Ties That Tether

by Jane Igharo

  “My family is currently in Europe, sir.”

  “I expect to meet them when they return.”

  “Yes. Of course. Absolutely.”

  “All right.” My uncle traces the goatee that frames his lips. “Now, as we all know, Azere is pregnant. How does this news strike you, Rafael? What has been your reaction?”

  “It was a shock. It was a complete shock. But . . . um . . .”

  “But what?” Tonight, my uncle has no patience, and I’m sure that’s partially due to my mother. “Listen, Rafael. These children, Azere and Efe, are not my nieces. They are my daughters. Their father left them in my care, and they are my responsibility. I will do anything for them. I will die for them. And please believe I will kill for them.”

  Where the hell did that come from? My uncle isn’t a violent person. Though, he has been giving Rafael a look that’s contrary to his nature. Must be an intimidation tactic.

  “So, Rafael,” he continues, “when I ask you a question concerning my daughter, be blunt with me.” His voice is harsh as he demands clarification. “What exactly do you want? Make your intentions transparent to me and my family.”

  Efe and Jacob enter the dining room and take their seats.

  “Well.” Rafael’s eyes move around the table, meeting my mother’s eyes and Jacob’s and Efe’s and, finally, my uncle’s. “I care about Azere very much, sir.” He squeezes my hand. “She’s brilliant, passionate, stubborn, gentle, kind. I could tell you all the reasons why I adore her, but I guarantee you, we’d be here all night.

  “Yes, this pregnancy was a complete surprise, but I want it. I want our child. I want to be with Azere. We didn’t plan for this, but we can’t plan every aspect of our lives. Can we? We just have to deal with the unexpected and hope for the best.”

  “And this, her pregnancy, is your definition of the best?”

  Rafael turns to me. “I know it might not seem like it right now, considering the circumstances. But one day, this child will be a source of joy rather than a source of concern and anger and frustration.”

  I can’t wait for that day.

  “Damn,” Efe says, sniffing. “That was so sweet.” She wipes her wet cheeks and snorts.

  Jacob brings his arm around her shoulders and comforts her.

  “I’m sorry.” She cries into his shirt. “Carry on, Rafael. Keep on talking.”

  “Yes, o. Keep on talking. Carry on with this stupidity,” my mother snaps. She hasn’t spoken in a while. I thought, maybe, she was listening to Rafael and reconsidering her stance. No such luck. “I, for one, will not take part in this rubbish.” She stands and marches out of the dining room.

  “Mom.” I try to go after her, but Rafael holds my wrist. “I have to talk to her.”

  “I’ll come with you,” he says, standing. “We’ll do it together.”

  “No. Stay.” I push his shoulder down, forcing him to sit back down. “I have to do this alone. But I’ll be okay, Rafael. Promise.”

  Gradually, his hold slacks. “Okay.”

  “You two.” I look at Efe and Jacob. “Be nice to him.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me,” my sister says. “He’s already won me over. Now, go.” She flicks her hand, shooing me away. “Talk to Mom. I’m sure she’s got lots to say.”

  That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.

  chapter

  25

  In the kitchen, my mom stares through the window. The ocher shades of dusk bleed through the blinds, painting the white tiles with an orangey glow.

  “Mom.”

  She says nothing. Seconds pass, and she doesn’t respond or turn to me.

  “Mommy.” I run a hand over the granite countertop; the cold surface sends a shiver through me. “Please look at me. Lahọ.”

  “When your uncle said he would bring us to Canada, your father was happy. He could die peacefully, knowing we would be taken care of. But even so, he was scared.” Finally, she turns around. “Your father was an intelligent man. He knew Canada was a world apart from ours. He was scared you and your sister would become so integrated in its ways, you would forget our ways.

  “He was scared our culture and heritage would become diluted and you would lose yourself. And maybe in a sense, lose him. That was why he asked you to make that promise. A promise you have broken.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom.” Guilt weighs my eyes down. “I’m so sorry.”

  For a long while, it’s silent. My mother paces around the kitchen then stops abruptly. “Do you want to be with him?” she asks. “Do you want to be with Rafael?”

  I’m afraid to answer.

  “Azere, do you want to be with him? Speak.”

  “Yes,” I whisper. “I do.”

  “Nawa o.” She shakes her head. “At least Efe has the good sense to date a man who is Edo.”

  She’s referring to Mike, my sister’s best friend who also doubles as a mock boyfriend. I won’t expose Efe’s ruse. I’ll just endure my mother’s rebuke.

  “Meanwhile, you want to be with an oyinbo.” She clenches her jaw, her features hardening. “Azere, you are slowly losing yourself in this country—forgetting your culture. It’s a huge shame.”

