by Kiru Taye
“The queen of Katsina?” He appeared bemused.
“Yes.” She gave him a wry smile before focusing attention on tidying her face. “Preparing to meet your mother feels like I’m about to meet the queen. I feel jittery.”
He chuckled. “I know I made an awkward request. I also know how good you are with dealing with problems at work. This will be a breeze for you. My mother is nice. I promise you. Just be yourself.”
“If you say so.”
“And for the record, you are important to me.”
“Yeah. Only because if I don’t show up, then your family will marry you off to a village virgin.” She giggled at her own joke as she imagined sophisticated Kamali with some unsophisticated bride.
Kamali started laughing. “True.”
Their laughter vibrated in the car and all the previous tension left her body.
“You make such a wonderful sound when you laugh. I want to hear it more often,” there was something alluring in his voice.
“Thank you. I’ll try.” She kept her gaze in the mirror as something fluttered in her belly.
“So shall we go and face the queen or should I tell the driver to head back to the airport?”
She reared back and then a smile bloomed on her face when she saw the twinkle in his eyes. “Oh, I see what you did there. You actually cracked a joke.”
“I did. I’m learning from you.” He could charm anyone with that smile.
“Wonderful. In that case, I think I’m going to enjoy this week. Let's go and see the queen.”
Taking a deep breath she relaxed back into her seat as the car got back on the road.
She hoped the rest of the week would be normal.
Chapter Ten
The rest of the drive to Kamali’s family home proved uneventful. The town seemed more developed that she’d imagined. To be fair, she hadn’t been in any other places in Nigeria outside of Lagos and Abuja.
When she’d been a child growing up in the United Kingdom, she’d had the impression of Africa as a poverty-stricken and malaria-infested continent that needed to be saved by aid from the developed European and North American countries.
The only images she’d seen of Africans were of malnourished children with flies buzzing around them in the Charity fundraising commercial drives.
She’d been born the same year as the Live Aid initiative when musicians outside Africa had held simultaneous concerts to raise funds for the famine in Ethiopia.
So imagine the shock to her system when she’d arrived in Lagos two years ago for the first time.
From what she could see, Katsina didn’t have the same commercial vibrancy as Lagos nor the legislative clout of Abuja. Still, she was impressed by the number of modern houses and infrastructure. The roads were tarred and smooth and she hadn’t received the shock of potholes.
They drove through a security checkpoint. Engraved into the arch over the entrance, the words proclaimed “Danladi Estates.”
“Wow.” Ebun’s mouth dropped open.
This wasn’t just a cluster of houses on a small estate. This was humongous.
They drove down the tree-lined main avenue with other streets feeding off it. She counted at least thirty houses, all grand and detached with low perimeter walls, their own front and back gardens, double garages or car ports and what looked like staff quarters.
She’d known the Danladis were one of the wealthiest people in Nigeria. Kamali was CEO to one of the best performing firms in Africa, after all. Not to mention the other Danladi companies.
“Do all these houses belong to your family?” she asked, sweat breaking on her skin at the prospect of so many family members.
“Yes,” he replied. “Every member of Abubakar Danladi’s children and grandchildren has a house in here. Not every one of them lives here, mind you. Obviously, I don’t live here.”
“Abubakar was your grandfather, right? He must have had many children.” The thought occurred to her as she glanced at him.
“Yes and yes.” He smiled and her heart seemed to kick in her chest.
He didn’t smile very often. But when he did, he dazzled her. Soft lines appeared around his eyes and his lips tugged back, making his cheekbones more prominent as he showed off white teeth. Then there were the sensuous lips that called to her to press hers against them.
“He had eleven children, and they produced forty-three grandchildren.”
“That’s so many.” She gasped and stared out of the window. “No wonder there are so many houses.”
He chuckled. “True.”
The car slowed at the gates of one of the mansions, a large, colonial style, white building set on two levels, a manicured front garden and the latest model BMW and Land Cruiser SUVs.
