Like a Mule Bringing Ice Cream to the Sun by Sarah Ladipo Manyika

Author:Sarah Ladipo Manyika [Sarah Ladipo Manyika]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781911115052
Publisher: CASSAVA REPUBLIC PRESS
Published: 2016-07-30T16:00:00+00:00

10

The boys have gone to bed and Ashok and I return to work. This is the way it is on weekday nights in our household. Ashok sits behind his computer at the kitchen table, checking legal documents and sending emails, while I move about tidying up. Thankfully, tonight there are plenty of leftovers. Saves me from making sandwiches for the boys’ lunch. I divide the pasta equally between two Tupperware boxes and sprinkle each with Parmesan – slightly more for Zach and less for Avi, my picky one. Then I admire my creation – wholewheat fusilli speckled pink and green with pancetta and zucchini. I’m good at this and still consider turning my culinary skills into a business. But yoga is what most excites me these days even though, of all my entrepreneurial ideas, it’s the least liked by Ashok and his family. While Ashok says I can do whatever I want, I know what he’d prefer. Status matters to him, so while he’d happily boast about his Sunshine doing a graduate degree he wouldn’t do the same for a teaching qualification. Not for yoga at least. Which is ironic given that yoga brings me closer to India, but I suppose not in the way that his high-class family desires. I reach for the box of cherry tomatoes, cut a few in half and wedge them, artistically, on top. Snap, snap, and there, lunch is done. Into the fridge they go with a Pink Lady apple on top of each.

‘Chocolate?’

I take the bar from Ashok, break off a square then give the rest back. His shoulders are hunched so I massage them and then nuzzle the back of his neck. Aroused, he pushes his laptop away, pulling me round for a proper kiss.

‘Don’t go,’ he pleads, his arm tightening around my waist.

‘I’m not going,’ I whisper, ‘it’s just that …’

He frowns as I wriggle free.

‘I’m trying to help Morayo with all of these papers,’ I explain as I spread them across the kitchen table. Ashok nods, but I know he’s disappointed. I wonder if I should explain that it’s not that I don’t want to make love, only that after a long day of attending to others I’m craving space. And even if it means that I continue to look after others, at least it’s my choice rather than one of my duties as a mother. But we’ve had this conversation before so I stick to Morayo. ‘Have you ever heard of the Abdul Rahim Centre for Rights to Education? I can’t find anything about it online and I’m worried because Morayo seems to have sent them quite a lot of money.’

‘Sounds like a scam to me,’ he mutters.

‘But just because we can’t find anything about it online doesn’t make it suspect, does it? I mean she is Nigerian, so perhaps it’s small and one of her relatives connected her? I must be able to find something, somewhere.’ I tap the countertop with the end of my pencil, still thinking. Maybe Ashok’s right.

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