showing up with his lunch, a newspaper and conversation. They talked about how complex Nigeria is to govern, the efforts – or lack thereof – of the present administration, about his ex-wife and two children who lived in Virginia, about her year-long wilderness of job searching and anger at God and the world for failing her and her first-class degree from a very expensive university in London. They talked about their contract positions with Phillips & Chain; hers which yielded chicken change, in sharp contrast  to his which earned him nearly a thousand dollars an hour. They talked about his previous jobs; contracting with Shell in Saudi Arabia, with Texaco in Mexico and with Chevron in Russia.

               Toun had seen their meetings as nothing beyond a friendly conversation between a forty-something year old man and a twenty-something year old woman. It seemed completely platonic. She had ignored Aunty Rachel’s teasing and said that they were just fond of each other, just friends who had good, honest conversations. When she had mentioned it to Nike, her sister, Nike had told her that it was impossible for a man to spend all that time with a woman and not like her even a little. But Toun ignored it; Marques hadn’t given her vibes and, besides, he was far, far too old for her.

               So, when he invited her for a live show where a band he termed “Fela and the Koola Lobitos reincarnate” played every other Friday in Victoria Island, she had said yes. As she got ready to leave, Nike and her mother had poked their heads into the bedroom to ask about this man who was taking her out. She had ignored them, told them to leave the gate unlocked for her and left.

               It was when she saw Marques dressed in neat black chinos and a crisp cream shirt, with his hair slicked back with grease, that she realized, perhaps, that this was a date.

               They got good seats near the front and the sound of afrobeats made Toun’s feet jerk and her heart rise. How hadn’t she known about this place until now? It was the expats who always took the time to pull apart the intricacies of a city.

               Marques ordered chapman and wings and a waitress with a big behind and a short, tight skirt brought them on a tray. Toun watched with slight envy as Marques and the woman spoke jovially, laughing about something. When the waitress left, Marques leaned in and tried over the music to explain what they had been talking about. Toun could barely hear him and she tried not to show that she cared too much.

               The Fela reincarnate band performed for a little over an hour before leaving the stage. Another band came on but their energy didn’t match the first's and Toun quickly lost interest. She finished her wings and chapman and Marques asked if she was ready to leave.

               Outside, his driver was waiting in a black Land Cruiser Lexus, the kind Phillips & Chain gives high-level expats as official cars. The driver was an old, smallish man with tribal marks that kept peering at Toun through the rear view mirror. She was sure he thought she was a runs girl and she wondered if Marques went out with women often. She was uncomfortable sitting in that dark car, but when Marques looked at his watch and said it was only just nine and would she like to come over for a drink, she didn’t decline.

---

Marques lived in a pent house on Bourdillon. His balcony overlooked the Island and from up there, Lagos looked surreal and peaceful, like it was cut out of a magazine.

               Toun was staring out at the night when Marques came to the balcony with two glasses of soda water. He had taken his shoes off and his feet looked pale, sprouts of grey hair growing on his big toes. He handed Toun a glass.

               “I’ve had a good night,” he said.

               “Me too.” She drank from the glass quickly, trying to keep her mouth busy since she had nothing more to say.

               Marques stood by her at the railing and she could smell his cologne, spicy whiffs carried by the wind.

“I… want to tell you something,” Marques said.

               Toun's heart stilled. She knew this was the moment. Why had she come to his house? He was going to ask for sex, wasn’t he?

               “Yes…” Her voice was just a little louder than a whisper.

               “I…” He chuckled slightly and then cleared his throat. “I… can’t believe I’m saying this. Marques, what are you doing, for God’s sake?”

He was mumbling now, and Toun found it amusing. She held herself from laughing.

“What is it?” She offered.

“Well… the thing is… I’m afraid I might be in love with you.”

She stared. “Might?”

“It sounds silly, doesn’t it?”

“Well, you’re either in love with someone or you aren’t.”

