I arrived London on a bitterly cold, winter evening. Henry met me at the airport and took me to his house which was quite far from Heathrow. I was so happy to see him that I could hardly sit still in the car which was heated because of the cold. It seemed the cold had also driven most people off the streets which looked deserted as we drove along.
“Where’s everybody?” I enquired as we drove along the well-lit streets. The few pedestrians I saw were all bundled up in thick jackets and walked very fast as if in great haste to get home.
“Mostly indoors, I guess. It’s too cold to be hanging around on the streets,” he explained.
We got to his home some time later and he showed me round the place. It was a two bedroom apartment with the two rooms upstairs and a small sitting room below.
“Welcome home, darling,” Henry said as he put my bags in what turned out to be the spare room.
Later, after we had eaten the meal he had prepared, we sat talking till very late at night. I gave him news about home, especially concerning his family.
“Your dad and nearly the whole family, including my parents and some of my friends, were at the airport. It was like the whole town came to see me off,” I stated smiling slightly at the memory. We were sitting on the couch and though the heater was on, I was wrapped up in a light jacket, with stockings and slippers on my feet as I was feeling so cold.
“And as I went to board the plane, my mum began to cry and I felt so bad, I almost ran back to hug her but that would have meant missing my flight,” I added.
“I’m glad you are here at last,” he said, turning to cradle my face in his hands.
“So am I. I really missed you. I’ve been dreaming about this day for years. It still feels like a dream, that any moment, I will wake up and I will be back home in Nigeria,” I said, hugging him close.
“It’s no dream sweetheart. You are here with me now. To stay,” he noted, as he kissed me lightly.
Then he got up and taking my hand, led me upstairs to bed.
Henry worked as a supervisor in a care home for elderly persons- a kind of old people’s home.
Most days, he left home very early before I had even woken up and he didn’t return till in the evening. I spent most days indoors cooking, cleaning and doing other chores. After a while I grew bored of being indoors all day and I began to venture outside. I would stroll round the neighbourhood just to get a feel of the place. The whole place was always quiet with very few people on the streets. It didn’t take me long to realise that most people kept to themselves and even neighbours living in the same building often did not know themselves, much less fraternise with one another as we do back home.
“People here keep to themselves. It’s their nature. They are reserved,” Henry explained when I told him about my observations.
On his days off from work, he took me to the high streets where the shops and businesses were located so I could do some shopping. With time, I learnt to move around on my own and I started to go outside my immediate neighbourhood to other parts of the city. I was happy and I had no complaints except for one thing. And it was while I was talking on the phone with my mum one day about eight months after my arrival that I began to wonder if all was well with my husband.
“So when are we getting the good news?” my mum had asked.
“What news, mum?” I countered in a wondering tone.
“The baby! When am I coming over to carry my grandchild?” she asked.
“Ha! Mum! Slow down! I just got here and I’m still trying to find my feet and you are already talking about a baby. It’s not that easy…” I said.
“What’s the big deal about having babies? I had you when I was 21 and you are already over 30. You should not wait too long as a woman’s time is short. All I want is a grand child and the earlier you get pregnant the better…” she stated firmly.
After she had hung up, I sat thinking over what my mum had said. It wasn’t as if I didn’t want to start a family as soon as possible. But my husband was the problem. Since I came to join him, apart from the first few weeks of my arrival, Henry hardly ever touched me. We could stay for weeks without his coming to my bed. I found it strange because while we were back home in Nigeria, he was quite passionate and he couldn’t seem to get enough of me.
Any time I complained about his neglecting his conjugal duties to me, he would give the excuse of tiredness, stress at work and other reasons.
“Are you sure that’s the reason? Or is it something to do with me? Have I put on weight and you no longer find me attractive?” I enquired.
“You know that’s not true. You are still as pretty as the first day I set my eyes on you in my dad’s office. You’ve not changed at all. Just give me some time, darling. I’m due for vacation soon and I promise we shall go away to some place where I can relax and have more time for you,” he said, placing a light kiss on my cheek.
I had no choice but to accept his explanation and I let the matter rest. Besides, I had another pressing issue that was bugging me then. By this time, I was bored, staying home all day with nothing to do but the house work and watching movies. I wanted to work but when I broached the subject to Henry, he was not too keen on the idea.
“Don’t I provide enough for you? What do you need a job for?” he queried with a frown. I explained to him that it was not about the money, that I needed something to do to keep me busy outside the home.
“It’s boring cooped up in here all day while you are at work. And there’s no one to even gist with as the neighbours all keep to themselves,” I grumbled. Then taking his hand, I said imploringly, “Please, honey, find something for me even if it’s part time! I just need something to do to beat boredom!”