  “But Mom, do you think it was easy to move here—to fit in without losing some aspect of our culture?”

  “Azere, please. Just stop all that nonsense.” She flicks her eyes over my frame—up and down—then hisses. “Are you the only person who immigrated to this country? Didn’t I also come? Didn’t I also go to school here? Didn’t I also build a career and a life here?”

  “It isn’t the same thing, Mom. You were older. You went to an adult learning center where most of the students were just like you—Nigerian immigrants. When you went to university, most of those people were with you—in the same program.” She was constantly surrounded by people who shared the same experiences as her. I didn’t have that. “Mom, it was far more difficult for me.”

  “Azere, I am not blind. I know the culture here is different, but you accept that challenge and remember who you are, where you come from. It is very possible to do just that. So, please. For God’s sake, don’t tell me all that rubbish. I don’t want to hear it.”

  She never did understand or care to understand what it was like for Efe and me to move to Canada. Efe was ten. I was twelve. In Nigeria, I had already established a clear understanding of who I was. There was never any question or doubt until I moved to Canada.

  When I first entered my sixth-grade class, at a school where the majority were Caucasians, the difference between myself and my peers became apparent. There was a clear definition of normal, and I didn’t fit it. The kids wore T-shirts, jeans, and sneakers. I wore my favorite dashiki dress and brown strappy sandals. The kids spoke fast; their Canadian accent and slang made me feel inferior. At lunch, they ate sandwiches cut in neat triangles. My lunch of yam pottage made eyebrows raise and noses scrunch. The kids were cruel. And the only way to stop their cruelty was to conform. It was a survival mechanism—alter the way I speak, so I don’t stand out; ask for a turkey sandwich for lunch, so the smell of Nigerian food doesn’t attract attention and notify people of my difference; wear Levi’s jeans and an American Apparel T-shirt, so I fit in with the group of girls who are finally starting to like me.

  My mother didn’t understand the struggle of trying to reconcile my heritage with my new environment at such a young age. She didn’t understand I had to survive middle school and high school, not as a Nigerian but as a Canadian. To her, I compromised and lost parts of my identity. To myself, I made room in my life for two distinct worlds. I redefined myself—created a new identity. And my mother resents me for that.

  “Azere, you came to this country a Nigerian. Thirteen years later, you are barely that. What do you think will happen when you date or even marry a man who isn’t Nigerian? Will you lose more of your cult
ure? Will you still know who you are, where you come from?”

  I don’t speak because I don’t know the answer. What will happen if I date a man who isn’t Nigerian? I ponder, and silence hangs in the tense atmosphere.

  “Azere, you can’t be with him. You cannot be with that man.”

  “Mom, Rafael is a good man.”

  “Elijah is better. And he cares about you. Despite the news of your pregnancy, he still wants to be with you. He told me so yesterday.”

  “Wait. What?” I’m trying to make sense of her words. “Elijah . . .”

  “Still wants to be with you, Azere. So, end things with Rafael.”

  “I’m pregnant with his child, Mom.”

  “And so? We’ll tell everyone the baby is Elijah’s. Hopefully, it won’t be too fair. But if it is, we’ll say we have a half-caste in our family and the child took its likeness.”

  It’s a disgusting, deceitful scheme, and I consider agreeing to it just to please her. I would do anything to please her. I would do anything, anything but this.

  “No.” I shake my head vigorously. “No, Mom,” I say it firmly. “That’s insane. I’m not doing it.”

  “Azere, think about this carefully. Consider it.”

  “There’s nothing to consider. I’m going to be with Rafael, and we’re going to raise our child. Together.”

  “Azere—”

  “Mommy, I care about him. And I swear, I didn’t mean to. It just happened. And if I could, I would get rid of those feelings.” I would pluck them out of my system like splinters from my skin. “But I can’t. And I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you. Mommy, I am so sorry. But I’ve made my decision. And it’s Rafael. I choose him.”

  “You choose him.” She lifts her chin and looks down at me. The disdain in her dark eyes is so vile, she almost doesn’t look like my mother. “You imagine a future with him. Okay. Fine. But ask yourself this: How much more of yourself, of your culture will you lose to accommodate him in your life?”

  The question has more weight than I expect; it sinks deep into my mind like a rock sinks into water.

  How much more of yourself, of your culture will you lose to accommodate him in your life?

  “Answer, Azere.”

  “I . . . I . . . gotta go.” I attempt to march off, but she snatches my arm.

  “Azere, I will only say this once. If you don’t do as I have asked, I am no longer your mother. And you are not my daughter. Do you understand?”

  “Mommy, please. Please. Don’t do this. I’m pregnant. With your grandchild. I need you—more than ever.”

  “If you are with that man, then I cannot have anything to do with you. I cannot be your mother, Azere. I won’t.”

