by Jane Igharo
“Azere, I want another chance.”
“Another chance?” I’m stunned. A mixture of chuckles and puffs surges from my mouth. “Another chance to do what?”
“To be us again—to be everything we were supposed to be.” He takes my hand in his, and I flinch before settling into the sweet familiar. “Zere, after all these years, there hasn’t been another girl who has come close to being everything you were to me. Everything you still are to me.”
It’s unfortunate that I can say the same. It’s unfortunate that I haven’t loved another man as fiercely as I loved him or met one worthy of envisioning a shared future with. It’s so very, very unfortunate.
“Azere, give me another chance. Please.”
“Elijah.” I pull my hand from his grip. “I can’t.”
“Just let me prove myself to you. I’m not the same person. I swear. Just look at me.”
Yeah, I’m looking and admiring just a little. With his swarthy complexion, he looks like a young Morris Chestnut. His shaved head is lined neat and sharp like the goatee framing his lips. He’s wearing a black suit with no tie. The first two buttons on the white oxford shirt are undone, revealing a hint of his firm chest. He’s more handsome than he was six years ago. If I didn’t have such a strong grip on my resentment, I would be tempted to accept his apology.
“Elijah.” I shake my head, rejecting any lustful thoughts that might compromise my good sense. “I need you to leave. Right now.”
“Come on, Azere.”
“Right now, Elijah. If you don’t, I’ll . . . I’ll . . . tell my mom.”
“Tell her what exactly?” He laughs, mocking my juvenile statement. “Your mom loves me. She already calls me her in-law.”
“Well, once she finds out you took my virginity at church camp, I’m sure her opinion of you will change. She’ll probably chase you out with a broom, or maybe she’ll grab the hot oil off the stove and aim for your head. And so you know, my mom’s aim is on point.”
“Zere, are you serious?”
I cross my arms over my chest, indicating I am indeed very freakin’ serious.
“Okay. Fine. You win.” He throws his hands up in surrender. “I’ll go. Just let me say goodbye.”
“There’s no need for that.” I usher him to the front door and anticipate his exit. “What are you waiting for?”
He holds the knob as if he doesn’t know how to work the damn thing. “Azere, I’m sorry. Really. I am.” There’s a hint of remorse in his eyes. “I hope one day you’ll forgive me. Good night.” Finally, he leaves.
When I slam the door, my mother steps out of the dining room. Efe follows her like a loyal dog.
“Where is Elijah? Did he just leave?” She frowns. “A-ze-re, what did you say to that boy?”
“Nothing. She said nothing.” Efe, sweet Efe, comes to my defense. “He’s a doctor. He probably had a work emergency—had to deal with a patient or something. Right, Azere?”
“Yeah. Exactly. Efe’s right. He’s off saving lives. Being a hero. Doing his thing.”
My mother, who can sniff out my bullshit like a shark can sniff out blood, is glowering at me suspiciously. She knows I chased Elijah off. Soon, a lecture—long and dreary—will commence. I refuse to be present for it.
“Efe.” I grab my sister’s hand and drag her down the corridor. “Let’s catch up.”
We leave our mother alone, muttering and brooding.
chapter
5
The first non-Nigerian man I ever lusted after was Antonio Banderas. At sixteen, I saw The Mask of Zorro—a story of action, romance, and a fearless outlaw with a sultry accent. Over the span of a month, I watched the movie repeatedly. I focused on the way Antonio’s hair swayed in accordance to his movements and the way his lips moved while kissing the woman he loved. My mother, determined to keep my sister and me rooted in our culture, didn’t appreciate my Latin obsession. She tore down the poster of Antonio in my room and replaced it with a poster of Jim Iyke, a Nigerian actor. That’s what my mother has been doing since we moved to Canada—shoving my culture down my throat, so I don’t forget where I come from.
In my old bedroom, I flop on the queen-size mattress. The poster of Jim Iyke is still on the lavender-colored wall, right above the bedframe.
“Didn’t go well with your potential lover boy?” Efe says.
“Nope.”
“Wanna elaborate?”
“Nope.” I look at her. “How come Jacob’s not here?”
“The detective is working late tonight,” Efe says, lying beside me. “He’s obsessing over some murder case. Anyway, you probably want this back.” She shoves a credit card in my face. “Thanks again for paying.”
“Sure.” I take the card and slip it into my pocket. “Did you get all your textbooks?”
“Yep. Officially ready for law school in the fall. Now, I can spend the rest of the summer being reckless.”
“How about you spend your summer in the library instead, prepping for classes?”
“Nah,” she says. “I’m twenty-three, and I plan to milk this young-and-free thing until Mom starts nagging me about getting hitched.”
“You know that’s coming at some point, right?”
“Not anytime soon. Not when I have Mike, a best friend who also doubles as a mock boyfriend. The fact that he’s Edo and Mom loves him is the cherry on top.” A satisfied grin extends across her face.
I can’t help but be jealous for not having the same option. If only Christina were a Christopher.
“Anyway.” Efe lets out a sharp breath and turns to me. “You know Mom’s gonna come in here at any moment. And you know what she’s gonna do, right?”
