Making Wolf Read Free Page B

across from Auntie’s house. The space in front of the band extending up to the gates of the house was understood to be the dance floor. On both sides of the band, tables and chairs stretched into the distance like a lecture hall without the walls and ceiling. Party lights, colored bulbs in lamp holders along flex cable, were strung between street lights. The house itself was open, literally. All doors and windows were open ,and it acted as a command center for the caterers from where they dispensed food and drink. There was a man standing alongside the lead singer feeding him information from prompt cards. The singer would integrate names into rehashes of popular juju songs. The people whose names were called out would be obliged to spray the bereaved family and the singer in mint-condition US dollars. Had to be crisp. And so it went.
    I sat watching the spectacle of rolling buttocks, elaborate gele, and sweeping agbada. I had some more palm wine. There were people I used to consider family, some doing well, others looking on the verge of poverty with their thinness and threadbare clothes.
    At the bottom of the food chain there were people who were not fortunate enough to afford clothes that could pass for party wear. These were the carrion-feeders of the ecosystem, waiting for scraps from the tables or notes tossed their way. They stole, begged, and made the affluent feel guilty by their mere presence. They were mostly children, but you had to believe that their parents were a few yards behind feeding off the sympathy generated by the big eyes and snot-filled noses. These attendees stayed out of range of the young men who served as sergeants-at-arms wielding canes. They swatted the children away like flies periodically, horse tail swishing.
    The last time I saw this number of black people in one place was the Notting Hill carnival.
    I was getting a headache so I rose and went to inspect the house where I had spent part of my childhood. A server spilled Guinness stout on my trouser cuff, but I ignored her apologies. I walked on, but then I heard her call my name.
    “Weston?”
    The servers wore these white uniforms with hats to keep their hair in check which made them look identical, plus the party lights didn’t improve visibility, and fifteen years had passed. Still, I recognized her.
    “Nana?”
    “Hold on a second.” Nana lowered her tray to a nearby table and placed three plates of rice, a large gourd of palm wine, and a pile of serviettes in no particular order. Then she walked back to where I stood.
    “Come with me.”
    I followed her into the house, past other servers, some of whom greeted her and looked at me with suspicion, past the main foyer, past the banister I used to slide down as a child, past where a nest of family wives supervised the caterers, and finally to a pantry that smelled of rice dust and flour. She bolted the door and faced me.
    And kissed me.
    I broke it off. “Nana, I—”
    “Are you seeing someone? Married?”
    “No, but—”
    She placed a finger on my lips, stroked her way to my cheek, and pulled my face to hers again. Her finger smelled of curried rice and beer. She hadn’t changed much. A bit more wiry, less baby fat, but still unmistakably Nana. She kissed me like it didn’t matter how I left without warning, without saying goodbye. Like it didn’t matter that I didn’t write. Like it didn’t matter that we’d said we’d be in love forever. That we promised. And that I broke the promise for whatever reason.
    “We have a lot to discuss.”
    “No, we don’t. Are you here to stay or are you returning to London soon?”
    “I’m flying out midnight tomorrow.”
    “Good. We have the whole day. Call me. I have to get back to work. I’m not allowed to consort with the guests.” She passed me a card, unbolted the door, and was gone. A rice weevil crawled across the rectangle of embossed paper. Nana Hastruup. Consultant. I wondered what that meant, but I secreted the card in