by Jane Igharo
Silence. I’m mortified. I gape at the steel doors waiting, praying for them to open.
“That was honestly the worst attempt at a cover-up I have ever heard,” Rafael says. “For a second, I was scared you might hurt yourself.” He’s still staring straight ahead, but slowly, he begins to laugh, each chuckle gaining volume until I’m laughing along with him and caring very little about my previous embarrassment.
I’m more relaxed as we enter the parking lot. Making a fool of myself definitely helped to lighten the mood. When we approach a sonic silver Lexus, I halt.
“Is that an LC 500?” I ask, examining, admiring, and basically drooling over the elegant coupe.
“Yeah. It is.”
This isn’t the car he drives to the office. I’ve seen him pull up in a black Range Rover. Xander pays well, but not well enough to afford two luxury vehicles. Maybe he has a side hustle. A really good side hustle. I don’t concern myself with his finances and instead focus on the car.
“It’s beautiful.” My fingers skim over the door panels that pull inward in perfect contrast to the front and rear fenders that flare out. “This is my cousin’s dream car. He’s kinda obsessed. He’s gonna freak when he finds out I rode in one.”
“And how would he react when he finds out you drove one?”
“Drove one?” I tear my eyes from the vehicle and look at Rafael. “Huh?”
Rather than clarifying, he walks to the driver side of the car and pulls the door wide open. “Would you like to drive, Azere?”
“What? Me? Drive? Seriously?”
When he nods, I scurry to the open door.
“Wait.” I pause before sliding into the seat. “Are you sure about this? Are you sure you want to trust me with your car . . . your expensive car?”
“I’m sure. Go ahead,” he urges. “Get in.”
Objections? I have none. I gather my maxi dress in one hand and settle into the cockpit. Cool leather presses against my bare skin, and I grip the steering wheel. Like the rest of the luxurious interior, the wheel is black except for the hand-stitching that creates a neat and uniformed pattern of white thread around its circumference.
“Ready?” Rafael asks, settling in beside me.
“Umm . . .” I adjust the seat and the mirrors, secure my seat belt, and grip the wheel again. “So ready.” After pushing the power button, the car comes to life.
On the highway, I accelerate past the speed limit and swiftly swerve in front of cars.
“Wow. Azere, I would actually like to make it to the restaurant in one piece.”
“Sorry.” I reduce pressure on the gas and glance at him. “I got a little excited.”
“Seems like you’re a bit of a daredevil. Like my sister.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. She’s a small thing who tends to overcompensate by doing outrageous things.” He laughs, and his eyes crinkle at their ends just as his lips curve upward. “A few years back, I was in Toronto to visit my family, and she insisted on treating me to lunch at 360, the restaurant in the CN Tower. I went, expecting to enjoy a good meal.”
“But what really happened?” I ask.
“She had another activity in mind—the EdgeWalk.”
“No! She wanted you to walk around the CN Tower—one hundred and sixteen stories from the ground?”
“Yep,” he says. “One hundred and sixteen stories from the ground.”
“Well?” I’m curious. “Did you do it?”
“I attempted to—got suited up, took one step onto the ledge, looked down, and lost my nerve. Selena, only twenty at the time, was perfectly fine. I, at twenty-four—having seen my life flash before my eyes—was having a panic attack and crying. I couldn’t do it.”
I try to stifle a giggle but fail. “You cried. I’m envisioning it, and it’s seriously funny.”
“It was terrifying,” he admits. “Damn right, I cried.”
I laugh harder, and he joins in, and I turn just in time to take note of the dimple on his left cheek.
He tells me more about his spunky sister and her audacious and often hilarious antics, and I laugh so much, my throat becomes sore. I learn he’s of Spanish descent. His parents are from Spain. They were childhood sweethearts who came to Canada as international students. They got married after graduating university and started their lives together in Toronto.