“Oga don come.” A uniformed man in a grey shirt and black trousers greeted cheerfully as he let them in.
The car pulled up at one of the empty car port spaces and the bodyguard rushed out to open the door.
Ebun took a deep breath to prepare for what was to come.
Kamali leaned across and covered her arm with his palm. “Just be yourself. You’ll be fine.”
His lips tugged up at the corner. Seeing him smile soothed the tension within her body and she returned the smile with a nod.
Kamali stepped out followed by Ebun. The driver opened the boot to extract their luggage.
The gateman prostrated on the stone-paved driveway. “Oga, maraba.”
“Aminu, na gode. Ya ya kake?” Kamali replied in the native Hausa.
“Ina lafiya na gode.”
Ebun understood the ‘na gode’ which meant ‘thank you’ and she deduced that ‘maraba’ meant ‘welcome’. The rest flew over her head. But they had to be more pleasantries.
She didn’t have time to translate the words before three women and three girls came out of the double front doors of the main house.
The first girl Ebun recognised as she ran up to Kamali and hugged him. “Daddy! It’s good to see you.”
“Fari,” Kamali returned the hug. “It’s good to see you too, sweetie. Have you been good?”
“Yes, of course, Daddy.” Fari replied as she held his hand.
“Of course.” He chuckled. “You remember Ebun.”
Fari glanced at her and smiled shyly. “Good afternoon, Ms. Forson.”
“Afternoon, Fari. I love your hair.” Ebun stroked her palm over the rows of cornrows plaited up the sides and back of Fari’s head and nested in a crown style at the top.
“Thank you,” she said.
The other young girls about Fari’s age greeted Kamali too. They had to be his nieces.
Two elegantly dressed women in their 30s in print blouses and long skirts spoke to Kamali in Hausa. From the pictures of members of his family that Ebun had seen, she surmised that they were his sisters, younger and married by the rings on their fingers.
She would have to get a crash course in the Hausa language if she wasn’t to be left out of conversations.
She watched as the girls dragged the luggage. Perhaps, she should focus on that instead of...
“Ebun, these are my sisters, Yasmin and Fahima,” Kamali said, reaching for her with his free hand. Her skin tingled as he pulled her close.
She plastered a smile on her face although her stomach felt fluttery. They were beautiful, slender women.
“Good afternoon,” she said, hoping they approved of what they saw.
“Welcome, I’m Fahima,” the one of the left said, smiling. She appeared older.
“I recognise her,” the other one said. She had to be Yasmin. “Isn’t she your assistant? You know the next few days are family time, Kamali and you’re not allowed to bring work home.”
They were rejecting her already. Ebun’s stomach dropped and she tried to tug her hand out of Kamali’s hand.
His grip tightened and he didn’t let go. “Ebun is not here to work. She is here as my fiancée to meet my family.”
“You are engaged?” Yasmin almost screech
ed.
The woman still standing at the portico let out a loud, shocked gasp, covered her mouth with her hand and walked back into the house in a hurry.
What was that about?
“Yes.” Kamali glanced that the door. “Who was that?”
“That was Laila,” Yasmin replied. “Didn’t mum tell you about her coming over?”
“Yes, she mentioned something,” Kamali replied.
“And you still brought—”
“Enough of that,” Fahima cut in. “Come inside the house.”
They followed her as she walked behind the girls and the suitcases.
As she crossed the threshold, Ebun heard Yasmin say, “This is going to be one interesting family holiday.”
They stepped into a spacious foyer with egg-shell white walls and a grand staircase leading to the next levels.
“There you are.” An elegantly dressed older woman in light blue, butterfly lace, maxi caftan stepped through the archway on the left.
Ebun recognised her as Kamali’s mother because of the similarities in skin tone and eye colour. She was beautiful and poised.
She embraced Kamali who greeted her in Hausa.
