by Jane Igharo
“Come on, Milo.” I stand and walk through the open-concept space, stopping at a shelf in the living room. “How about some music?” I sort through the collection of records, choose one, and place it on a vintage record player. Seconds after dropping the tonearm, traditional Spanish folk music projects through the copper horn.
The music reminds me of the many summers my family spent with my grandmother in Spain. If I listen closely enough—beyond the combination of the guitar, the bandurria, and the castanets—I can hear my feisty grandmother singing along, her voice rising and falling with the same theatrical flair as the singer on the record. I can hear my siblings chuckling as we link hands and attempt to perform the sardana. My parents’ voices are also audible—my father passionately negotiating with business associates and my mother talking and laughing with her sisters. The effervescent music and the familiar chaos fills the empty, quiet spaces in the penthouse; with it, the constant ache of loneliness lessens.
On the balcony, I lounge on a chair and Milo hops on my lap. Lake Ontario expands beyond the terrace, city lights and the auburn and indigo hues of dusk reflecting over its swaying, glistening form. The view is serene; it’s the reason I bought the lakefront property. This close to the water, the air is cooler, which I prefer. I enjoy the breeze, the music, and the company of Milo, who is receiving some much-deserved love and attention. When I close my eyes, my mind wanders off to her again.
Azere.
I think about her—how she walks purposefully, gracefully in stilettos. I think about how her long lashes brush against the thin crease of skin beneath her brown eyes. I think of all her small gestures that seem as seamless and fluid as a dance. Like the way her fingers twirl a lock of her patterned hair—around and around, pulling and smoothening.
Each memory makes my heart race.
My eyes flash open, and as I look over the vast, tranquil lake, I can’t help but wonder if the memory of our night together is etched in her mind as it is in mine.
chapter
4
My suspicion has been confirmed.
Denial is pointless now, and yet, it’s the one thing capable of getting me through this night.
I pull into my mom’s driveway and park the black Toyota. Tears burn my eyes, and I fan them away. I cried in my apartment immediately after learning the truth, a truth that will surely upend my world. It’s best I keep this information to myself. My family can’t know—no one can.
Just pretend like everything is okay. You can do this, Azere.
I twist a lock of braid between two fingers. Feeling the intertwining pattern of the neat plait relaxes me. I continue the motion for seconds before stepping out of the car.
I’ve got this.
The pavement is wet from rain that only just stopped. Along with the petrichor drifting in the warm May air, there is a trace of my mother’s cooking. The aroma of the signature ingredients— ground crayfish and red palm oil—reminds me of life in the Nigerian village I was born and grew up in.
It was nothing like this charming suburban neighborhood. As I admire the trimmed lawns, some with For Sale signs wedged in them, I remember that houses in my village weren’t sold and bought. Generations of my family lived, thrived, multiplied, and died in one house, our single history just as important as every building block keeping the structure standing year after year. I remember how we all shared a lifestyle and an identity that was crafted by those who came before us. My father, like his father, was a farmer. My mother sold foodstuff in the market. When she was young, she would balance a tray of smoked fish on her head and hawk on the streets. At nine, I did the same. With one hand supporting the tray on my head and the other braced on my hip, I strolled down the streets laden with red sand and dust, the same streets my mother had walked and her mother before her.
I remember at home, in our immense compound, I plucked guavas and cashews from the trees my grandfather had planted as a child. In the mornings, I walked two miles through narrow, crooked roads to attend the school my great-grandfather had helped construct. In the evenings, as the scorching heat of day waned and termites fluttered toward lit kerosene lanterns, my father told my sister and me greatly exaggerated tales of our ancestors—the fighters and the cowards, the dreamers and the unbelievers, the vengeful and the justified.
In Nigeria, my entire life was an extension of my lineage. There—in a close-knit community, tucked away from the rest of the world—nothing existed but the paths my ancestors had paved, the buildings they had molded with sand and concrete and sweat, the lands they had cultivated and bled to defend, the traditions they had created and nurtured, the myths they had fabricated and adopted as truths.