“My parents are the hardest-working people I know,” Rafael says. “I think it’s an immigrant thing—the pressure to succeed as the other in their new home coupled with the fear of disappointing their family back at home.”
I know exactly what he means. It’s the reason my mother, a woman who once sold foodstuff in a village market, was determined to get a master’s degree in nursing. It’s the reason I worked tirelessly in high school and in university—not only to graduate with honors but also to stand on the podium as valedictorian. It’s the reason my sister aims to be a partner at a top law firm by the age of thirty.
Immigrants chase success differently because we have something to prove to the people we left behind and the people who note our differences—our accent, our appearance, our religion, our culture—every day. The fact that Rafael understands this makes me gain a new appreciation for him.
“After a few years in Canada,” he continues, “my parents saved up some money and bought their first property. Then two years later, they bought another. And then many more followed. They’ve been in the corporate real estate business ever since.”
“So they must be rich or something.”
He shrugs. “They’re well-off . . . I guess.”
“Well-off parents. Is that how you’re able to afford this very expensive car?” From the corner of my eye, I watch his reaction to the intrusive question.
Shaking his head and smiling, he doesn’t appear offended at all. “I had a trust fund. With the help of my father, I invested in some real estate. My sister did the same.”
“Your daredevil of a sister?”
“Yeah. Her. She can be responsible when she chooses.” He laughs gently. “What about you? Do you have any siblings?”
“Yeah. I have a little sister. Efe.”
He asks one question after another, and I answer them all, offering him the same entertainment he offered me. I tell him about Efe’s rebellious younger years and how our mother, the overly superstitious Nigerian woman who believed every problem was caused by juju, prayed zealously for the deliverance of her child.
“Punishments never worked on Efe, so my mother concluded someone had cast a spell on her.” I laugh. Though at the time, my mother took the matter seriously. “She prayed for Efe every day—morning and night.”
“And did they work . . . the prayers?”
“Well, something worked because Efe eventually grew out of it. Today, she’s a model daughter. Well, to some degree.”
The lane I’m on extends into a main road, and I exit the highway.
“And what about you?” Rafael asks. “Were you as rebellious as your sister?”
“Me? Rebellious? Never. I was older. I had to set the example for Efe. I had to give my parents one less kid to worry about. I had to make them proud.” That’s what I’ve always strived to do. “They asked me to work on the farm, and I did. They asked me to go to the market, and I did that too. No questions asked.”
“What was it like, living in Nigeria?”
“Whenever I tell people I grew up in a village in Africa, they imagine mud huts and a safari in my backyard. They imagine a society stricken with poverty and disease and incomprehensible people.” I roll my eyes. “The truth is, my village was far from being a metropolis. Sure, it was quiet, rural, and simple. But our ancient customs and the simplicity of our lifestyle didn’t make us uncivilized. We were a community of teachers and doctors and farmers and vivacious marketwomen whose sharp wits and quick tongue
s could easily rival many university graduates. My mother was one of those women.”
Rafael’s blue eyes seem to urge me to continue.
“And yes, we lacked a few things the Western world couldn’t do without, but that still didn’t make us uncivilized. We had streams and water wells instead of running faucets. We had power, but the power-holding company seized it regularly. If you had a generator, cool. But if you didn’t, you had to light up those kerosene lanterns.
“My family, like many, didn’t have a generator. But my fondest memories are of when the lights went out, and my sister and I would gather around a lantern and listen to our father tell stories.” I make a sharp turn into a small street and into the restaurant’s parking lot. “That was the best part of my childhood.” I pull into an empty spot. “I loved it.”
“How old were you when you came to Canada?”
“Twelve.”
“Have you visited since?”
“No.” I turn off the car and lean back, my head falling on the cushioned headrest. “But I will. Someday soon.” I tilt my head, and our eyes connect.