“Mum.” He swivelled so he stood sideways between Ebun and his parent. “This is Ebun. You’ve spoken to her a few times on the phone.”
“Ebun?” The woman appeared puzzled and she tilted her head to the side.
“Yes. You know her as Ms. Forson, my assistant.”
“Oh, of course.”
Ebun took it as her cue to curtsey. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Danladi.”
“Welcome. Come into the sitting room.” Mrs. Danladi led them into the space furnished in creams and gold. She waved at the sofas. “Sit.”
Mrs. Danladi settled in a padded armchair and Ebun chose the settee adjacent. She exhaled in relief when Kamali seated beside her.
“When your assistant called and said you were bringing a guest with you, I didn’t realise it would be her you brought home,” Mrs. Danladi continued.
Ebun’s cheeks heated. At the time, she’d thought it a good idea not to mention the guest since Kamali said he wouldn’t be telling anyone about their ‘engagement’ until they arrived in Katsina.
Telling his mother that his PA was visiting as well would have prompted questions Ebun wouldn’t have been able to answer. And she hadn’t wanted to lie to the older woman.
She swallowed and bit her bottom lip, as guilt pelted her skin at pretending to be engaged.
Kamali reached for Ebun’s hand. “I’m sorry we didn’t tell you before now, Mum. Ebun didn’t mention it because I wanted to tell you in person.”
“Tell me what?” Mrs. Danladi glanced from Ebun to her son.
“That Ebun and I got engaged,” Kamali said and squeezed Ebun’s hand.
Mrs. Danladi didn’t say anything for several heartbeats while everyone in the room including Kamali’s sisters looked on.
Finally, she said, “Yasmin, take Ms. Forson to the bedroom that was prepared for Kamali’s guest. I want to speak to my son alone.”
Ebun’s stomach sank. This didn’t bode well. She couldn’t escape the knowledge that neither Kamali’s sisters not his mother seemed overjoyed at her presence or their engagement.
She fought not to crumple at the disappointment that shrank her heart. This was the reason she didn’t do families.
Her family had rejected her. How could anyone else accept her?
“Come on,” Yasmin rose from the padded arm of the sofa she’d perched on.
Ebun didn’t want to get up, didn’t want to leave Kamali’s company. He was the only one around here who seemed to want her in some capacity.
Perhaps he sensed he reluctance to get up. He turned to her and squeezed her hand reassuringly. “It’s okay, nawa. I’ll come and find you when I finish chatting with Mum.”
She didn’t know what ‘nawa’ meant, but the soft tone of his voice made it sound like an endearment which made her heart flutter in her chest.
She swallowed and nodded, rising to her feet. “See you later.”
“Which one of these is yours?” Yasmin waved at the luggage lined up in the hallway.
The young children had disappeared.
Ebun grabbed her travel case and followed the Danladi sisters up the stairs. At the landing, they turned right and walked down a corridor.
“So how long have you been dating our brother?” Yasmin asked. She was on Ebun’s left.
Ebun glanced at her, keeping her response short. “Long enough.”
Working with Kamali had thought her how to think on her feet although she hadn’t really been prepared for a grilling from his family.
“So all this while we’d thought he didn’t have a woman, he had you,” Fahima said with a smile. Out of the two sisters, she seemed more pleasant and welcoming.
Ebun swallowed and shrugged. She couldn’t exactly tell them there was nothing going on between her and Kamali even if she wished it.
Fahima opened the door to a large bedroom decorated in white and grey tones with a sapphire accent wall.
They had probably been expecting Kamali to bring a male guest as the room was masculine in appearance. But it was still lovely, and she could see the attached bathroom looked spanking clean with white tiles and units.
She placed her suitcase beside the large built-in wardrobe.
Yasmin shut the door and sat on the bed. “So I’m curious. What is it like to have sex in the office?”
Ebun gasped and covered her mouth with her hand, staring in shock between the sisters.
