Dear Alaere

By Eriye Onagoruwa

Alaere Benson is your typical modern, professional woman in search of that elusive work-life balance and societal acceptance in Lagos. When she gets a job at Criole, she is excited to be working for a multinational company, but it does not take long for her to see that Criole is dysfunctional and bears an eerie similarity to Nigeria. As she struggles to find her footing in her new role, she witnesses a never-ending theatre of murder, sexual harassment and mysticism.
At home, she is happily married to ‘Laja, but they begin to have problems when they experience difficulties having children and their situation is compounded by extended family interference.
With things spiralling out of control, she is forced to reassess how she feels about the chaos around her and takes charge of her life with her often humorous, frank diary entries. As she confronts and grapples with her experiences, she finds peace and healing through the catharsis of writing.

A moving tale of overcoming challenges with persistence and steadfastness in the journey of life. There is a lot to learn from this novel. – Yenie Emmanuel, author, The Book of April.

Eriye has written a captivating story about love, rivalry, betrayal, career, womanhood, and the sometimes unexpected challenges of life in one of Nigeria’s most loved cities, Lagos. Through Alaere’s dairy, she navigates a world most of us can only dream of with a familiarity that introduces her as a voice that needs to be heard. - Michael Afenfia, author, The Mechanics of Yenagoa.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paperworth Books
• Release date: Aug 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463155806

Eriye Onagoruwa

Eriye Onagoruwa was born in Canada and raised in Nigeria.She has an LL.B, a B.L and an LL.M in Law and works as an energy executive with extensive experience in the Oil and Gas sector.When she is not negotiating energy deals, she writes articles for The Guardian Nigeria and This Day newspapers. She is fascinated by the power of words and the effect their messages can have on individuals and society.Eriye loves fashion and travelling and finds inspirations in the many countries she visits. She is passionate about women’s causes, especially financial literacy for women and teaches on investment and financial literacy.She lives in Lagos with her husband and children.Dear Alaere is her first novel.

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Dear Alaere

Eriye Onagoruwa

Dear Alaere

Copyright 2020 Eriye Onagoruwa

Ebook Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to your favourite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

About the Author

Acknowledgements

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Chapter One

Dear Diary,

At last, a chance to earn some money and respect. Things to do:

- Get my outfit ready: the new black and beige dress

- Practice breathing

- Take lots of cold (or was it hot?) milk

- Destroy all the caterpillars in my stomach threatening to morph into their next life cycle.

I fumble with my dress in front of the mirror until ‘Laja steps in and zips it up for me. He signals towards the clock with his eyes, as he does whenever we prepared to leave the house. Men! I hesitate between my black stiletto and the brown suede shoes as he honks away outside. Ish! I dash out of the house into the grey Touareg as he offers a reluctant compliment.

You look exquisite.

My panic only worsens as we approach Neuterone. The kind of panic that does not let up; a slow, debilitating sensation that makes my tongue malaria-parched, my lips dry despite the MAC Ruby Woo lipstick I carefully etched. ‘Laja pulls up in front of Neuterone’s black formidable gates. I am the captain of my destiny; I repeat to myself.

All the best Baby Rè, and relax, it is an office with normal people, not wild animals waiting to tear you apart. ‘Laja drives off and the car soon fades away in the distance.

Neuterone is an architectural masterpiece, an imposing red brick ten-story building that stretches over a vast expanse of land. The gates open and the gateman inspects me and the white envelope I hand over to him. After a few minutes, he waves his hand towards the entrance. A young lady behind the reception desk gives me a placid smile.

Good morning.

I sip the cold water she offers, thinking about how dehydrated I must look beneath the veneer of make-up. An enormous chandelier hangs off the translucent ceiling panel. The entire room oozes subtle mesmerizing elegance and quiet sophistication with the striking chromatic grey that adorned the walls of the reception. A door opens and two men walk out, I immediately recognize the older bearded man and he seems to recognize me.