Lecture me, criticize me, and bring up the promise.
“We should get outta here, get some ice cream, catch a late movie, and most important, avoid Mom. There’s a new romance movie out.”
“Efe, you’re feeding my obsession.”
“Puh-lease.” She scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Your unhealthy obsession with romantic movies has nothing to do with me.”
This is true. “Fine. Let’s go watch two lovestruck fools jump over hurdles in pursuit of their ever after.” In my opinion, these are the only stories worth knowing.
In sync, Efe and I spring to a sitting position, and just as we’re about to stand, our mother appears in the doorway.
“I need to talk to Azere,” she says, her tone stern. “Alone.”
“Yeah. Of course you do.” Efe squeezes my shoulder, offering encouragement before leaving the room.
“Azere.” My mother sits beside me and releases a lengthy sigh.
“So . . . um . . . How’s work, Mom?” I ask, hoping to divert her from the conversation she’s aiming to have. “Anything interesting happening at the hospital—any Grey’s Anatomy–type drama?”
She watches me blankly, not a glint in her unblinking eyes nor a hint of humor on her straight lips. “Azere, I am not here to gist about work.”
Well, of course she isn’t.
“Azere, I am here to talk about the path you are currently on.”
“Path? What path?”
“You are single.” She says it like it’s a terminal disease. “I don’t know what is wrong with you. I have introduced you to several eligible men, and yet, here you are. Maybe you are being influenced by these modern women—no husband, no children. All they want is their career. You want to be a feminist.”
She has obviously been misinformed. I should enlighten her on what the term means, but I don’t have the energy to debate with a woman who doesn’t like being corrected.
“Azere, listen. If you want to be a feminist, fine. But please be a married feminist with at least three children. In our country, a woman’s honor is her husband and her children. A career means nothing. I married your father when I was twenty.
You are twenty-five now.” She touches my cheek and looks at me dolefully as if I’m truly being afflicted by the deadly disease: singleness. “Enough time has passed. I have allowed you and your sister to reap all the benefits of this country. It’s time to honor your own country. Zere, it’s time to honor your culture. Or have you forgotten the promise you made to your father?”
And here we go.
“No, Mommy. I haven’t forgotten.”
And even if I did, she would refresh my memory. She was present when I made the promise. We were both sitting on the edge of the bed, watching my father take his last breaths. He’d lost a lot of weight at that point. He was so feeble, he could barely lift a finger. We were at a hospital in Benin City. We had been there for weeks, watching my father undergo several treatments. In truth, there was no cure. The cancer had spread too quickly. One day, the doctor told us my father most likely wouldn’t make it through the night. Even then, I was determined to prolong his life. I spoke to him, reciting the stories he once told my sister and me. I even narrated a future where he was alive and well. Hours passed, and he remained inert. When my mouth started to dry and my eyes began to droop, he stirred.
“Your uncle is taking you to Canada,” he said, his voice a faint quiver. “Do you know where that is?”
I shook my head.
“It’s right beside America.”
I knew about America, so I nodded.
“Everything is different there. It is nothing like Nigeria, like our village. Some people travel abroad and get carried away. They forget where they come from. They forget about their culture. They forget who they are. Omwinwen, don’t be one of those people. No matter where you go, honor your culture.”
“Baba, I will.”
“Do you remember what happened to Mama Efosa?” He was referring to a woman in our village who had complained her daughter, in America, had forgotten her culture after marrying a white man. “Do you remember what she said about her daughter?”
I nodded.
“Azere, promise me you won’t do that. Promise me you will never get involved with a white man or any man who is not Edo. Azere, when you are of age, marry a good Edo man and give him children. Just like your mother did and your grandmother and so many others before them. Promise me.”
“Baba. I promise.”
It was an agreement made with sincerity, an agreement that gave my father peace as he died, an agreement I reflect on every day of my life, an agreement that haunts me and demands so much from me.
Efe was asleep when I made the promise. I am so grateful she didn’t have to do the same. She’s twenty-three and free in every sense—detached from the promise my mother considers sacred. I, however, am bound to that promise—sentenced to live cautiously and love selectively.
“Azere, Elijah is a good boy,” my mother says. “He is Edo and a medical doctor. Your father would have loved him. He would have been proud.”
“Mom, I—”
“I don’t know if you remember too well, but Elijah used to go to our church when he was younger. In fact, he was even a youth leader.” She smiles, proud. “He is a very good Christian boy. I even suspect he’s a virgin like you, saving himself for marriage.”
Oh, Lord. If only she knew.
“Azere, believe me. Elijah will make a good husband.”
“Mommy, I can’t be with him. Or anyone else. Not right now.”
“And why is that?” Her face hardens with irritation.
“Because I . . . well . . .” I’m losing a grip on the denial I’ve been holding on to all night. I can’t pretend anymore. Everything is not okay. “Mommy, I have to tell you something. I’m . . . um . . .”
“You’re what, Azere? Speak!”
I can’t. The words are stuck. They clog my throat, and I can’t breathe. I stand and sprint out of the room.
