by Jane Igharo
“Um . . . Sunday and Osaro dancing.”
“Azere, what I see is your age-mate, Osaro. Newly wedded and closer to giving her mother grandchildren. Meanwhile—” She gestures to me. “Here you are, using all the muscles in your mouth to chop suya as if there is no tomorrow.”
The other guests at the table, who are neither family nor friends, but complete strangers, perk up suddenly. My utter embarrassment, the source of their entertainment.
“Azere, how long before you settle down? How long? Or do you want to end up like Bridget Jones—single and in your late thirties? Is that the life you want for yourself? Eh?”
To my mother, Bridget Jones’s Diary was not a romantic movie but a cautionary tale, one she often used to alert me of my fleeting youth and tragic singleness. The movie’s central message of loving yourself totally escaped her, but that wasn’t much of a surprise to me. After all, she was the same woman who believed Elle Woods’s quest to get her boyfriend back would have been successful had she gone to culinary school rather than law school.
“Anyway.” She sips from the glass she abandoned minutes ago and sighs. “Elijah told me he asked you on a date, and you said no.”
She’s right. Elijah called me last night—shortly after Rafael left. He apologized excessively for the past, and I forgave him because I was tired of being angry. Of course, he wasted no time and asked me out, and I said no. I have no interest in dating him, not with the current state of my life. It’s just unfortunate he chose to share the details of our conversation with my mother.
“Mom, does Elijah really tell you everything?”
“I call him and we gist. And so? Is there a problem?” She waits for my answer, but my lips are sealed. “The point is, you said no. As fine and successful as that boy is, you had the audacity to open your mouth and say no. Wonders shall never end o.” She chuckles, more out of mockery than amusement.
“Azere.” Her face is straight now. “Listen to me and listen well.” She holds her earlobe. “You are going on a date with Elijah. Shebi you’re hearing me? There is no power on earth that will stop you from dating that boy.”
“But, Auntie, you can’t force it.” Jacob comes to my defense. “She’ll date who she wants when she’s ready. And she doesn’t want to date Elijah, and trust me, it’s for the best.”
Jacob is protecting me from someone he once considered a friend. They grew up together—he and Elijah—learning at the same schools, attending the same church. That’s where I met him. In church. It was my first Sunday in Canada. My uncle took my family to his Pentecostal church, and there he was. Elijah. Gosh, he was beautiful. He was sixteen, and I was twelve. He had a confidence people often interpreted as arrogance. Hell, as a child, I didn’t care if he considered himself a god. I just wanted to be around him—laughing with him, living in his moments, breathing in his air. And I did all those things. As a fly on the wall.
At eighteen, after years of rubbernecking and daydreaming, he finally noticed me. He started to smile at me and talk to me and touch the new curves that shaped my body. It was a progressing romance. When Jacob discovered we were dating, he gave Elijah the if-you-hurt-her-I’ll-kill-you speech. I suppose Eli wasn’t threatened by the speech because he did hurt me. I confided in Jacob during the ordeal, and he consoled me during the many months it took to heal. He wasn’t pleased to hear Elijah was back in town, trying to spark our old flame.
“Auntie, for God’s sake please leave her alone.”
“Eh-heh. So, Jacob, you are now an enemy of progress. Shebi?”
“Auntie, of course not.”
“Then why don’t you want your cousin to get married and give me grandchildren? Is she not mature enough to have one child on her hip, another on her breast, and one in her stomach?”
Well, I’ve certainly got the latter covered.
“Auntie, all I’m trying to say is that—”
“Jacob, I doubt you have anything reasonable to say about this matter. So do me a favor and close your mouth. In fact, stuff it with food. The fuller, the better.” She eyes him, hisses, and turns to me. “Azere, you are going on that date with Elijah. Whether you want to or not is of no interest to me. Abi you understand? Eh-heh. Good. I’m glad we’ve settled it.” She stands and surveys the room. “Isn’t that Mama Bayowa I see? She hasn’t been to church for four weeks now, but here she is at a party, shaking her big yansh. If you ask her to quote one Bible verse right now, she will be stammering like a dundee. Meanwhile, she knows all the words to these secular songs. Useless woman. Anyway, let me go and greet her.” She leaves the table, smiling and dancing toward the woman she just insulted.
“Azere,” Jacob says, “I hate to say this, but your mom gives me Patience Ozokwor vibes. No offense.”
And there’s none taken because he’s right.
Patience Ozokwor is the legendary Nollywood actress who became renowned for playing the same character in multiple movies—the harsh, nagging, mean, and sometimes outright wicked mother or mother-in-law. That’s the vibe my mom occasionally gives, and while it’s easy to brush it off as a hilarious coincidence, sometimes, their similarities terrify me.
“Jacob, can we get outta here and go get some air? I need to talk to you about—”
“Whatever it is that’s bothering you?”
When I nod, he stands and pulls out my chair.
Outside, the summer sky is bright despite night’s approach. The temperature is hot, but a cool breeze breaks through the mugginess every few seconds and refreshes my dewy skin.
“So? What’s up, Zere?” Jacob folds his arms over his chest, covering the embroidery on his white kaftan. “What’s going on?”