We should step out of the car now. We should walk into that restaurant and spend the evening entertaining our clients. But it surprises me that I don’t want to do those things. I want to stay in this car. With him. But when he opens the door, when he lets the outside world invade the light atmosphere we have somehow created, my heart sinks. He walks over to my side and pulls the door open as well. More of the outside world infiltrates what I consider to be our sacred space—a space where, perhaps, a friendship was formed.
I step out and unclench my fist, allowing the full length of my dress to fall free and move in the wind. Around us, cars speed by, chatting crowds bustle through the restaurant doors, Afrobeat booms from speakers on the patio. The world pulses with chaos, and everything that occurred in the car seems distant—like it never happened.
Maybe it’s best this way.
“Well.” My voice is soft and raspy, an effect of the laughter I enjoyed minutes ago. “I guess we should go inside.” I spin around and hasten toward the restaurant, suddenly eager to put space between us.
“Azere,” he calls from behind, but I don’t stop pacing until he holds my arm. “This fell off.” He loops a gold bracelet around my wrist. The jewelry is secure, but his hand doesn’t retreat. Between two fingers, he holds a heart-shaped charm that dangles from the bracelet. He studies it with focus and curiosity.
“For my sister,” I say. “Her name is engraved on it.”
He holds another heart-shaped charm, and his thumb glides over the letters. “Who’s Itohan?”
“My mother.”
Again, he holds another heart ornament. “And Jacob?”
“My cousin.”
He holds another. “Samuel?”
“My uncle.”
Last, he holds a charm that differs from the rest—a silver star studded with white crystals. “Joromi?”
“My father.”
“Why a star?” he asks, still studying the charm.
“Because he’s in heaven—one of God’s stars. I like to believe that’s what happens when our loved ones pass. They become stars, always shining down on us.”
“Yeah.” He nods and drops his head. “I like to believe that too.” He releases the charm and focuses on me.
I focus on him also. I search his eyes, look past the infinite shades of blues until I’m confronted once more by that eerie void. Again, I sense that pain—too great to sustain—that hollowed Rafael out, took something from him. I suddenly wish I had the means to give it back.
“Thank you, Rafael. For noticing that it dropped. I would’ve been devastated if I had lost it.”
“Well, we can’t have that.” He smiles, and so do I.
Together, with little distance between us, we walk toward the restaurant, and as we step through the doors, a silly thought occurs to me.
If Rafael wore a bracelet with charms that represented his loved ones, how many charms would be silver studded stars?
chapter
12
The restaurant’s decor is striking. In here, it’s easy for your eyes to wander from one conspicuous object to another. More than anyone else at the table, Rafael is engrossed in the setting. A few minutes ago, he was examining the detailed pattern on the cushioned seats. Now, his focus is on the carved wooden mural that covers one wall. Amid smooth ebony wood, there are intricate designs of faces, animals, masks, and shapes that seamlessly link together like the knots that combine to form a knitted blanket.
There is so much more to observe and admire, like the magnificent sculpture of an African warrior that seems to be in the likeness of Shaka Zulu. Though, when the waitress approaches our table, Rafael’s attention moves to her.
“This is yours,” she says, placing a plate of tomato stew and fried yam in front of me. “And this is for you.” She sets two plates in front of Rafael and notices his confused expression. “Your first time?”
“Yes,” Mr. Ojo answers. “We convinced him to try what we are having.”
“I’m sure you’ll like it. Here are your finger bowls.” She distributes three small bowls to the men.
“What are these for?” Rafael asks.
“To wash your hand,” the waitress says. “You’re eating with your hand.” She grabs the handle on the serving cart and strolls away, snickering just a little. “Enjoy.”
“Azere.” Rafael turns to me. He’s utterly muddled. “What exactly is this?”
“This is eba,” I explain, pointing at the white mound with a doughlike consistency, “and it’s made with cassava flour. And this is egusi soup which is made with spinach, a variety of seasonings, and ground melon seeds. You have to eat both together. With your hand.”