In that village, life was simpler, more familiar. I miss it.
The faint sound of a dribbling ball redirects my attention to the suburban neighborhood, to Jason Carter who is approaching me and bouncing a basketball against the pavement with weary disinterest.
“Hey, Azere.” He tucks the ball in his armpit, and an impish grin appears on his boyish face. “What’s up, babe?”
“Babe?” I frown and cock my head. “Seriously?”
I babysat Jason when he was a kid. When he was a sweet kid. Now, he’s eighteen. He has a rugged beard patched along his weak jawline, an ego with its own zip code, and an agenda to add my name to his developing little black book.
“Or do you prefer sweetheart?”
“Funny,” I say. “That’s what I used to call you right after tucking you in bed.”
“Well, if you wanna relive the past, I’m up for it. But just so you know, I sleep naked now.”
“Yeah.” I give him a once-over, shifting my eyes from his head to his feet. “I’m sure there’s been no progress.”
“Seeing is believing, babe. Once I get you alone, I’m sure I can make you a believer. But you gotta promise. If I show you mine, you gotta show me yours.”
“Gosh.” I cringe. “When did you become such a perv?”
“I’m just a man who knows what he wants.” His fingers move through his hair, tousling the confusion of thick brown curls and blond tangled frizz.
“Well, man.” I lick my thumb and bring it to his face. “Looks like you’ve been playing in the sandbox.”
My wet thumb smears a patch of dirt on his cheek. When I pull back, he gawks at me—his skin flushed and his mouth wide open. Above our heads, moths flutter around the glow of the streetlight.
“You might want to close that big mouth of yours.” I pat his cheek and turn away. The stone walkway leads me to the front door of the quaint bungalow.
“Well, look who it is,” my sister, Efe, says when I step into the air-conditioned house. She’s standing by the entry table, sipping red wine with perfect ease. “Mom has a surprise for you, and it’s in the living room.” She struts toward me, her yellow sundress flapping against her knees.
She looks like me, with the same glistening chestnut skin and full lips. Our slight differences are aspects that make her prettier. Like the slanted cheekbones that shape her oval face and her honey-brown eyes that have a sharp lift at their corners, creating a cat eye.
“So,” I say. “What does this one look like?”
“Rich. He looks rich.” She strokes a lock of her chemically straightened hair behind her multi-pierced ear. “He smells rich too.”
“Rich has a smell?”
“If you have the nose for it. He kinda looks familiar too, but . . .” She squints and taps her pursed lips, thinking.
“Yeah? But what?” I urge.
“I don’t know. Can’t make the connection. But maybe you know him.”
“Right.” Groaning, I kick off my shoes. “Oya, let’s get this over with. Where’s everyone?”
“Uncle is entertaining your guest. Mom’s getting dinner ready. We’ve all been stalling, anticipating your arrival.” She tilts her head and observes me
from an angle. “Azere, you don’t look so good. You look . . . terrified. What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing. I’m fine. Mom’s waiting.”
I rush down the corridor, and pictures of my family, framed on the beige wall, blur at the corner of my eye. Nerves and dread rattle in the pit of my stomach. I inhale and exhale at a steady, controlled pace.
“Mom?” I say, entering the kitchen. My voice is a whisper muffled by the swishing of the kitchen ventilation.
“Mommy,” I speak louder this time, “good evening.”
She focuses on her task, separating browned plantains from sizzling oil and tossing them into a bowl lined with paper towels.
“Sorry I’m late.”
Seconds after my apology, she spins around, and her floor-length lilac dress sways against her petite physique. “A-ze-re.” When the syllables in my name are emphasized, it means I’m in trouble. “I expected you an hour ago.” She scowls and pins her dark lips in a rigid line. “Ah-ahn! What took you so long?”