“Well.” I perch on the hood of his Jeep, and the hem of my mermaid-style gown hovers inches from the ground. “I’m just gonna spit it out.” Because I don’t have the energy to beat around the bush. “I’m pregnant.”
There’s a hint of pink against Jacob’s caramel complexion as he frowns. “What? Azere, are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
Now, there’s a crease between his brows gathering sweat. “How the hell did this happen?”
I give him the 411 on the one-night stand turned colleague turned baby daddy, leaving out pieces of information like name and race.
“Shit,” he says when I’m done. “That’s insane.” He blows out a long, loud sigh. “You’re pregnant, Azere. Meanwhile, your mom is forcing you to go on dates. Are you going to tell her? Are you going to tell everyone else?”
“Absolutely not. I’m not telling them anything, Jacob. And neither are you.”
“And what am I supposed to do with this information?”
“Keep it,” I say. “Keep my secret. Like you always have.”
We’re silent for a long while. Jacob is clearly still processing the news.
“So,” he finally says, focusing on me again, “how far along are you?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe five weeks? Six?”
“And does this guy know you’re pregnant with his kid?”
“No. I haven’t told him because . . . well, I don’t know how he’ll handle it.”
“Is he a good guy? Does he care about you?”
As I consider the question, memories of the past few days come to mind—Rafael comforting me as I cry, covering for me with our clients, bringing dinner to my apartment. “Yeah.” I nod. “He’s a good guy. And I think he might care about me.” At the admission, I smile.
“And what about you? Do you care about him?”
This time, rather than considering the question, I dismiss it, and another long moment of silence passes between Jacob and me.
The hot air thickens, flavored by the cigarette of a man swaggering past us in an agbada and dark sunglasses.
“So,” Jacob says, “are you going to keep it?” That question adds more weight to the gravity of the
situation. “Azere, what are you going to do?”
I don’t answer.
“Let me rephrase that. What do you want to do? Forget about everyone else. Especially your mom. Zere, do you want to keep this baby? Yes or no.”
“Yes.” Tears spring to my eyes, and Jacob loops his brawny arms around me. “I want to keep it.” Since getting the news from Farah, I’ve cried and prayed and weighed the pros and cons, and this is the decision I’ve come to. “I want to keep my baby.” After making the confession, I cry and laugh against Jacob’s shoulder.
“Azere?” He pulls back, and his gaze moves across my face, examining my teary eyes and laughing lips. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I’m good.” My laughter lightens to a giggle before stopping. “I just haven’t admitted that before.”
“It’s a huge decision,” he says.
“I know. But it’s the right decision for me.” For the first time, I acknowledge the existence of my child by touching my flat stomach. My hand shakes. “I’m going to keep it, Jacob. Even if my mom hates me for getting pregnant out of wedlock.” And by a man who isn’t Nigerian.
“Zere, your mom has her moments, but she’ll love you no matter what.”
“Maybe. But she’ll never forgive me.”
My mother—in all her strength, patience, love, and devotion— gave my sister and me everything and asked only one thing in return: that eventually, we honor our culture and our family by marrying an Edo man and breeding his children. Of course, this request aligned perfectly with the promise I made to my father.
For so long, I was confident I could honor her request and my promise. After all, I took all the necessary precautions. In the ninth grade, I punched Michael Lee Wong for spontaneously kissing me on a dare. In the twelfth grade, I rejected Mario Rodríguez’s elaborate and romantic prom proposal. In university, I denied myself a date with Andrea Casta, the sexy international student with an Italian accent that made my insides twist and flutter.
Now, my many years of precautions seem in vain due to one night. The one night I released my inhibitions and forgot my home training. One night, one mistake my mother will never forgive.
“When are you going to tell the father?” Jacob asks.
“When I’m ready.”
“And what about the rest of our family? When are you going to tell them?”
“Same. When I’m ready. I’ll tell them and face their wrath and, of course, deal with my mom disowning me.”
“Don’t be theatrical. Yes, it’s going to be tough, but we’ll get through this. On the bright side, I’m going to be an uncle and a godfather.” He offers a wide grin that exposes his pointy canines. “Right?”
I smile and nod. “Yeah. Absolutely.”
When we return to the banquet hall, the music is pulsating. Guests surround the bride and groom, dancing with them and spraying money. A flurry of dollar bills soar in the air and meander, touching the celebrants before reaching the floor. The music is loud. I feel the bass inside me like a second heartbeat. “Ayo” by Simi is playing; her delicate soprano is soulful and the beat, undeniably Nigerian. The lyrics are both beautiful and uplifting, and before the dread inside me takes over, I shuffle to the dance floor, dipping low and twisting my waist. When the band takes over and the guy on the talking drum goes at it, the crowd’s energy amplifies, and Efe joins me on the floor.
For the rest of the night, I dance and laugh and force myself to ignore the pestering dread that makes me more aware of the life-changing decision I’ve just made and the grave consequences that will inevitably follow.
chapter
15
On Monday morning, after telling Christina about my decision to keep the baby, she cheered then proceeded to sing Madonna’s “Papa Don’t Preach”—a fitting song. I laughed, happy she kept things light.