“Yes, exactly.” He watched her. “You don’t think it’s crazy?”

“What?”

“That I mi—that I just said I’m in love with you?”

“Well, is it a might or a definite? Because that determines a lot of things.”

Marques thought for a moment. “I haven’t really loved anybody since the divorce. I haven’t allowed myself to. I told myself never to do something as stupid as falling in love again and that had gone well until… well, you.”

“My parents say you aren’t supposed to fall in love. You’re supposed to choose to love.”

“Right.” Marques took a sip of his soda water and fell silent, looking out over the balcony.

They stood like that, saying nothing. When she was done with the glass, he took it from her and walked back into the house. Toun followed him, settling down on a sofa in the corner of the living room. She didn’t know what to think, or feel, and wasn’t sure how she could sound so coherent given the wildness with which her heart was beating against her chest. She was a little embarrassed, a little flustered.

“How old are you?” Marques asked, walking into the living room from the kitchen.

“Twenty-four. You?”

“Forty-six.” He sat down on the sofa opposite her, looking deflated, the confident man who knew all there was to know about deep sea drilling now unsure of himself, out of his element.

“I’m sorry I said that,” he continued.

“It’s okay.”

“Have I ruined the friendship we were building?”

Toun shrugged. “No.” She stood up, so abrupt she surprised herself. “I should go. It’s getting late.”

---

Although Marques had told the driver to drop Toun at home, the foolish man dropped her in Anthony and she had to catch a taxi home to Gbagada. When she got home, Nike was still awake, cooing over the phone with her boyfriend, whom she swiftly dismissed when Toun walked into the room.

               “How far, how far?” Nike asked, sitting up in bed.

               Toun sat on the edge of the bed and took her shoes off. “He said he loves me.”

               Nike threw her palms over her mouth to stop herself from screaming, kicking her feet in excitement.

               “Shebi I told you!” She said. She watched Toun’s face. “Why are you looking like that?”

               Toun looked down at her bare feet. “I think I love him too.”

               Again Nike kicked her feet around, but she stopped when she saw the tears gathering in Toun’s eyes.

               She touched Toun’s shoulder. “Toun, ki lo de?”

               “He’s forty-six, Nike. He’s daddy’s age mate.”

               The words bounced around the walls of the room, finding no place to settle.

---

The weekend was painfully long and irony had it that when Toun resumed on Monday morning, Marques was the first person she saw on the shuttle bus. She sat next to him and he smiled at her, albeit stiffly, as though out of duty. They said nothing the whole way and when they got to Ikeja, Marques told her to have a good day. The way he said it had a kind of finality to it, and it made her angry because she had been fine by herself before he came with his I might be in love with you talk.

               In the kitchen during lunch, she wasn’t so chatty with Aunty Rachel and when Aunty Rachel asked why, she said she was on her period. When the door opened and Marques stepped in with his lunch and a newspaper, Aunty Rachel said she was going to gather tea cups.

               The two sat at the table, a table that had become theirs, silently. Marques unpacked his lunch and the aluminum foil made loud noises that accentuated the silence. His lunch was grilled salmon, roasted vegetables and mashed potatoes. It smelled good. Toun kept her eyes on her food.

               “So, I know now that I’m most definitely in love with you,” Marques said, eyes on his meal.

               Toun’s heart melted.

  “Really?” She tried to sound indifferent.

               He looked up. “Really.”

               “And how did you come to that conclusion?”

               “Because when you left on Friday night, I could barely breathe.”

               Toun’s face ruptured into a smile before she could help herself. “So why didn’t you call me?”

               “Because I have forgotten how to do this thing. This love thing. I’m rusty. I have forgotten what to do and what not to do. I have forgotten the rules.”

               “Well, you better learn quickly.”

               Marques tilted his head. “So does that mean you are in love with me too?”

               Toun wrinkled her nose. “I’m still thinking about it.”