“Yasmin!” Fahima who had been leaning on a wall, stood straight. “You can’t ask such questions.”
“Why not.” Yasmin shrugged. “Are you saying you’re not curious? Because I am.”
“We don’t have sex in the office.” She didn’t want to add that they hadn’t had sex at all, since they seemed to expect it from Kamali’s fiancée. Ebun coughed as her face burned. Was this what families were like? Probing into people’s privacy?
“Seriously? I don’t believe that. I hear stories all the time of men and their secretaries.”
Ebun’s spine stiffened. She hated people referring to her as a secretary. Her job entailed a whole lot more. “I’m not Kamali’s secretary.”
“You’re not?” Yasmin raised her brow. “Aren’t you his personal assistant? It’s the same as a secretary.”
“No. I’m an executive assistant.”
“That’s what I said. Same thing.”
Ebun sighed. She couldn’t be bothered to spend her energy explaining the intricacies of her job. Some people never bothered to understand it.
“So why are the two of you getting married? Are you pregnant?”
Ebun gasped again as her face heated up.
“That’s enough.” Fahima dragged Yasmin off the bed and towards the door. “Please don’t mind my sister. She doesn’t have any filter.”
“Abin da. You can pretend you don’t want to know. But I’m sure Mum is asking our brother the same thing downstairs. How can he suddenly show up after years of avoiding women just to show us some random person as his fiancé? We don’t know her or her family.”
“At least we now know he’s not gay.” Fahima pushed Yasmin through the door and pulled it shut behind her.
But Ebun still heard Yasmin’s indicting reply that sent her mind into a spiral of negative thoughts. “Isn’t being gay better than this one?”
Chapter Eleven
“Mother, what’s going on?” Kamali asked as soon as his sisters left with Ebun and shut the door.
His expression turned stony and an irritated frown creased his brow.
“I should be asking you that,” his mother replied, shifting forward in her seat. “You have always been level-headed and I’ve always trusted your judgment. But I’m totally flabbergasted by this stunt you just pulled. How can you show up here with your secretary and claim she is your fiancée. If you’re trying to crack a joke, then you should k
now that it’s not funny.”
Kamali opened his mouth and closed it, swallowing the quick fire response he wanted to give. His mother’s words gave him pause.
He’d brought Ebun here under pretence. It had been a simple act when he’d first thought it up. Just a ruse to keep his mother off his back. But it seemed he’d attracted more criticism because of Ebun.
They expected him to bring home someone of stature, someone with a family name to match his, someone who would help to elevate his public image.
Ebun didn’t quite fit his mother’s criteria for a wife, gauging from her response. He didn’t know anything about Ebun family. She’d told him her father was Nigerian and her mother was British. That was the extent to which he knew her family.
But it didn’t mean that Ebun wasn’t a good woman if he had been truly looking for a wife.
Okay, he didn’t like the company she kept, her ex boyfriend especially.
Still, as the woman he’d chosen to be his pretend fiancée, she fit the bill of what he wanted. She was intelligent, hardworking, and dedicated. She was an asset to his business.
On a personal note, she was pleasant, caring and not to mention the sexiness that oozed off her pores and the fact that he could barely control the simmering attraction he felt towards her any longer.
She was the best woman for him at this moment and he was annoyed that his family couldn’t seem to see that.
“Mother, Ebun is a nice woman.”
“I don’t doubt that she’d nice. Is she pregnant?”
Kamali stiffened. “No. She’s not.”
The question opened old wounds he’d tried to cover up in the past years.
If Ebun was pregnant, it wouldn’t be his and he definitely wouldn’t be intending to marry her. Not ever.
“Because if she is, there are—”
“Mum, I said she’s not. Can we move on?”
She jerked back, obviously surprised by his outburst. “Is something wrong?”
He puffed out a breath and said in a gentle tone, “Nothing is wrong.”
