Read Online Like a Mule Bringing Ice Cream to the Sun by Sarah Ladipo Manyika - Free Book Online Page A

handset from the houseboy and order the door closed behind me. What I then hear on the other end of the phone is an Americanaccent from which I can only decipher a few words. I try inserting my hearing aid, but my wretched hand is shaking so violently and the damned thing screeching so loudly, that I have to abandon it and shout for the person to speak up. Finally, after the forever it takes the woman to inform me that Morayo is not in fact dead, my voice returns.
    ‘Who are you, calling me from America? You can’t even introduce yourself properly before you start telling me that my former wife is lying in hospital. What kind of way is that to begin a conversation? And what kind of name is “Sunshine” anyway? No, listen to me. I’m telling you, never telephone someone without introducing yourself, without explaining things properly, without putting things in context before jumping to “so-and-so had an accident”. Ehn? Are you listening? What you should have said from the beginning was that she was recovering but instead you just said “accident” and “hospital”, so what was I supposed to think? That someone is calling me all the way from America in the middle of the night to tell me that my wife, my ex-wife, is dead? Even now, I don’t even know who you are. Who are you anyway, making me shout? Are you her nurse or what?’
    ‘Well, Caesar, if you could just let me respond –’
    ‘Ambassador is my title.’
    ‘Ambassador, I was only calling to see if you might help. I was wondering if you knew of any of the Nigerian charities that Morayo supports, or might have supported over the years.’
    ‘What?’
    I sit for a moment, stunned that this woman had the audacity to drop the phone on me. How dare she! And how dare she ask me about Morayo’s affairs? Was she trying to swindle me? Was this some sort of fraud? It’s been years since Morayo and I were properly in touch and yet I’d just been thinking of her, as I always do around her birthday. ‘Stupid me,’ I find myself muttering. Why hadn’t I thought to ask the woman for her number? I shouldn’t have been so rude. Just this week I’d googled Morayo to see if there was anything new and then checked to see if her textbook was still in print. I remember how proud she’d been when she first published the book, one year after completing her Masters. I’d been proud of her too, but jealous of the fact that she seemed more alive in her new-found world of academia than in the embassy life that I thought we shared. The fact that I hadn’t encouraged her was my mistake. Except that I didn’t realize my mistake until it was too late. One day, out of nowhere, she announced that she was leaving. I got home from work and there she was, suitcase already packed. ‘Go then!’ I’d shouted more out of consternation than anger. For years I’d blamed her for our separation; whenever people asked why she’d left, I told them she’d had a nervous breakdown just like her mother, brought on by the death of her father. It was easier to blame her than having to examine the ways in which I’d failed her, and especially so when rumours of past affairs began to surface. Some people were even suggesting that the reason Morayo had gone to live in San Francisco was because she’d fallen in love with a woman. If this were so, then there was nothing I could have done to save our marriage. If she was born attracted to women then what difference did it make thatI’d been married before, or that I wasn’t able to give her children, or that my job had ceased to be of interest to her. It meant that her initial attraction to me must have been based on something other than love. Perhaps she saw me simply as a means to an end – as a way of living outside of Nigeria and travelling the world. But deep down I always knew that I couldn’t escape blame that easily. Whether or not any of the rumours were true, I knew that there was a time when our love for each other was real. I