The next day, after the engagement party, was magnificently sunny. Maya was in her bed, and the nightgown of high-quality silk felt strange on her skin. The smell of the lilies, which she was hardly able to shake out of her hair the previous evening, lingering still in the air, was lovely and stifling, with its suggestion of the large hall, the dancing lights, and the beaming eye of Mr. Kazeem. The pounding inside her head made her realize it was not the champagne after all, but the screams that were pent up in her. The last thing she watched was the heartbroken face of Ben, and the image remained blistered behind her eyelids.
Maya could hear her mother in the living room. She was on the phone and informing everybody who could call her about how wonderful the night turned out. Oh, what a splendid one it was! Such is a dream! A queen, my daughter! And Kazeem, Mr. so kind, so abundant! Each word caused Maya's heart to stab. The greatest burden was the happiness of her mother through the destruction of Maya.
The little house was not the same when Maya at last came out of bed. It was not only the smell of wealth. It was something newer, a thrill of some promise of anticipation, making her creep. Her father, who was normally quiet and reserved, was whistling as he took his breakfast. Years fell away, and all the lines of care were brushed out of his face.
Good morning, old Maya," he said, and gave her one of those sod-light genuine take bids. " Have you slept alright? Party talk was of you! Everyone told me you were so beautiful."
Maya tried as best as she could to return it with a simple, weak smile. "Good morning, Pops". She made herself a cup of tea, but the heat did not help much to melt the ice that was in her veins.
In came her mother, bustling and with shining eyes. "Maya! You are there! Mr. Kazeem has already been contacted. Today, he wants to introduce you to a wedding planner. The caterer, too. And he has got a driver to bring you back and forward to and from the library now, oh! To keep you safe, he said."
Maya drank the tea, trembling a little. "A driver? Mama, I don't need a driver, I can walk, she said, looking down at the tea she had been about to spill.
Her mother shook her head. "Nonsense! Lady of your calibre, soon to be Mrs. Kazeem, does not move in the streets by herself. It is in your safekeeping and for his reputation. And then, in a lowered tone, she continued, "And also, you see, he wants to be sure you are safe always. This is especially now." It was the unwritten danger that threatened reason. Since, especially with the sight of Ben.
Emeka was a strict man in face and name, the driver, who turned up at eight in the morning. He would patiently wait outside the library and afterwards drive her home. Her walks, her quiet moments, and her casual meeting with Ben are all lost. It was not only a metaphor; the golden cage existed and reduced her existence into the limited space of a car and a majestic mansion, which she had not even moved into so far.
Mr. Kazeem began to call a lot. His calls lasted longer and gave greater details. He did not consult her feelings on what he was doing, but told her what he was doing. It will be white lilies and orchids, Maya. They are meant to represent purity and luxury. Do you? There could be no disagreement. He spoke of their life together in terms of bone-chilling accuracy, social functions, business dinners, and charity balls. He was plotting her total life.
One evening, he said calmly, almost kindly, to her, "You will be a help to me, Maya." Good-looking, clever wife. We shall be an invincible duo." It sounded like the description of a job and not marriage.
Maya would just agree, her throat strangled. She looked to get a crack, a weak point, to appeal to him. He was polite, placating the wall, however. He did not get angry, he did not shout. He had been strong because of his quiet assurance and his absolute faith that she would obey.
Her mother was never depressed. Mr. Kazeem had put her father in a new business, and the money was flowing in very fast. The house was being repaired: new roof, new windows, and a new paint job of high-class paint. Trucks were used to deliver furniture, appliances, and even a small shiny generator. Their street, which used to be quiet and neglected, was busy. This is thanks to Mr. Kazeem.
How can it be, how can it be, Maya, and her mother often asked with wet eyes. At last, we are free! Enough of fighting! At last, your father can rest. It is all thy fault, my beloved child."
We thought the words were loving, but they were chains also. What then was to be her freedom, were it to bring them back to just the same poverty they had finally gotten out of? That idea nauseated her.
On one occasion, she attempted to contact Ben. She had left a message on his office phone saying simply, Are you okay? However, he never returned. She understood. Mr. I have a far-reaching Kazeem. By keeping away, he was protecting Ben, or he was too hurt. Such a silence was deafening, in either case.
Mrs. Eze, a very precise woman, was assumed to be in charge of the wedding planning of Maya. She insisted on hours and hours of appointments for dress fittings, cake tastings, selection of invitations, and inspection of flower arrangements. Far away, Maya stood and assented. It was as though she were a dummy in the preparations for a big performance.
