Dr Ade

Everything in Simi's body told her to throw the man out.

She did not. Partly because she was a professional. Mostly because he was standing there in her doorway with an unbearably gentle face, holding a suitcase that looked like it had been through three airports and a war.

"Come in," she said finally. "Sit. Let me wash my face."

By the time she came back from the little bathroom, he had made himself useful. He had put the kettle on the hotplate, found two mugs, and picked up the fallen lace without comment and laid it on the table, as carefully as you would lay a patient.

"I hope you do not mind. I could not just stand there."

"You are in a stranger's shop."

"I am in a shop with a very good smell. Pepper soup, or perhaps it's jollof, from somewhere next door." He held out a mug of tea. "Dr Adebayo Adeyemi. Ade is fine."

"Simisola Bakare." She took the mug. Their fingers did not touch. "Simi."

She watched his face. Nothing. No recognition, no flinch. He had no idea who she was.

Of course he did not. Dapo had never introduced her to his older brother, who had lived in London for eleven years and called home only at Christmas. She had seen him in two photographs. In both he was a small blurry figure at the back.

"What do you need?" she asked, in her best business voice.

"A suit. Native, if possible. Something that does not look like I came from a hospital."

"Colour?"

"Royal blue and silver, I believe. Matches the family."

"I know." She took out her tape measure. Her hands were remarkably steady. "Stand up."

He stood. She measured his shoulders and his arm, and the length from neck to ankle, and he held his breath like a man who was not used to being touched. Up close, he smelled of airport soap and rain and faintly of tea.

"May I ask," said Ade, "who made you cry?"

The tape measure paused.

"I am sorry. That was rude. It is a habit. I spend all day asking people where it hurts."

"It is not a thing for strangers."

"Of course."

A silence stretched. Outside, the Ibadan night hummed with generators and crickets. Somewhere, a boy was shouting about suya.

"Dr Ade," she said, at last. "How long are you in Nigeria?"

"Three weeks. I am on leave. My mother asked me to come for the wedding. She said Dapo needs his brother." He gave a slightly crooked smile. "She did not say why."

"Perhaps he needs someone to carry his bags."

"Perhaps." He studied her. "You do not like my brother."

"I do not know your brother."

"You said his name the way people say the name of a snake."

Simi's heart slammed against her ribs. She forced her mouth to curve. "Doctor, it is my first time meeting you. You will not catch me on the first day."

"I shall try again on the second."

He was, she realised, teasing her. Gently, carefully, the way you test the temperature of a bath. It was so unexpected that she laughed, a small cracked laugh, and was immediately furious at herself.

"Your suit will be ready by Thursday," she said stiffly.

"Thank you. I am sorry I came at a bad time."

"There is no good time to be measured."

"No. But some people make it easier." He picked up his suitcase. At the door he turned. "Miss Bakare. Whatever it was. I hope it stops hurting soon."

He was gone before she could reply.

She sat down very slowly on a stool, in the lamplight, with the half-drunk tea going cold in her hands.

Thursday, she thought. That was three days. In three days Dr Adebayo Adeyemi would find out who she was, in a town where nothing stayed secret for longer than a market-day.

She should have told him. She knew she should have told him.

But she did not. And she would remember afterwards that the first lie she ever told him was a lie of silence, on a night when she had cried in front of a stranger who had handed her a cup of tea and asked nothing in return.