When Arthur Martins arrived, Barbara
Jones was still being attended to by the hairdresser before her make-up artist
and finally by her dressmaker. He sat in the living room, and waited for at least
an additional one hour before Barbara was ready.
Her hairdresser attached beads to
Barbara’s braided hair. Twice Barbara rejected and asked for a change to the
hairstyle the proverbial hairdresser created. Never had her hair looked as attractive
or gleamed as brightly. The gown her dressmaker, Joy Leonard designed for her and
the hairstyle became talk of town.
Her face for the event was made up
by the world-famous Lydia Harold. She had put on all her make-up and even
darkened her eyelashes.
As she sat in the chair, the
make-up artist, and Barbara gossiped. She gave Barbara good advice for a new
life as a celebrity as if she wanted to make sure that she didn’t get into
troubles.
For many years, immediately she
left high school, she had been bending over world-famous faces, covering them
with creams and rouges and powders. She had attended to the bodies of women who
had been the causes of sweet dreams for men all over the world. She had made
them up before being taken to the wardrobe and laced and padded out in the
appropriate places.
The wall on the right held an
enormous mirror. A long vanity table was covered with jars and tubes of
make-ups, exotic cream and powders. In the left corner were bottles of
perfumes, so many it looked like a shelf in the cosmetics section of a
department store. Her bedroom reeked of her perfume. She turned to the mirror
again and ran her finger over her eyebrows. Lydia Harold applied lipstick to
her lips with all the care of an artist applying finishing touches to his
masterpiece. Barbara turned and looked herself in the mirror again.
Finally, wearing her strapless
black Joy Leonard’s original white, diamond-sequined, skin-tight evening dress,
with a coat over it, she came down the stairs. She wore a Tiffany necklace with
the oval diamonds and matching oval diamond earrings and oval diamond bracelet.
Before leaving her dressing room, she checked herself out in the full-length
mirror again.
“Prettier than anyone. You’re going
to dazzle everyone tonight,” Arthur Martins complimented. Everything had
changed. Her old life was gone, literally swept away overnight, and she was on
the threshold of a new one. She looked different, she felt different.
Gone was the abused village girl
who’d sat in Igwe’s palace day after day. In her place was a sober young woman,
hardened by grief and disillusionment, but determined to succeed. Climbing the
social ladder, attaining a measure of respectability, getting out of abject
poverty were the conditions that motivated her.
The movie had brought her instant stardom and
recognition, and in some cases a good deal of unwanted attention. Barbara’s
Best Actress of the Year award gained her a considerable following in Lagos.
Young men flocked to Lagos, to see and meet this newly discovered glamorous
actress. She was besieged with offers of all sorts and demands for interviews
and pictures.
The “Abused Girl” made her a star
and hence she was to be presented the award tonight she spent more time on her hair and
make-up because she believed she had an opportunity and even the responsibility
to look good. When she entered Eko Hotel and Suites, the venue of the award
ceremony, you couldn’t help but notice her, she was such an exquisite creature.
She was somehow upset about herself
because she had added three pounds no matter the new diet she followed. She had
consulted a dietician to recommend foods that could help.
“If you want to take good care of
your look, drink a lot of water, and stay away from greasy, heavy foods and
always leave the dinner a little hungry. Never stuff yourself. It’s unladylike,
besides it’ll be ruinous to your figure,” the dietician told her.
Arthur Martins was dressed in an
expensive black Italian suit and white shirt with a light gray silk tie, also
designer’s. A few Nigerian filmmakers have brought some innovation and
technical superiority to the usual dross dished out in the Nollywood. And Arthur
Martins was one.
The driver opened the door of the
limo, and Arthur Martins assisted Barbara into the car. When they arrived at
the Eko Hotel and Suites, Barbara stood for a moment smiling at the crowd, and
then taking Arthur’s proffered arm. “Good God, you’re an eyeful! How am I going
to keep the men off you tonight?” He held her closer as they began to walk into
the hotel.
Barbara was still smiling, and Arthur
thought for a moment that he had said the right thing. Barbara knew that she
was beautiful, and she had long since become accustomed to being the center of
attention wherever she went.
She had noticed that evening that
Peggy Ricardo not only sat next to Arthur Martins, but monopolized him for most
of the evening. Arthur was completely unaware of it, and kept glancing down the
table at Barbara who was seated between Martha Sylvanus, an actress and Taiwo
Amechi, a producer. But from the head of the table, where Barbara sat, she had
a good view of all the proceedings. He had been watching Peggy all night.
“I think Peggy Ricardo has the hots
for you,” Barbara said bluntly, and she didn’t seem pleased about it. Peggy was
young and beautiful, and their professional interests weren’t entirely unrelated.
It was an indignity she wouldn’t tolerate, and had never suffered. She was used
to being the only star in his sky, and it was what she expected. She liked it
when everything revolved around her.
And she had a heavy heart when she
went to bed that night, not just because of Peggy, but because of the piece of Arthur
Martins she saw that was missing. She found it depressing. In her mind, the
missing piece was huge.
After five different musicians had
entertained the crowd, the master of ceremony came forward to announce the
presentation of awards. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have come to the high point of this
evening’s event.” He paused for a moment, holding up his hands to still the
starting applause. “The reason why we’re here,” he continued. He waited until
laughter died away.
He read out the actors that had
been nominated for the best actor of the year before announcing Albert Kennedy
as the Best Actor of the Year. He did the same for the best actress of the
year. “I present to you the Best Actress of the Year, Miss Barbara Jones.”
“Fasten your seat belts,” the master of
ceremony shouted. The lights suddenly dimmed and a spotlight picked up
Barbara’s head as she stood from her seat and walked toward the stage.
A roar rose from the audience as she
cautiously and tentatively, in a manner in which, she had thoroughly rehearsed,
climbed to the stage, and stepped forward.
The noise washed over her and she
came to a stop in front of the microphone. She stood there quietly, looking at the
audience, her braided hair with beads catching and reflecting the gleaming
light. The audience whistled and screamed and stamped.
After a few minutes had passed,
during which the noise showed no sign of abating, she leaned toward the
microphone. “If you will give me just a minute,” she said in a low voice,
giving the audience a smile.
The noise grew even louder as she slowly
and deliberately took off her coat. She let it fall to the stage and stood
there, revealed in a white, diamond-sequined, skin-tight evening dress. She
leaned toward the microphone again.
The audience roared
enthusiastically. “Now I don’t know what to do,” she said in a soft voice. She
held up her hand. “Don’t do anything,
baby,” came a voice from the down front roll, near the stage. “Just stand
there.”
Again, pandemonium broke loose as
she smiled and peered in the direction of the voice. She waited until the sound
died down slightly. “I’ve a little song I’d like to sing for you in
appreciation of your support,” she said. “Would you like that?”
“Yes!” the sound came back from
thousands voices.
“Okay,” she said and moved closer
to the microphone. “Now, just pretend you’re
at home, listening to a cool music, with your eyes closed.”
“Eyes closed?” a voice roared
again. “Baby, we may love you but we’re not stupid.”
She smiled helplessly at the roar
of applause as the music slowly came up. Slowly the spotlight narrowed to just
her face as silence came down on the audience. The music was fine. She came
right on cue, her eyes half closed against the spotlight, her lower lip
shining. “I love you, all,” she sang huskily. “And nobody else but ya.”
The roar came rolling out from the
audience all but drowned out her voice and for a moment she was frightened of
all the repressed sexuality she had in it.