Mrs. Eze would always say: Mr. Kazeem has excellent taste. He is just aware of what he wants. And what becomes you, girl?" which, though less solemn, prefaces or introduces in a very striking manner what follows.
On one of the afternoons, when Maya was sitting long time in the fitting of the wedding gown, she experienced dizziness. Too many layers of heavy silk, too many restraining corsety layers, too many stuffy room layers, it was intolerable. She wobbled and became dizzy. Mrs. the designer, Davies, had run to her.
Are you all right, dear? she said, in a very low tone.
Maya shook her head and endeavored to shake off some drug. I guess I was... overwhelmed, a bit.
Mrs. Davies looked up with a wicked glance. It is quite something, isn't it? So great a thing." She hesitated and in a low voice said, Mr. Kazeem is a formidable man. He seeks... perfection.
The term "perfection" hung in the air over the room and was so much like a silent weight. Maya gazed at Mrs. Davies, expecting her to see the golden cage. But before the staff could see what Mrs. Davies was thinking her face had relapsed into professional expression.
The closer the wedding day came, the more tangible the mansion that Maya had to live in became. Mr. Kazeem even ordered to spend more time in it to get acquainted with her new house. It was a large house bursting with valuables: art and fine furniture. But it was cool and dead. Maya would go up and down interminable halls, her footsteps responding to the emptiness. It was a palace, and there was no warmth to it, no life.
Mr. Kazeem asked Maya and her parents to have a kind of family dinner at the mansion one evening. They were very happy and they continued to tell how fortunate Maya was, how blessed they all were.
The final arrangements regarding the marriage agreement were informed to the parents of Maya by Mr. Kazeem during dinner. There he spoke of money clauses and trusts and investments that would shield the family for many years, and Maya sat quietly listening. Her mother stared at Mr. Kazeem intently without taking her eyes off him.
And naturally speaking, too, there is the family name, Mr. Kazeem told Maya. You will assume my name at least. Any children we may have will have it. By the way, it is necessary to go on the legacy."
The words offended. Children. He referred to them as a second stake in a business transaction. Maya had not even given a thought to life after the wedding, let alone having kids. It came to her that she would not raise a child to wear the golden chains such as this gilded cage enclosed, and her heart ached.
Mr. Kazeem brought Maya to his study after dinner when her parents were still talking about the work on the walls. It was a big room, panelled in dark wood, and all its furniture was of heavy leather. There was a pile of papers on his table, along with the chic pen.
Sit down, he said, pointing to the chair opposite him. It is just the last document to be signed. A formality. Prenuptial agreement."
Maya pounded her heart. She was not unaware of prenuptial agreements. They saved wealth. She was poor.
He pushed the paper over the table. It was heavy, bulky, and contained a lot of legal terms. She read the first lines, and forgetting, her eyes grew blurred. She read the words such as the separate assets, marital property, or in case of dissolution. All this had to do with the finances, to keep his huge fortune intact.
It is just that, said he, my property remains separate, and yours, should you ever get any, belongs to you. A regular form of procedure in our... position.
He gave her the pen. Sign here, on the last page. Their parents have even signed their consent to the marriage contract. This is only on our part."
Maya turned and glanced at the pen, and then saw the bulky pile of paper. She did not read it. She did not know how to understand it. But she understood the meaning. It was the last bolt of the golden cage. Her signature. Her last submission.
She took up the pen. It made her hand tremble so that she almost dropped it. She directed her eyes towards Mr. Kazeem. His face was patient, cool, and yet his eyes had untiring expectancy. In this case, she was a pawn, and this was her last move. She shut her eyes and thought of Ben, desperately trying to hold fast to the last remnant of her old life. She remembered her parents ' new happiness. All was so heavy upon her.
Her eyes opened, and she forced herself painfully, painfully slowly to the paper. About the same time, the tip reached the line, something on the page, something very small, scarcely visible at all, happened to meet her eye. A minute, almost unnoticeable provision, buried almost at the bottom of a paragraph. It concerned the future promises. And it said something too about supposed absolute discretion as to her personal and professional associations.
There was a catch in Maya's breath. Friendly and work relationships. It was not only about money. It was the issue of control. Absolute control. Over everything. Over everyone.
Her hand became stationary; the pen was barely touching the line of the signature. A chill of dread, unlike any which she had hitherto known, crept over her. This was not that kind of marriage. It was a form of total takeover. And she was about to give all the rest of anybody away.