Alaere, you have not changed a bit. Welcome to Neuterone. How is your father?

I’m well, thank you, Chief. Daddy is fine. I haven’t seen him in a while, but I speak to him almost every day.

My regards to him. I will leave you with your colleague, Doubra Wellington, who will show you around.

He walks away leaving me with the tall middle-aged man who is smiling warmly. I take note of his sky-blue tie and crisp white shirt. He is semi-bald and has a relaxed look.

You must be Ms. Alaere Benson.

As Doubra and I walk towards the lift, I longingly recall all the birthdays, anniversaries and family holidays I shared with Chief. His dapper looks had not changed — chiselled face, beards whipped in an orderly fashion and a smile that was overt and sexy.

There are documents strewn all over the large and airy office. Folders peep from the cupboards. A small woman with braided hair sits at a desk talking on the phone with quiet vigour, her small eyes dart in our direction.

Nne, I will call you back shortly, she says as she hangs up.

She strides toward us with a slight frown.

I’m Kamarachimdi, your line manager and group head of the Compliance Department. Doubra and I share this office and we look forward to having you here. I must tell you straight away that compliance issues can be tricky or easy to grasp depending on how fast you are willing to learn. You shouldn’t have any problems settling in and I expect you to hit the ground running.

Thank you, Ms. Kamara. It is a —

I would prefer if you did not abbreviate my name.

I apologize. It’s a pleasure to meet you.

I imagine the ground cracking open and swallowing her whole, leaving behind only her braided wig. She walks towards the door then turns to give us the side-eye. Doubra stands next to me stirring in discomfort until he finally gives into pity.

She’s not as awful as she seems, Ms. Benson. She does have a good heart. Don’t think too much of it.

I smile weakly unsure of what to say. Around the building, doors swing open and chattering people wearing suits leave for lunch. My first day in Neuterone is all too reminiscent of a day in my childhood when a chubby gap-toothed girl called Wande walked up to me flashing a devious smile. She pointed at my abnormal neck which inspired many nicknames in my childhood. It made all the other children turn around and I stood there very still. For a long time, I could not shake the feeling that everyone was disturbed by my presence and trying not to stare.

I accepted my ugliness the way I accepted my name, Alaere. My parents did not indulge me and whenever I brought up the topic of my appearance my mother would wave me away dismissively and my father would say what he always said, that we don’t get what we want in life and it is better to roll with the punches. As though his life was an unfortunate situation he had learned to accept. He expressed this without obvious contempt and when I asked him whether he loved us he would say that he did, in his own way, which I accepted as the best I could get. During the more strained teenage years, I spent a long time in front of mirrors and no matter which poses I arranged myself into, I could only see my flaws. I do not know when this period subsided but one rainy morning in my early adulthood, I noticed my mother beaming at me from a distance as she called me her ebony supermodel. When ‘Laja and I married he was thirty-four, handsome in a cocky self-assured way. It took some effort for me to show the man of my dreams old photographs and though he tried to deny seeing anything wrong, I caught him visibly suppressing a laugh.

I spend the day reading through compliance material. Doubra walks into the office and hesitates when he sees me, as though reluctant to start a conversation. As I stare at him, I cannot make up my mind about him. He seems an easy fellow to get along with, but I find him to be a contradiction of sorts. His lips are always ready to break into a smile, and yet his eyes look like they house painful secrets. The jarring sound of the phone on my desk rescues us from the awkward silence. The receptionist informs me that ‘Laja is waiting for me downstairs. Why didn’t he just call me? I check my phone and find seven missed calls. On the way home he lectures me on the function of mobile phones, and I am barely listening, full of relief to be alone with him at last.

The sun is setting as we approach the brown gates of our estate in Koka. Here, everything is prototypical. Houses are large terraced units made of grey and white bricks. Wichtech roofs, driveways, well-kept front lawns and unused mailboxes. The affluent Lagosians who live here jog serenely in the mornings, completely shielded from the eruption of constant change happening beyond the gates of their estate.

