Reading the Ceiling by Dayo Forster Page A

large balls of cassava fufu , and starts to ladle out spoonfuls of the palmoil-rimmed casserole.
    â€˜Get me some water, dear child.’ And I obediently trot off to the kitchen to get her a pitcher of cold water.
    â€˜Thank you. Ah. Food and good company, what more could one want in life?’ she says, on my return.
    My mother takes on a well-known theme. ‘I would enjoy having some grandchildren.’
    â€˜Yes,’ replies Aunt K, ‘but wouldn’t you like some sons-in-law first?’
    My mother sighs, ‘I only wish that one  of my children were settled. That’s all I can ask God for at this stage.’
    *
    I start work at a modest salary, so discreetly modest that I can only afford to rent a small house, two rooms really, in Latrikunda. I find them quite by accident, through an old teacher from school, Mrs Foon, whose parents-in-law rent out a series of properties in their compound.
    The Ministry of Finance is set in a quadrangle of old buildings with thick, fortlike walls, and deep-set windows. The courtyard and the internal covered verandah create a micro-climate – it’s always cool. The pillars holding up the upper floor are darkened with the sweat of lingering palms, from the hands of people used to waiting. There are many visitors to the other departments in the quadrangle – the tax revenue office, the registrar of companies – and lines of people snake in and out of open office doors. Beyond the doors are standard-issue wooden desks, commissioned by the Department of Public Works and cut and assembled in the men’s prison at Mile Two. There are often a few official heads behind the desks piled with selections of bulging files concerning government business.
    The steps leading up to our small office, the Department of Financial Planning, have recently been painted. In the past couple of months, as we’ve been trying to negotiate new lending terms for our government’s debt, we’ve had to welcome many foreign visitors – representatives of friendly bilaterals or nosy bureaucrats from the World Bank. In the outer office, Sukai sits behind a desk, an array of phones in front of her. As always, she is perfectly made up, her eyes dark-ringed in kohl, her lips appropriately stained. Today she wears a trailing red gown with intricate patterns of lilies.
    â€˜You look lovely, Sukai,’ I say as my good morning.
    She smiles back, delighted. ‘It’s Chinese silk. Do you know who I bought it from?’ She pauses to wait for my shake of the head before continuing, ‘That lady who came last Friday, she gets them from Dubai. You should come and see her things next time she’s here.’ She stands up and moves her arms so I can see it better. Wafts of the musky churrai she’s used to scent her clothes drift out.
    â€˜I don’t think I can choose as well as you.’
    She smiles again. Complimenting Sukai on a regular basis has made my working life much smoother.
    â€˜Is Babucarr in yet?’ I ask.
    â€˜No, but he phoned and asked me to remind you about the speech he needs for tomorrow.’
    â€˜Thanks. I’ll get started on that now.’
    She returns her chewing stick to her mouth, methodically rubbing it against her teeth, its slightly sour sap acting as her toothpaste. The action merely draws attention to her fingers, which are thin, and very much part of the persona she cultivates, an elegant secretary, very marriageable. Not only is Sukai the Minister of Finance’s niece, she also has ambitions to marry the head of our department, Babucarr Sanneh.
    I get good at my job, really good. I can write proposals better than anyone else in the department, in my entire ministry. I write speeches for Babucarr that come to the notice of the Minister. In his turn, the Minister starts to add urgent requests for word combinations to use for an opening address to a meeting of West African finance ministers in Banjul,