Yoruba

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Yoruba

“I don’t understand it Patrick, I don’t understand where you get all the money for this life. Are you sure you’re not doing anything bad?”
“Mother,” said Patrick with patience clearly ebbing from his voice, “how many times – I’m not doing anything bad.”

The large red coupe silently gathered momentum and a remarkable turn of speed as it joined the motorway from the airport slip-road. Patrick knew his mother would not notice the actual speed as the slim red needle climbed steadily inside the chrome bezelled instrument panel, and he slipped it easily to 100 mph. There wasn’t a murmur from under the bonnet.

“So where are you taking me to now Patrick?”
“Well, mother, I’d thought I’d take you to my flat to drop off your things and, perhaps get changed and chill for a bit before we go out for a spot of dinner – there’s a nice place near where I live.”
“Oh…chill?”
“Yes, you know, relax a bit.”
“Oh.” There was a moment’s pause as Patrick concentrated his eyes back on the road and his mother looked straight ahead at the tall walnut fascia which obscured her view of the road – she wasn’t very big. “Is that a map on your television?” she said pointing at the screen in the middle of the dashboard.
“No, mother, it’s the GPS – it’s a sort of map… it tells me where we are going.”
“Oh, don’t you know the way?”
“Of course I do.”
“Oh….so why do you need the GDF?”
“GPS…I don’t, it’s just on.” More silence. “So did you enjoy your flight mother?”
“Well, yes, it wasn’t like it thought it would be – quite boring really – but the ladies were very nice and the seat was very comfortable.”
“That’s first class for you mother.” Patrick knew it would be hard to tell his mother what he really did and wasn’t looking forward to her reaction when he knew he inevitably would have to. It wasn’t what she’d have wanted for her only son. His childhood had been hard in the shanty town of Karu; his father had been killed when he was only seven in an argument in a food queue and Patrick had had to scavenge for himself and his mother in the dustbins of the senior civil servants’ homes in the capital.

“Oh,” said Mrs Adunola, trying to look over the dashboard, “why is this car so big – I can’t see where I’m going.” Without saying a word, Patrick’s hand slipped to the central console and at the flick of a switch silently raised his mother’s seat.
“Is that better?”
“Much better – so where are we now? What’s that building over there?”
“I don’t know, it’s just some offices.” There was air of finality in Patrick’s troubled voice as they glided silently along the elevated section of the A4 Westway towards Chiswick.

Suddenly there was the discernible sound of a police siren. Patrick looked into his mirror;
“Dam…I didn’t see them!”
“What is it Patrick?” said his mother quickly.
“Oh… it’s just the police – I think they want to talk to me.”