****

I wake up at 4:00 a.m. with a start. In my dream, Lady K and Doubra tried to poison me and also assured me that I would be alright. Sweat was streaming down my face and I heard myself asking God to look after my grandfather who lies in the Atan cemetery. Grandpa must have been dead for about five or six years now.

On the drive to work, I stop at a red light on Adeyemo Alakija Street. I rummage through the glove compartment for my Cece Winans CD and skip to Mercy Said No. I meditate on the words of the song, its beauty and elegance compared to what is referred to as music today. The cacophony of drums and instruments try to outdo themselves and the result is a dull throb in your ears. These days, artistes share a common feature — the love for crotch-grabbing as they sing, as though it is some ill-fitted accessory dangling out of place.

My thoughts also turn to Lagos — a city that never sleeps. A forced dalliance between opulence and squalor, religious piety and depravity. An expensive slum filled with gigantic edifices and overflowing drainage. In a way, the city mirrored New York with the same raw and contagious energy found in both. Streets bustling with people going nowhere. Filth and cleanliness welcomed each other heartily on the highways.

To my left, a shadowy figure approaches my car with an urgent step. A young, scrawny man with a distended Adam’s apple bangs on the window, waving a magazine. I contemplate a curse as my hands move towards the window, but a closer look exposes the silhouette of a gun. My thoughts and body are completely still but my foot presses the accelerator out of its own will. I speed past the red light and brush the weather-beaten Honda in front of me. Lagos! I careen down and narrowly miss an old man as he wobbles across the road with his weather-beaten crutches. I manage to veer off the road onto a new street and my breathing becomes less heavy. I get to Neuterone after what seemed like an unending drive and utter a raspy good morning to the guards.

Maximum respect! The guard saluted.

The greeting strikes me as odd, but its Lagosian inventiveness makes me smile. I barely settle down when Lady K drops a stack of risk management documents on my desk.

Go over them and let me know if you have questions.

Without waiting for a response, she gets on the phone and resumes her chatter, making sure her voice never rose above a whisper.

That afternoon, Doubra introduces me to the wider risk compliance team. Osila Lawson, company accountant, blessed with an ugly appearance that one felt compelled to be compassionate towards her. John Damiete, General Manager, a stout, middle-aged individual with a podgy belly and scant moustache. Edamime Olotu, manager, liability control, handsome but with the most crooked set of dentition I had ever seen. With the introductions over, I return to my office and find Lady K is still on the phone. Judging from the amount of time she spent on the phone, risk issues seem to be the least of her concerns. After the lengthy phone call, she brings out a mobile phone from her bag and begins punching its keypad while she throws furtive glances at me.

I read the documentation and walk over to Lady K’s desk. Would you be available for a discussion on Monday? I asked Lady K.

I’m free at 11:00 a.m., she replies without looking at me.

Dear Diary,

I hear the sound of birds chirping away as the night gives way to the morning. I must stay motivated and jog every day. What a joy it is to see the sun as it unfolds slowly like a majestic colossal being bestriding the earth. It takes no permission from the darkness. It is true what they say — the sun is aware of its celestial presence and is undoubtedly God’s morning star.

I feel a deep unease about Neuterone. Too strong to ignore.

Chapter Two

Dear Diary,

I’m glad I have you to confide in. I will tell you things I dare not utter elsewhere. One of them is that being an African woman is like a minefield.

‘Laja’s mother embraces us with a broad smile as we step into the house.

Alaere, my daughter! How are you? Is ‘Laja owing you? Is he taking good care of you? She asks with a chuckle. Her face defies her seventy years on earth, her dimples lit up the room when she threw back her head and laughed. Life had been cruel to her. She had lost three kids in quick succession to bouts of malaria but somehow retained an unusual liveliness. She loved to party. The Yorubas can party for the entire continent, I always thought. Meeting the family was a difficult adjustment for me at the beginning of our marriage; parties were a weekly affair; each invitation had its dress code. The way you dressed determined whether you were served food or skipped.