Despite thirteen years in Canada, her Nigerian accent is still thick. Sometimes, it’s like her accent is calling out to mine, saying: “Hey, authentic Nigerian Azere, come out and play.” And that’s when the accent, the one I tried hard to hide after my move to Canada, forces its way out. This happens whenever I’m at home with my family, when I don’t feel the complete pressure of being wedged between two worlds, when I’m not a Nigerian Canadian. When I’m just Nigerian. Then I speak freely, mixing pidgin English with Edo or simply speaking fluent English but with a Nigerian intonation, altering the rhythm of each word.
“Mommy,” I say, “lahọ. Don’t be angry. I’m here now. Sorry for being late.”
“Don’t tell me sorry o. Sorry for yourself.”
I hate it when she does that, when she turns my apology into an insult. Sorry for yourself. Try to apologize to a Nigerian mother and that’s usually the phrase you get in return.
“Anyway.” She leaves her position by the stove and circles me. She’s inspecting my outfit, ensuring I appear appealing to my latest suitor. As she moves, the fluorescent light gleams on her smooth, dark skin that’s oiled with shea butter. “Azere, why are you dressed like this? Eh?” She yanks on the loose-fitting blouse I’m wearing. “What is the meaning of this nonsense? Your figure is not even showing at all. What kind of wahala is this? It looks like your breasts are playing hide and seek.”
“Mostly hide,” my sister chimes in.
“Lord, have mercy.” My mother rubs the creases that line her tense forehead. “In fact, why aren’t you wearing Nigerian clothes? Eh? I know you have many. Or did you throw them away to make room in your closet for jeans and T-shirts?”
“No, Mommy. I still have them.”
“Then why aren’t you wearing one? You’re meeting your future husband for the first time. And let me also add that this boy is a doctor. A medical doctor. You should have dressed like a bride. Instead, you look like a farmer going to harvest cassava. To make matters worse, you are too thin. Look.” She pokes my collarbone. “They’re all sticking out.”
“Osanobua,” I say, grumbling. “Mommy, they’ve always been like that.”
“No. Not when you were living in this house, eating Nigerian food on a regular basis. Now you are on your own, eating those yeye Canadian food every single day. Quinoa salad, avocado toast, smoothie bowl.” She rolls her eyes. “If you were eating Nigerian food, you would be more robust and have enough flesh to cover your bones.”
“Right.” I have no words. None.
“Anyway, what can we do now? You are here, he is here. Let us go.”
“Okay,” I say. “Sure. But I just need a minute.”
“A minute to do what? To do what, Azere?”
To mentally prepare myself for another tragic setup.
“You have kept that man waiting long enough.” My mother grimaces, and her round face distorts awkwardly. “He did not come here to gist with your uncle.” Because she’s irritated, her Nigerian accent deepens. She speaks slowly, stressing the syllables in each word. “You are not wast-ing an-oth-er min-ute—not ev-en a sec-ond.” She grips my arm and hauls me toward the living room. “Oya. Let us go. And don’t forget to smile and flirt with your eyes.”
Flirt with my eyes. How the hell does that work?
To my right, Efe shuffles beside me. She gives me two thumbs up, and I stick out my tongue at her.
“Look who has finally arrived,” my mom announces when we enter the living room. “Ah-ahn.” She scans the space, then turns to my uncle, who is sitting in a brown armchair, effortlessly projecting confidence and authority as patriarch of the family. “Where is Azere’s future husband? Where did he go?”
“He stepped out to take a work call,” my uncle answers. “He should be back shortly.”
“Thank God.” My mother exhales. “I thought Azere found a way to chase this one off without even meeting him.”
I roll my eyes and turn my attention elsewhere. “Good evening, Uncle,” I say.
“Omwinwen.” He calls me his child in Edo, our language. He’s been calling me that since I was twelve—since my father, his younger brother, died.
After the funeral, my uncle—who immigrated to Canada in his early twenties and had a successful career as an engineer—brought my family over to live with him. He shouldered the responsibilities his brother left behind. Omwinwen. At first, it was strange to hear him call me that. I wasn’t his child. I had never even met the man until my father’s death. And though he had my father’s full face, deep-set eyes, sienna pigment, and dimpled smile, the distinction was clear. He was not my father.