He thought about it for a while then said:
“Alright, I will see what I can do though I’m not fully in support of your working,” he stated, wagging a finger at me.
“Oh, thanks darling! I appreciate!” I said, giving him a big hug.
“Hey, easy now! I’ve not got you the job yet!” he said laughing…
Meeting Shelly
Two weeks later, he found me a position at his place of work. It was a part-time job which would require my working three days a week for half a day. Henry explained that it would give me time to take care of the home unlike a full-time job that would take up too much of my time. I was quite happy with the offer and the following week, I resumed work.
The care home was in a two story building with a large, expansive garden that looked neat and well cared for.
That first day, I was given my duties which involved feeding, washing, cleaning up and taking care of the elderly residents assigned to me. I had never done this kind of job before but I was determined to succeed in it. And to help me with this was Shelly, an experienced co-worker, who was to oversee my work. Though born in Nigeria, Shelly grew up in the UK and had been living there ever since. She was a few years older than me and had been working at the centre since it opened.
“I was one of the first staff employed here. So, there’s nothing I’ve not seen here,” she disclosed as she took me round the facility.
Maybe because of their age, some of the residents were quite demanding, always requesting for one thing or the other.
“You don’t have to give them all they want or they will soon wear you out,” she advised me one day. This was after one of my wards, an octogenarian, had demanded for some tea which I duly brought, only for him to reject it and ask for a glass of champagne! And this was a man with a heart condition who had been warned against taking alcohol!
“At this stage, some are like children: needy, petulant and cranky as hell. As long as you give them the basic care, they will be fine,” Shelly stated briskly as we walked along the corridor.
Working in that centre opened my eyes to a certain aspect of Western society: the way they treated their old people. Some of the residents, who had relatives hardly saw them. Some would visit once a month or so while others only at festive periods especially at Christmas. The majority had no relations at all and were being cared for by the government.
“It’s strange. And sad too to see such old people with no children or relatives to look after them,” I told Shelly one day about three months after I started work. It was around noon and we were in the small room where some of the staff used to relax in between their duties. Shelly and I were having drinks and some snacks. Apart from a white colleague of ours, we were alone in the room.
“That’s the way it is in this country. Once you get old, they dump you in a place like this. That’s why I don’t want to grow old here. I want to return home to Nigeria before I get to that stage of life,” she stated, taking a sip of her tea.
“Things aren’t easy back home, you know,” I pointed out.
“I know. But here’s no paradise either contrary to what people believe back in Nigeria. Things are tough here too especially since the recession. Okay, the infrastructure is fine and things work unlike back home, but you have to pay for everything. You pay so much tax and so many bills, at the end of the day it’s like one is just working to pay bills,” she grumbled.
It was a common complaint among the people I had met so far. Henry too was always grumbling about the bills that kept coming regularly.
“These people won’t kill me in this London with all these bills o!” he had said a few days earlier when I had shown him a new stack of letters that been quietly slipped in through the slit in the front door.
The centre was run by a Nigerian lady named Milly. She was slim-built and fair-complexioned and had been living in the country for so long, she had become a citizen. Henry introduced me to her the first day I resumed work and she received me in a very cool manner. That day, I thought it was probably because of pressure of work that accounted for her attitude. But her manner towards me did not improve at subsequent interactions. In fact, I had the feeling that she positively disliked me and I wondered why as I didn’t know her before.
“It’s like Ms Milly doesn’t like me,” I said to Shelly.
She glanced at me quickly. “Why do you say that?” she asked.
I shrugged.
“It’s just a feeling I have. She barely responds to my greetings. And there was even a day she actually hissed when I greeted her at the reception. Is that the way she behaves or is it just me?” I wondered.
“She’s not normally like that. In fact, she’s actually quite nice to the staff and residents though she could be strict at times,” she noted.
Then seeing the confused look on my face, she added:
“Look, don’t let it bother you. As long as you are doing your work well, there won’t be any problem. It’s just that…” she began then stopped.
I looked curiously at her.
“What?” I prompted, taking a big bite of my chocolate cake.
Before speaking, she glanced round the room. The other woman had left and we were alone.
Turning to me, she said quietly:
“Look, Abby, I know it’s none of my business but I’ve grown to like you as a sister and I think you should know what’s been going on.”
“What are you talking about? What is it?” I asked curiously.
“You see, it’s like this,” she said, then drawing close to me, she began to tell me a tale that so shocked me, I could not move from my seat for a long time. It involved my husband, my boss Milly and what happened between them when he newly arrived the country…
Continued next week.
What did Shelly tell Abby about her husband? Don’t miss the juicy details next Saturday!
Names have been changed to protect the narrator’s identity.
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