Outside the house, I clench my chest and gasp frantically for air. During my intense struggle to breathe, a brisk breeze dashes over my face. It has the effect of a firm slap, snapping me back to my senses. Instantly, my erratic heartbeat slows and air passes through my throat. The panic attack is over.
Now, as I breathe with ease, the truth becomes a force impossible to contain, and I confess what I couldn’t to my mother.
“I’m pregnant.”
chapter
6
In most romantic comedies, the lead character usually has a sidekick—someone bold, witty, and capable of providing comedic relief and harsh truths the lead isn’t willing to face. In the movie 27 Dresses, Casey is Jane’s best friend and the blunt voice of reason who goes as far as slapping Jane for pining over a man who only sees her as his errand girl.
If I were the lead in a romantic comedy, my sidekick would be Christina. Though, at the moment, I’m not confident about the status of our friendship.
Last night, after returning from my mom’s, Christina called me. The conversation didn’t go so well.
“Girl, are you caught up on Insecure?” she said when I answered the phone.
“No, I just—”
“Spoiler alert, Issa got a new man. And he is gorgeous.”
She proceeded to rave about the latest episode, detailing each scene and even reenacting a three-person dialogue. And that was when I lost it. My whole world was falling apart, and she was babbling about a show that surely couldn’t be more dramatic than the crap I was going through.
“Shut up, Christina!” I snapped. “For once, I wish you would get your dumb head out of your dumb ass.” The insult was juvenile, but I knew the impact it would have on her. She hated when people called her dumb, when they insulted her intelligence. It was the one thing capable of eating at her self-esteem. Yet, I spat out the slur because I wanted to take my frustration out on someone.
“Azere.” She spoke after a few seconds of silence. “I don’t know what your problem is. Maybe you had a bad day. Hell, maybe you had a bad week. Whatever it is, you didn’t have to come at me like that.” She sniffed. “You just didn’t.” And hung up.
I was wrong, and now, the day after our little quarrel, I’m hoping the cheeseburger in my hand will make my apology more acceptable.
“Wanna share a burger?” I say, hovering over Christina. She’s sitting at an empty table in the office lunchroom, picking at a kale salad. “Well?” I shake the brown bag, and she rolls her eyes. “Did I mention it’s a double bacon cheeseburger on a pretzel bun?”
“Sit.”
I do as she’s instructed and try to contain my relief. “About last night.” I dig into the paper bag, pull out the box of fries, and place it in front of her. “I’m so sorry, Chris.”
“I might be willing to forgive and forget, but what was with the bitch attack? You said some mean shit.”
“I’m sorry, Chris. Really. It wasn’t about you. The thing is . . .” Before offering an explanation, I survey the lunchroom, searching for prying ears. My colleagues are either engaged with conversation or technology. “Okay.” I take in a deep breath. “A little over a month ago—say about five or six weeks—I went on a date my mom set up. It was at the St. Regis with some guy called Richard. The date didn’t go so well. After it ended, I went to Astor, the lounge in the hotel.”
“Oh, I love that place,” Christina says, grinning. “Super swanky. Remind me to write a Yelp review.” When she notes my straight face, she shakes her head, coming to her senses. “Sorry. So not the point.”
“The point is, I was drinking and sulking, and there was this guy . . . this white guy. He was from out of town. And we hung out a little. And one thing led to another. And . . . well, I . . .”
“You what, Azere?” She shuffles to the edge of her seat. “Go on. Spit it out.”
“I had sex with him. In his hotel room.”
“What?” Christina’s expression bounces between confusion, curiosity, and utter disbelief. “Wha
t the hell, Zere? Why are you just telling me this now, and what happened to only dating Nigerian guys?”
“It wasn’t a date, Christina. We just hooked up. I wanted to have some fun and then put it behind me but . . .”
“But what?”
“But I can’t exactly do that because my one-night stand . . . um . . . well, he works here. He recently started working here. Recent as in yesterday.”
Those are the only clues I give, and instantly, her eyes still on me and fill with understanding.
“You slept with Rafael?” she whispers.
“I had no idea he was gonna start working at Xander. Then yesterday, he just showed up.”
“Azere, are you messing with me?”
I shake my head.
“Well, damn. Talk about an insane twist of fate.” She puffs and ruffles her springy curls. “Your one-night stand turns out to be your new coworker. If this shit ain’t serendipitous, I don’t know what is.”
Serendipitous. The word reminds me of the movie Serendipity. After a spontaneous and somewhat magical encounter, Jonathan and Sara part ways without exchanging contact information, leaving it to fate to reunite them. Despite the years that pass and the miles between them, Jonathan and Sara—through a series of hilarious and heartwarming coincidences—meet again. In the movie, destiny has a sweet sense of humor. In my case, destiny has a wicked sense of humor.
“Christina, there’s more.” More complications throwing my life out of balance.
“Well, tell me.” She abandons her salad and tosses fries into her mouth like they’re popcorn and my story is an Oscar-nominated drama. “Just spit it out.”
“I’m pregnant.”
“I’m sorry.” Her eyebrows shoot up, almost touching the sleek baby hairs that line her forehead. “You’re what?”
