It’s 1963 and Isabel Hammond is an expat who has accompanied her agriculture aid worker husband to Nigeria, where she is hoping to find inspiration for her art and for her life. Then she meets charismatic local singer Bobby Tunde, and they share a night of passion that could upend everything. Seeking solace and distraction, she returns to her painting and her home in a rural village where she plants a lemon tree and unearths an ancient statue buried in her garden. She knows that the dancing female figure is not hers to keep, yet she is reluctant to give it up, and soon, she notices other changes that make her wonder what the dancing woman might portend.

Against the backdrop of political unrest in Nigeria, Isabel’s personal situation also becomes precarious. She finds herself in the center of a tide of suspicion, leaving her torn between the confines of her domestic life and the desire to immerse herself in her art and in the culture that surrounds her. The expat society, the ancient Nigerian culture, her beautiful family, and even the statue hidden in a back room—each trouble and beguile Isabel. Amid all of this, can she finally become who she wants to be?

Excerpt

Kufana, Nigeria

*****

February 1963

The message from her husband was perfectly logical, as was always the case. Nick would stay through the weekend near Kafanchan where he was planting an acre in Neem trees. There was no sense driving home for two nights only to return Monday.

It was too early to be planting. In the heat of the dry season, birds ceased their movement midmorning. The trees would have to be watered. But Nick was eager. He had left a week ago. Eventually her young husband meant to plant several acres. Isabel let her gaze run along the bougainvillea hedge that bordered her yard.

Inside, she picked up pen and paper. Message received. I do understand how important the project is. And yet, she wrote and marked through those last two words. What would she say? And yet, I long for a journey, a night of love, a discovery. None of that was quite right or sufficient, and all of it made her sound trite. She signed, Yours, Isabel before folding the paper and slipping it into the same dust stained envelope the courier had delivered to her. A pearl of anger pulsed at the back of her skull. How could he be so forgetful of their plans? Back in the yard, she handed the young motorcyclist the envelope. He wore a pale blue shirt embroidered around the neck in yellow thread, and her eyes followed the sinuous motion of the design.

She pulled her gaze from the man’s chest. “Safe travels.” He revved the engine. The machine chugged and coughed, and then the courier was gone in a swirl of dust and fumes.

Isabel glanced over her parched front yard. For weeks, she had been anticipating the Valentine’s party sponsored by the International Women’s Club in the lovely city of Kaduna. The invitation had arrived early in the New Year, bearing a photograph of the pop star, Bobby Tunde. He sat at a piano, in a garden of potted plants and brass instruments, a slightly squashed, gold cap on his head, his sideways glance and neatly trimmed beard disastrously alluring. He reminded her a little of Harry Belafonte, whom her parents, to her great surprise, adored. She imagined Tunde’s music as an array of color, heavy in blue and orange.

In Kaduna, there would be a feast, dancing, and beer. Nick had forgotten all about it, though Isabel had made a new dress, green as a lime, with a V-neck and a gathered skirt. She had finished the hem and sleeves yesterday, sitting by the window to catch the breeze. The dress fell perfectly to her knees and brushed lightly against her thighs. In her impatience, she had worn it down the lane to purchase a can of Spam for her dinner. She’d even found small potatoes to add to her solitary meal. Now she would not attend the party because her husband had the car.

Suddenly a boy in a faded tunic stood before her. His eyes were large, his forehead brightened to silver in the sun. He held a bird captured by a bit of twine fastened tight around its tiny, black feet. In his other hand, he held a woven basket, perhaps the bird’s cage. “Please, buy,” he said.

The bird seemed all tuckered out, its feathers wilted, eyes dim. Isabel would not keep a bound bird nor a bird in a cage.

“No,” she said, still annoyed with Nick, with the heat, with the lonely weekend to come.

Now the boy looked as listless as the bird, his eyes blank. He shook his head but with little passion. An image of a chained bird floated into Isabel’s mind. A goldfinch. She had studied it in art history at Hollins, back in Virginia. She had loved and hated the painting. The gold highlights on the bird’s feathers stopped her breath, but she despised the chain. How could an artist paint a bound bird? She was sure she would have let it go.

At times, Isabel felt she could see beneath the surface of things. She had always felt so. “How much?” she said.

The boy revived and stood upright. “Six pence,” he said.

For the second time this morning, Isabel mounted the steps to the front porch and moved into the house. She returned with several coins and placed a sixpence in the boy’s hand.

He set the basket at her feet as if it was now Isabel’s, and then he reached for her hand, to transfer the twine and the poor attached bird into her ownership. “Wait,” she said. She wetted her thumb, ran it over the poor bird’s head and down its feathered back several times until a skim of dust was lifted and bright green feathers, and even a band of gold on its wing, emerged. “It’s a beauty,” she said, and the boy smiled. “Untie it,” she said. “Set it here.” She placed a hand on the concrete pillar at the base of the porch.

The boy did as she said.

The bird teetered. It took a few halting steps. It shook itself out, catching the sun in its feathers. It bobbed its head as if trying to remember something. And then it took wing, across the road and into a tall hardwood.

Isabel felt golden.

“Now,” she said. “Don’t catch any more birds. I will give you two shillings. Go to the market and purchase a bucket. You can make more money fetching water from the stream.” She handed him the coins.

He looked at the wealth in his upturned palm. “Thank you,” he said and bowed slightly. At the first bend in the road, he looked back and waved. He might spend the money on a ball, a BIC pen. That wouldn’t be so bad. Isabel had faith in him.

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About the Author

Elaine Neil Orr is the author of five books, including the novels A Different Sun and Swimming Between Worlds She was born and grew up in Nigeria, the daughter of missionary parents, and most of her writing is grounded in both the American South and the Nigerian South. She is a professor of literature at N.C. State University and serves on the faculty of the Brief-Residency MFA in Writing Program at Spalding University. She lives in Raleigh. https://www.elaineneilorr.com/