NYU Black Renaissance Noire Fall 2015 Volume 15.2 | Page 13

Prince’s bleached face becomes the
color of ororo except for the black
circles round his cheek bones. He walks
to a glass cabinet and pours himself
drink. I stand, because I don’t know
what to do. I am afraid of Prince’s
anger and I am afraid of the clean rich
leather chairs. I am afraid of the masks
that hang around his parlor. I am afraid
of this man. So I keep standing.

“Thank you sir. Matron sent me to
collect my passport and ticket from
you sir ,” I say. I don’t answer his
question and I can see that look he
gave me at Ipoba River again. I should
have worn something else not this
tight blouse that makes my breasts
look like I am hawking mangoes with
my chest.

I can still hear small anger in his voice
but the colour of his face has returned.
The bleaching is smoother than I
thought, he probably uses original
cream from Europe, not the ones from
China or Lagos that burn people’s
faces like acid. Prince is now smiling
and adjusting his towel. I kept looking
around trying to decide where to sit.
“Itohan baby, so you want to leave us in
this suffer-head country,” he says.
I want to tell him that poor people don’t
live in gra. Almost everything in this
house looks like it came from overseas.
“You will do well in Europe; for a
nineteen year old, you are very smart
and beautiful. I hope you won’t forget
us like some of them that we help to
get out of this poor place?”

“Stop calling me sir,” he says, winking,
“are you in a rush, my boy is not back
from Lagos yet, he has gone to get the
admission letter that will show that you
are going to school in Italy. You will
have to wait small.”
I don’t want to spend another minute,
but I have no choice.
“Wetin you go drink, abi you dey hungry?
Benson — Bensooonnnnn o. This useless
houseboy nor dey hear well. Bensonnnn!”
He calls at the top of his voice.
I don’t know if Prince is married
because I don’t see any sign of woman
or family pictures on the table or wall.
Maybe they are abroad.
“Sahhhh!” I hear a voice. The houseboy,
who is a man actually, comes in
running, almost tripping on the center
table. Benson is holding a white
towel in his hand; probably he was
cleaning. He is short with a police
recruit haircut.
“Sah!” he announces his arrival.
“Ask Itohan what she wants to eat or
drink and stop saying sah sah!”
“Madam wetin make I bring for you?”
He turns to me.

BLACK RENAISSANCE NOIRE

“Itohan sit down na, why are you
behaving like stranger?”

11

We keep walking in a long passageway
that ends in Prince’s parlor where music
is coming from the ceiling. The red rug
swallows my leg, it is thick. Thick brown
leather chairs form a semi-circle in the
middle of the parlor. A flat screen tv
larger than a blackboard hangs on the
wall near where Prince is talking loudly
on the phone. He has just taken his bath
and is still wearing a towel; his hairy
legs with stubborn black spots that have
resisted his original bleaching cream are
exposed. He is screaming and pacing
up and down: “Adesua, you are playing
with fire, you hear! If you think you
can run away with my money and hide
peacefully in Milan, you are joking. I
will sniff you out dead or alive!” His eyes
are red now, “You will see…you will
see Adesua, na this Benin you go come
meet me. You go know say my name na
Prince…na me get Italy and I will catch
you like rat!” He throws the phone on
the glass center-table and it slides down
to the edge of the table and stops.