However, five years into our marriage, their enthusiasm towards me was beginning to wane. It was not in the words said, but the surreptitious glances to my midriff, the rehashed stories about when ‘Laja was born and the excruciating labour pains which lasted for over seven hours. The closing lines at the end of such stories were always: God will do it.

The house evokes images of an English manor. Mummy planted all of the one hundred and eighty trees in the garden, an exotic mix of Chrysanthemum, Ixora and deep magenta Hibiscus flowers. Inside the house is no less grandeur, one of my favourite areas is the kitchen which is painted canary yellow and fitted with modern upscale cupboards that house the daintiest sets of kitchen crockery I have ever seen. As we sit down for lunch on the dining table, Daddy is visibly excited.

Alaere, you made my favourite dish!

His moimoi had to be very spicy, with a lot of eggs, thinly cut gizzard and prawns scattered inside.

Aren’t you tired of coming here without children? I want grandchildren Alaere! Mummy blurts out in the middle of lunch.

It is as though the moimoi is a hard granite forcing its way down my throat. I manage a feeble, God will do it.

‘Laja and I drive home in silence.

The next day I stand, staring at my black boubou with red trimmings and Peter Pan collar. I am unable to get dressed and less able to think about the Lord. I try to think about God’s faithfulness, but I cannot help but feel I must be unworthy of His love. ‘Laja has oligospermia. He was too ashamed to even utter the words. Oligospermia was not a death sentence I say to myself. The doctors assured us that a change in ‘Laja’s lifestyle could still enable us to have children.

We had not said much to each other since last night. I knew he was wrestling with emotions and I did not want to make him feel worse. He offers to drive me to work. As we approach the Third Mainland Bridge, he holds my hand and squeezes it. He cannot bring himself to say anything and neither can I. He of all people did not deserve this.

At Neuterone, Doubra looked every inch like a classy gentleman with a dark blue suit and a lovely red tie.

How was your weekend? Your wife and kids? I asked.

Weekend was good. I took the kids swimming and to a birthday party. He said nothing about his wife.

The conversation quickly shifts to private equity structures for prospective companies and the internal debt legacy issues Neuterone was grappling with. Doubra and I sit down for a meeting with the risk management team. Damiete talks about Neuterone’s debt portfolio and how the company had experienced months of negative balance sheets because rich Nigerians could not liquidate their debts. Half-way into the speech I realize no one is listening to Damiete, their attention was focused on the subtle power play between him and Osila, and the flirtations between Osila and Edamime. Edamime’s dentition was not a deterrence, it seemed. Osila gazed seductively and touched him at every opportunity, while he sat staring into space, barely noticing. And Lady K? She did not utter a single word and it appeared no one expected her to. There were more risky elements within the group than the entire Neuterone corporate structure. I began to recall Osila’s many visits to Edamime’s office with stacked folders. Naivety had no place in Neuterone.

I sit at my desk with a tuna sandwich as Doubra comes in with a brown paper bag of puff-puff. A delightfully unhealthy snack with an overdose of eggs, sugar, butter, and flour; a snack made in heaven. Who could resist it? I couldn’t. I take one

Reviews for Dear Alaere

[Chidinma · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

It is a really interesting novel. Because as a Nigerian it really mirrors our personal lives and the society at large. It was a really good read.

[Preye Iwowari · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Dear Alere is so wonderfully written that I devoured it in one sitting. At the time I am writing this, I have read this book twice. In this book, you get a street view of life as an every day lagosian; the raunchy bus drivers; the dangers of being stuck in a gridlock; and the arbitrariness of law enforcers. Of particular importance to me was the way in which the author explored the issues of misogyny, infertility, nepotism, and sexism, both in the family and workplace. It's also short and so wonderfully written you'll find yourself turning pages until you gobble the book whole.