“I will show you how,” Mr. Ojo says. “First, you rinse your right hand in the bowl.” He follows his own instruction. “And then you’re ready to feast.” He digs all five fingers into his mold of eba, gathers a small portion, and dips it into the bowl of soup. Once the eba is coated in the leafy, yellow broth, he throws it in his mouth and swallows. “Mmm. Delicious. Try it, Rafael.”
He appears skeptical but doesn’t hesitate. He mimics Mr. Ojo’s actions, and when the portion of eba is in his mouth, his jaw moves.
“No,” I say, holding up my hands. “Don’t chew.”
His mouth stops moving, and he stares at me with wide eyes.
“Rafael, you don’t chew eba. You swallow.”
He nods and does as I’ve instructed. “Did I do it right?”
I laugh. “Yeah. You did. Now, what do you think? Thumbs-up or thumbs-down?”
“It’s different but good. The soup . . . it’s amazing.” He continues with the process he’s been taught—dig, dip, swallow.
Halfway through dinner, as Rafael is licking his soup-coated thumb, my phone vibrates. I retrieve the buzzing device from my purse. It’s Farah calling. Shit. I’ve been on a total high since the presentation. And then there was that car ride with Rafael that further lifted my spirits, and now, I’m enjoying a meal that almost tastes as good as my mother’s recipe. So I’ll admit: this whole pregnant situation skipped my mind. Until now. The phone is still vibrating. I inhale and exhale at a steady pace and soothe myself with positive thoughts. I’m not pregnant. Everything is okay.
“Sorry.” I look at Rafael apologetically and turn to our clients. “I really have to take this.” I grab my purse, and hurry through the restaurant doors, pushing past a hyper crowd until the cool evening breeze hits my skin. “Hello?” Apprehension strains my voice, making it faint.
“Azere,” Farah says. “How are you?”
“Please no small talk. Just tell me, Farah. What’s the result?”
It’s silent for a few seconds. Has she hung up?
“Hello? Farah?”
“Azer
e. You’re pregnant.”
Rapidly, white noise pours into my ears, whooshing and swelling until I can no longer make out Farah’s voice. In fact, I can’t make out anything. Through the tears that blur my vision, only sharp smudges of streetlights and colors appear.
Why did I get my hopes up? Why was I optimistic? Why did I hope for the best? I’m so stupid. So, so stupid.
Disorder floods my mind while anxiety strains my palpitating heart. I’m losing my bearing, body swaying on the verge of hitting the ground, when arms curve around my waist and secure me in a tight, protective embrace. I sniff and take in the scent of clean air and cedarwood—sweet, fresh, earthy.
Rafael.
“Azere, what’s going on? What’s wrong?”
His inquiry provokes more tears.
“Hey. It’s okay.” His hold on me tightens, and I bury my face in his chest. “It’s okay.”
If he knew the truth, he would understand that everything is not okay. In fact, it’s far from it.
“I . . . I . . . need . . .” Stutters and whimpers compromise my speech. “Home.” That’s all I can say. “Home.”
“Okay. Of course. I’ll take you home.”
He leads me to the parking lot. The people loitering outside the restaurant are watching, but I don’t stop crying, and his arm around my waist remains fastened. At the car, he opens the passenger door and waits for me to settle into the seat.
“I’ll be right back, Azere.” He closes the door and strides off.
My phone vibrates in my hand. It’s Farah. She’s probably calling to see how I’m handling the news. Rather than answering, I send a text message, telling her I’m not ready to talk. Then I turn off my phone, close my eyes, and count backward—“one hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight”—attempting to avert focus from the disarray in my head. “Ninety-seven, ninety-six, ninety-five . . .”
* * *
* * *
THE RIDE TO MY PLACE ISN’T LIKE THE RIDE TO THE RESTAUrant. The lighthearted atmosphere is gone. He asks questions, but I don’t answer.
“Azere, what’s going on? Are you okay? Is there something I can do?”