He was a widower. He lost his wife to cancer and was the father of a boy, Jacob. My uncle understood loss and honored the ties of family. My mother, my sister, and I lived with him for four years after coming to Canada. Selflessly, he took care of us. He provided necessities and more and even financed my mother’s nursing school education. He never resented our presence, nor did he deviate from his unassigned duty. In time, reservations and technicalities were put aside. I loved and respected him. He became my father, and his son, my brother.
“Azere,” my uncle says, looking over my shoulder. “Your visitor is here. Turn around. Greet him.”
Reluctantly—because I must, because defying elders in my culture is highly frowned upon and basically a one-way ticket to hell—I obey. And when I see the man my uncle has dubbed my visitor and my mother has dubbed my future husband, I gasp.
Shit.
He walks forward and extends a hand to me. I look at that hand and then at him, clenching my jaw and fisting my hands, restraining myself from reacting.
He has a lot of nerve, showing up here.
The last time I saw him was the night he took my virginity. It was the last night of church camp. We were counselors, and after everyone had fallen asleep, we snuck out of our cabins. He was waiting for me at the rim of the woods, hiding behind a hefty tree. When he revealed himself, I jolted, and his lips came over mine before I could yelp.
“Shh,” he spoke into my mouth as he kissed me.
With a flashlight guiding our way, he led us farther into the woods. We stopped at a dome tent he had set up. Inside, he peeled off my clothes. His hands and lips touched every inch of my body.
“You okay?” he asked as he eased into me. When I nodded, we made love. He walked me back to my cabin after, and that was the last time I saw him.
I was nineteen at the time—naive, overly optimistic, and foolishly in love—and he broke my heart in the worst possible way. Because of him, I acquired insecurities I never had, and my memories of my first love, my first sexual encounter, were tainted. Elijah Osunde did all that. Now, six years later, he’s standing in front of me, holding out his hand for a handshake. A handshake.
“Azere,” he says. “How are you?”
“To be hon
est, I’ve had a pretty horrible day, and seeing you here confirms that there is a force in the universe who has dedicated this day to my personal torment.”
Efe releases a loud snort but settles when our mother fixates on her.
“Azere.” With just my name, my uncle discreetly warns me to behave. “Why don’t we give them a moment to get better acquainted?” He stands and makes an exit. Once in the dining room, he calls for my mother.
“Zere, you better behave.” Her warning is indiscreet. She hisses, grabs Efe’s arm, and marches off.
After my family leaves, I focus on the man in front of me. “What the hell are you doing here?” My voice is hushed, but the anger in it is knife-sharp.
“Azere. You look”—keen eyes move over my body—“amazing.”
“Answer the question, Elijah.”
“Your mom invited me. Our mothers are apparently friends. They thought we could—”
“They thought wrong.” They thought so wrong. “You need to leave, Elijah.”
“Your mom invited me to dinner,” he says. “Leaving is rude.”
“No, rude is taking my virginity and then going MIA. Remember that, Romeo?”
“But, Azere, I thought you understood why I had to leave.”
“The fact that you left isn’t the problem. The problem is how you left. How you left me.”
“Azere, I was twenty-three and very stupid.”
“And I was nineteen and very intolerant of stupidity. Six years later, nothing has changed. So please.” I press my eyes closed, forcing back tears on the verge of falling. “Leave, Elijah.” I look at him. “Just go.”
“Zere, I made a huge mistake. Okay? I didn’t handle the situation well. I wish I had.”
I wish he had too because up until that point, when he left and broke my heart, I envisioned a future with him. I envisioned eventually becoming his wife and the mother of his children, and he told me, on so many occasions, he envisioned the same. We were in love—a love that, in our youth, was consuming, obsessive, invigorating, ardent. And then he was gone along with the promise of our future.