I met with Farah during my lunch break, and after informing her of my decision, she gave me a detailed list of pregnancy dos and don’ts and confirmed I’m six weeks pregnant.
Now, it’s after work hours, and I’m still in the office. My fingers move fast on the keyboard. When my cell phone vibrates on the desk, I stop typing and answer it.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Azere, how are you? I hope you had a good day. The weather was so beautiful today.”
Her pleasantries are leading up to something.
“Anyway.”
It’s coming.
“I wanted to remind you about tomorrow.”
Getting closer.
“Your lunch date with Elijah.”
And there it is.
“I hope you haven’t forgotten.”
“No, Mommy. I haven’t.”
“Good. He has night shift at the hospital this week, so he can only see you during the day. I hope you don’t mind.”
I’m positive it wouldn’t make a difference if I did.
“So, what are you going to wear?” she asks. “Listen. I’m not saying dress like a harlot, but wear something that will show your figure. And tell him you are a great cook. Tell him you can make ogbono soup. It’s his favorite.”
“But, Mom, I don’t know how to make that.” It’s the one Edo dish I can’t get right.
“Then lie. Ah-ahn. Abi do you want to expose yourself and tell him all the things you cannot do?” She snorts. “Zere, in the name of the wedding I’ve already started planning, don’t go and disgrace yourself in front of that boy tomorrow o.”
“Planning? For what wedding, Mom?”
“The one that will hopefully happen next summer. If everything goes well with Elijah, you could be engaged before this year ends. By December, we can choose colors for the aṣọ ẹbí. In fact, I was thinking of purple, gold, and white for the traditional wedding and peach, gold, and burgundy for the church wedding. What do you think?”
I don’t know what to say. Do I tell her the truth and completely ruin her current high, or do I let her enjoy the fantasy of me wedding Elijah a little longer—before the revelation of my pregnancy turns everything to shit?
“I love those colors, Mom. They’ll look great.” This seems like the safest option.
“Wonderful.” Her voice is light, cheerful.
“Mommy, I have to go now, but I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Immediately after your date with Elijah. Okay?”
“Okay. Good night.”
I end the call and notice the office is empty. According to the watch on my wrist, it’s ten minutes past eight. I switch off the computer and gather my belongings. My heels clack as I move toward the elevator. I’m familiar with the distinct chime created by my cherry-red Ferragamos, but there’s another clacking that’s unrecognizable. I stop walking and listen attentively, trying to determine the origin of the sound.
My ears trace the beat and my feet follow. Past rows of desks and chairs, past the elevator and the receptionist counter, my feet continue to move until they brake at the kitchen. There, under the magnifying glow of fluorescent lights, is Rafael.
He’s tapping a spoon against a coffee mug. I suppose he believes he’s invented a dance-worthy tune because he’s swaying, tilting his head side to side and shuffling his broad shoulders. I don’t want to interrupt his jam session, but I laugh, and he spins around.
“Azere.” His eyes are wide, stunned. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to know you need to get some new moves.” I chuckle and step into the kitchen. “Is that head-shoulder thing your only move?”
“No,” he says. “Sometimes, I throw a clap or two in there.”
“Aw. A clap. Total game changer.” We both laugh this time, and as we quiet down, I say, “I thought you left a few minutes ago.”
“I just stepped out to run a quick errand. But I’ve got some work to do, so I’ll probably be in the office for a while.”
&n
bsp; “It’s getting late. Don’t you have someone to get home to? Like . . . I don’t know . . . a girlfriend?” I taste something in my tone—something bitter. Jealousy.
“I don’t have a girlfriend, Azere.”
“Oh. Okay.” I try to contain my relief, but I sigh, and it isn’t quiet.
“I have a dog,” Rafael says.
“Seriously? What kind of dog?”
“A toy fox terrier. His name’s Milo. I spent the majority of my weekend at the dog park thanks to him.” He smiles and glances over my frame—my pink lace blouse and black A-line skirt that falls on my thighs.
“How are you doing?” His wandering eyes meet mine.
“Good. Thanks again for checking on me on Friday. Even though you didn’t have to.”
“Azere, I wanted to.” He takes a step toward me. The kitchen instantly seems small. “It was really no trouble. Actually, I wanted to call you over the weekend.”
“Then why didn’t you?” I ask.
“I wasn’t sure how you would feel about it.”
“I would have liked it. A lot.” After the unexpected confession, I roll my lip between my teeth. Although embarrassed, I don’t look away. I watch him. What is he thinking? His stare is low, and his long, dark lashes are curtains, preventing me from exploring the emotions in his eyes. “Rafael?”
The mention of his name catches his attention. He looks at me and, in rapid movements, closes the gap between us.
Finally, he touches me. His fingers reach behind my neck and pull my face to his. The emotions in his eyes—desire, greed, desperation—are lucid now. I recognize them because they’re the same things I feel and have been contending with. Now, however—standing in such proximity, breathing in his air, taking in his scent, his skin pressed against mine—the urge to fight disappears.
We lean into each other, and our lips meet. I’m quick to drop the purse and coat in my hand, and he’s quick to assert control.
