Everything Good Will Come Read Free

brothers and sisters.
She would be starting boarding school in two weeks, in
another city, and she...
    â€œI got into Royal College,” I said, to shut her up.
    â€œEyack! It’s all girls!”
    â€œIt’s still the best school in Lagos.”
    â€œAll girls is boring.”
    â€œDepends how you look at it,” I said, quoting my father.
    Through the fence we heard Akanni’s juju music. Sheri
stuck her bottom out and began to wriggle. She dived lower
and wormed up.
    â€œYou like juju music?” I asked.
    â€œYep. Me and my grandma, we dance to it.”
    â€œYou dance with your grandma?”
    â€œI live with her.”
    The only grandparent I’d known was my father’s mother,
who was now dead, and she scared me because of the grayish-white
films across her pupils. My mother said she got them
from her wickedness. The music stopped.
    â€œThese flowers are nice,” Sheri said, contemplating them
as she might an array of chocolates. She plucked one of them
and planted it behind her ear.
    â€œIs it pretty?”
    I nodded. She looked for more and began to pick them
one by one. Soon she had five hibiscus in her hair. She picked
her sixth as we heard a cry from across the yard. Baba was
charging toward us with his machete in the air. “You! Get
away from there!”
    Sheri caught sight of him and screamed. We ran round
the side of the house and hobbled over the gravel on the front
drive.
    â€œWho was that?” Sheri asked, rubbing her chest.
    I took short breaths. “Our gardener.”
    â€œI’m afraid of him.”
    â€œBaba can’t do anything. He likes to scare people.”
    She sucked her teeth. “Look at his legs crooked as crab’s,
his lips red as a monkey’s bottom.”
    We rolled around the gravel. The hibiscus toppled out of
Sheri’s afro and she kicked her legs about, relishing her
laughter and prolonging mine. She recovered first and wiped
her eyes with her fingers.
    â€œDo you have a best friend?” she asked.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen, I will be your best friend.” She patted her chest. “Every day, until we go to school.”
    â€œI can only play on Sundays,” I said.
    My mother would drive her out if she ever saw her.
    She shrugged. “Next Sunday then. Come to my house if
you like.”
    â€œAll right,” I said.
    Who would know? She was funny, and she was also rude,
but that was probably because she had no home training.
    She yelled from our gates. “I’ll call you aburo , little sister,
from now on. And I’ll beat you at ten-ten, wait and see.”
    It’s a stupid game, I was about to say, but she’d
disappeared behind the cement column. Didn’t anyone tell
her she couldn’t wear high heels? Lipstick? Any of that? Where was her respect for an old man like Baba? She was the
spoiled one. Sharp mouth and all.
    Â 

    Baba was raking the grass when I returned to the back yard.
    â€œI’m going to tell your mother about her,” he said.
    I stamped my foot in frustration. “But she’s my friend.”
    â€œHow can she be your friend? You’ve just met her, and
your mother does not know her.”
    â€œShe doesn’t have to know her.”
    I’d known him all my life. How could he tell? He made a
face as if the memory of Sheri had left a bad taste in his
mouth. “Your mother will not like that one.”
    â€œPlease, don’t tell. Please.”
    I knelt and pressed my palms together. It was my best
trick ever to wear him out.
    â€œAll right,” he said. “But I must not see you or her
anywhere near those flowers again.”
    â€œNever,” I said, scrambling to my feet. “See? I’m going
inside. You won’t find me near them.”
    I walked backward into the house. Baba’s legs really were
like crab’s, I thought, scurrying through the living room.
Then I bumped my shin on the corner of a chair