On Black Sisters Street by Chika Unigwe Page A

stupor to announce that was what he was to be known as. “All this business of two names will only lead to trouble. Giving achild a mouthful of a name is incurring the wrath of the gods. It is a big name that kills a dog.”
    And although neither Efe nor Rita understood his speech, they never referred to the baby as Lucky Ikponwosa again.
    Renaming the baby was about the only time Efe’s father showed an interest in the plump baby who was always crying at night. The only other time had been the day Efe came back from the hospital with him. Her father had slurred that had their mother been alive, she never would have let Efe bring a bastard child into their home and that not a penny of his was to go toward the boy. “I cannot be raising my children and be raising another man’s child, too, you hear that? There is only so much trial a man can bear in this world.”
    L.I. grew and his mother worked to provide for him, cleaning first one office and then a second. She left early, before her son woke up, and by the time she came back he had worn himself out from playing and was winding down, ready to end his day. Left in the care of her sister, Efe did not see enough of him, and it pained her, so she took to praying. She prayed for longer hours in a day. And then she prayed for more work so she could save enough, soon enough, to take a break. It was only the second prayer that got answered.
    She was going home at the end of a working day, seated at the back of an
okada
, weaving through Lagos traffic, her arms around the cyclist, when she spotted an advertisement for a cleaning woman for an office on Randle Avenue. Randle Avenue was close to the location of her second job, and she was sure she could juggle all three. Three jobs meant more money, more bonuses, which equaled a better life for L.I. A better life for L.I. totaled a happier life for her.
    She begged the cyclist to take her to Randle Avenue instead. If he hurried, she might still be able to make it to Dele and Sons Limited: Import-Export Specialists before the closing time of 6:30 P.M . The bearded cyclist with the bandanna said she had to pay more money.
    “No problem,” she answered. “Just get me there as quick as you can.”
    He asked her to hold him lower around his waist, as getting to Randle Avenue before 6:30 required his “James Bond moves.” She moved her hands to the area around his belly button, but he asked her to move lower and to hold him tighter to ensure she did not fall off the bike. Efe did not argue, willing him on to her third job. She held him tight, hid her face from the wind by placing her head in the small of his back, and tried to stay on while he swerved and revved, meandering through traffic, avoiding potholes and almost knocking down a bread hawker.
    She was glad to make it to Randle Avenue in one piece, though slightly shaken. The man’s James Bond moves had involved riding at top speed and with total disregard for other road users, especially pedestrians. Many times during the ride, Efe was sure she was going to be thrown off the back of the bike or that they would ride under a moving truck and that would be the end of her, a mass of bones and flesh flattened under the wheels of a truck carrying crates of soft drink. She could not decide which was the worse prospect of the two. Which would mean a more merciful death? At some point she had begged, “Softly, softly,
oga
. Don’t go too fast, please.” But either her words had gotten lost in the medley of honking and hawkers calling and people raining abuse from open windows, or the cyclist had chosen to ignore her. In any case, he rode just as hard until he had deposited her in front of her destination.
    “Shall I wait for you?” he asked Efe, his engine still running. He had one leg resting on the ground, the other foot on the pedal, but she’d had enough of him. Besides, she had no idea how long she would be there for, and
okada
fare mounted if a cyclist had to wait. So she