'Unsuitable Ties': An exclusive work of fiction by Sefi Atta [Part 4]

Sefi Atta weaves colourful lives in Ikoyi, Lagos with her exclusive short story, "Unsuitable ties."

“Happy birthday to you,” she sings, as Funke walks into the bar with Biola. Read part 3 here.

Funke feigns shyness. “None of that, please!”

“I beg you,” Yemisi says to Biola. “Let me hug the celebrant first. I’ll get to you next.”

She hugs Funke and tells her she looks radiant because she can’t think of a more suitable word. Funke is in a gold-lamé maxi dress, which must be custom-made. She is all diamonds from her décolletage up. She has a long hairweave and a thick layer of bronze eyeshadow that suggests she hired a make-up artist and dictated exactly how she wanted to look. She is pretty – much prettier without make-up.

“I’ve lost weight, haven’t I?” Funke asks, posing.

“You never needed to,” Yemisi says.

Funke often claims she is on a diet, though her appetite secretly remains healthy. Twice a year she disappears to a health spa in Spain for liquid detoxes and colonic irrigations. She bleaches her skin. That she can’t hide. She also claims her complexion is the same as it has always been, but she was much darker before.

Metallic fabrics must be in. Biola is in a pewter-coloured dress. Her black-pearl earrings match her dress, her short, bob wig is flattering and her make-up colours are neutral. She is naturally skinny, but may have had Botox work on her forehead. Yemisi suspects she deliberately tones down her appearance to make Funke look as if she is trying too hard.

“The lovely Mrs Lawal,” she says, hugging Biola tighter than she hugged Funke to make up for temporarily bypassing her. Biola is a family friend. Their mothers were childhood friends. Their fathers are diehard Metropolitan Club men: any talk of allowing women to become members rubs them up the wrong way.

“How are Auntie and Uncle?” Biola asks.

“Very well,” Yemisi says. “How’s Chairman?”

“Chairman’s fine,” Biola says.

Everyone calls Biola’s father Chairman. Biola’s father calls himself an industrialist, to set himself apart from ordinary businessmen in Lagos. He has never manufactured a single product. He is chairman of several companies he acquired shares in before they became old and established.

Yemisi doesn’t ask after Biola’s stepmother. Biola’s mother died when Biola was just ten and Chairman remarried – a glamorous Liberian divorcee, whom Biola refused to obey. Biola called her “the refugee” behind her back. When their rows got too much for Chairman, he sent Biola off to Le Rosey in Switzerland and gave her whatever she wanted to compensate for abandoning her. By the age of thirteen she was shopping on Bond Street. Chairman’s only rule was that she study and pass her exams. Her stepmother hoped she might fail. Biola got into the London School of Economics to study law. After she graduated, she returned to Lagos for law school.

“So,” Biola says, accusingly. “We only meet in London these days.”

“Where else?” Yemisi says.

“You’re a real socialite caterer, are you?”

“If you really mean I cater for socialites like you? Yes.”

Biola laughs. She can’t help but put another woman down, even in the course of saying hello.

The last place they met was in Lagos. They were at a barbecue on New Year’s Day at Funke’s house. Funke had waiters walking up and down with trays of jerk chicken, shrimp kebab and grilled tilapia. There were bottles of Moët rosé dripping on every table. Yemisi asked Funke who her caterer was and Funke said, “I flew in a chef from Senegal.”

Biola arrived late that day with her ladies-in-waiting, a group of women who started the Birkin-bag trend in Lagos. Funke was also one of them. Yemisi would never cater for any of them. They would be too demanding. They would try to bully discounts out of her. They would never bother to return her phone calls or texts. If she persisted in trying to contact them, they would refer her to their personal assistants. They could end up mistreating her waiters, which would drive her up the wall. After the job was done, they would pay her in their own sweet time. 

She looks forward to seeing Biola and Funke at functions anyway, knowing they will entertain her. She is particularly amused when they carry on as if Lagos and London are neighbouring cities. “I’m going to London next week,” Biola might say. “After which I come back to Lagos for a day, then I’m off again.” Lagos is a mere six hours away by plane. They travel first class or business class. 

The code of loyalty applies to them as well. Biola is married to Tunji Lawal, a senator who took a ten-billion-naira bank loan he never repaid. The EFCC investigated him, too. Funke said any rumours of financial impropriety on his part were a political vendetta. The EFCC eventually dropped their investigation. Funke again stood by Biola when Tunji’s affair with a Lagos publicist was exposed.

There were lewd text messages, which were quoted in the tabloids. There was a sex tape, which was posted online. Funke said the footage wasn’t clear. The whole scandal made Yemisi more sympathetic towards Biola, who is now involved in eradicating poverty in Africa. She is invited around the world to give speeches. She is photographed with international celebrities and posts her photos on Facebook to spite her enemies.

Tunji is in Nigeria, attending a senators’ forum. He is with the People’s Democratic Party and still hopes to be president. Biola probably wouldn’t mind being first lady, but meanwhile won’t associate with the new crop of Third Republic politicians Tunji mixes with. She calls them bush people.

“Love your dress,” Biola says. “Whose is it?”

“Who knows?” Yemisi says.

It is a pastel-blue maxi dress she bought on sale.

“She always looks good,” Biola says to Funke.

“Where did you get it?” Funke asks.

“High Street Ken,” Yemisi says.

“The colour suits her,” Biola says to Funke.

Yemisi wonders if her dress is worthy of this much attention or if it is just their acquisitive nature that gets the better of them. Perhaps they are mocking her, she thinks in amusement.

“It looks like a lawn van,” Funke says.

“It doesn’t look anything like a Lanvin,” Biola says. 

“It does. It looks like a lawn van dress I have.”

“Lanvin is understated. You, my dear, are never understated.”

“Have you seen their latest collection?”

“Excuse me,” Yemisi says.

She hurries as if someone is calling her. There is only so much she can take when Funke and Biola begin to spar. Funke is the challenger here and Biola is the undefeated and undisputed champion.

Biola has always been the champ. Funke may have had her moments of local glory: a fashion show, she is there in the front row; a Nollywood film premiere, she is on the red carpet as a producer. She is named in best-dressed lists. But only recently has she had international recognition, for building a world-class boutique hotel in Lagos. Saheed hired an American PR company to cover the opening and flew in the architect who designed the hotel, a Somali, highly celebrated in London.

Saheed’s billionaire status is most likely another PR stunt. Yet Biola wins every time because she gets Funke to up the ante. Biola has been making women feel small since she was a girl: her stepmother, her stepmother’s friends, her friends’ disapproving mothers. For her, this is sport.

Yemisi heads for the other end of the bar. She rarely sees either of them these days. She hears about them. Funke is considered a social climber and Biola an outright fraud. People get furious about her photos with international celebrities. Yemisi just wishes she could pull the celebrities aside and say, as her mother would, “Know the calibre of Nigerian you fraternise with.”

They will pose with any African for a photo op. The gossip about Funke and Biola so far only makes her in awe of their ability to withstand it, though she imagines that, in private, they are just as brutal about people who talk about them.

Written by Sefi Atta, Illustrated by Fauzi Fahm

Sefi Atta was born in Lagos, Nigeria, in 1964. She is a playwright and award winning author of popular titles, Everything Good Will Come, A Bit of Difference, News From Home and a collection of short stories, Swallow. Her works have received several literary awards, including the 2006 Wole Soyinka Prize for Literature in Africa and the 2009 Noma Award for Publishing in Africa. She currently divides her time between the United States, England and Nigeria.

Read the exclusive interview: Sefi Atta talks power politics, the ethos of writing and Fela.