Gladys forced her gaze away and glanced around. The large sports car was spacious and lavishly appointed. She admired the shiny fixtures and automatic controls between the front bucket seats. The whole interior was fitted with smooth tan leather. She could imagine her car-loving brother‘s envy when she told him about it later. A few minutes later, they drew up before another mansion.
“This is your aunt‘s address.” He stared straight ahead.
“Thank you.” Gladys stepped out and hefted her box from the boot. She expected them to drive away without delay, but they were still there as she rang the bell at the gate.
“I‘m here for Mrs. Dehinde-Ojo…” She tried to look confident as she gave the gateman who unlocked the gate her name and her details.
“Ah! Madam dey expects you. Come inside.” He grasped the luggage as he ushered her into the compound. When she looked back, the car and its occupants had vanished.
**********
Her Lagos adventure had started with a hand delivered letter from her father‘s estranged sister last December. Aunt Isioma said she would be in the village for Christmas and wanted forgiveness for the damaged relationship between both families. She also wrote that Gladys could return to Lagos with her if her mother agreed. Gladys had been as surprised as her mother and brothers at the request, but also very excited. At twenty-six, and after one year steeped away in the far north of the country for national service, she was ready to move to the next step. Her mother disagreed, but went ahead to visit the village for the New Year, while Gladys and her brothers remained in the town for the holidays.
“Gladys,” her mother called a few hours after her return to Enugu a week later. “I‘ve had a discussion with Isioma. She was still in Onicha-olona when I got there.”
They were together in the bedroom they both shared in their small flat. A fan whirred overhead, shifting threadbare curtains drawn across the louvered windows.
“She told me she is now a widow.”
“Oh no! When did her husband die?” This was not contained in the letter her aunt had sent.
“He passed away in September last year. She said he wanted a quiet burial so she didn‘t bother to let anyone know. I also don‘t know how those Yorubas do their tradition. Anyway, everyone was agog; it‘s been almost twenty years since she was last seen in the village. I couldn‘t help but feel sympathetic for her; I know how lonely widowhood can make one.”