  I knew it would eventually come to this—to her disowning me. But I still wasn’t prepared for the gut-wrenching feeling.

  I’m doing the right thing. I must believe that even though I’ll no longer have a mother who claims me as hers. I’ll no longer have a mom. That truth hits me hard, and tears gather at the rims of my eyes. I’m doing the right thing. “Okay.” I blink back the tears and nod. “Fine. If that’s what you want, then . . . then okay.”

  Slowly, she releases her grip. I walk ahead, toward the kitchen door, but something stops me. Maybe it’s the rebellion that caused me to reject my mother’s request or maybe it’s the anger and bitterness of hearing her deceitful scheme. Maybe it’s a combination of all three elements—rebellion, anger, bitterness— twisting inside of me like a slowly ascending tornado. Whatever it is, it makes me spin around and glare at her.

  “By the way, Elijah, the good Christian man you want me to marry, took my virginity at church camp.”

  Her eyes bulge and her jaw drops. The exact reaction I was hoping for.

  “Yep. We had sex in a tent in the woods. It’s ironic because it was right after your session on abstinence.”

  My mother’s face morphs into a combination of rage and disbelief. I expect her to say something, but she doesn’t. She’s speechless.

  But I’m glad that for once, I wasn’t.

  chapter

  26

  At home, I soak in the bath Rafael prepared for me. I’m not sure what possessed him to fill the freestanding tub with warm water, bath oils, and a lavender-scented bubble bath. As I sat on the couch, staring into space and recalling the conversation with my mom, he was doing this. He knew exactly what I needed, and I didn’t have to ask.

  “How are you doing?” he says, poking his head through the door.

  “Good.”

  “Are you sure?” He steps into the bathroom. “Do you need anything?”

  “No. This is perfect.” I especially like the mountain of bubbles that puff above water level and stop at my shoulders. “Thank you.” I want to show gratitude by smiling, but my lips are fixed in a firm line.

  “Do you want to tell me what happened with your mom?” He walks to the tub and hovers over me. During the ride home, he didn’t ask what had happened, clearly understanding I wasn’t ready to talk. Now though, his curiosity is at its peak. He bends down, kneeling on the checkered tiles so his eyes are level with mine. “You can tell me, Azere.”

  But I can’t, because I am ashamed of my mother, ashamed of the things she said. I can never repeat them to him. I’ll offer another explanation—one that’s the truth but not so harsh on the ears.

  “Rafael, it’s just that she wants me to be with a Nigerian man—marry him, have his children.”

  “And that’s why I’m a complication. Isn’t it? That’s the reason you fought being with me. Because I’m not Nigerian.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Your mom wants you to be with a Nigerian man. Like Elijah.”

  I nod.

  “Yesterday, I saw the way he looked at you.”

  “There’s nothing between Elijah and me—not anymore. I promise.” My hand emerges from the water, breaking through the mold of foam. “You have nothing to worry about, Rafael.” I take his hand and bring it to my lips. Gently, I plant kisses on his palm. “I want to be with you.”

  He’s relieved by my admission. His crinkled brows lose their stiffness, and his breath relaxes.

  “Rafael.” I clear my throat, making way for the awkward question I’m about to ask. “Have you ever dated a black girl?”

  “Yeah. I have.”

  “And your parents, your family were okay with it?”

  “Yeah. Of course. As long as I’m happy, they are too.”

  It’s unfortunate my mother doesn’t share a similar notion.

  We’re quiet for a while. When the tension elevates, I reach for the buttons on his shirt and undo them. “Get in,” I say.

  “Sorry to disappoint.” He smiles faintly. “But I won’t fit.”

  “Oh.” I examine the length of the tub. He’s right. The ceramic basin won’t contain his tall stature.

  I sulk until an abrupt series of bangs at the front door reminds me of the takeout Rafael ordered an hour ago. Considering dinner was opted out of tonight’s gathering, I’m starving.

  “I’ll get the door.” He presses his lips to mine, a brief kiss before standing. “You get dressed.” He grabs a towel off the rack, hands it to me, then leaves the bathroom.

  On the couch, after eating three slices of pizza and a Caesar salad, my head falls on Rafael’s lap. It’s a few minutes short of midnight, a few minutes short of the end of May and the start of a new month. I’m drained, but something keeps me from sleeping—curiosity, the need to know more about the father of my unborn child, the man who I chose over my mother and father.

  “Rafael.” I’m drowsy, barely holding on to consciousness. “What kind of movies do you like? Please don’t say”—a yawn cuts off my sentence—“sci-fi.”

  “No, I don’t like sci-fi.”

  Thank God. “What’s your favo
rite movie?”

  “You’re tired, Azere. Get some rest. You can ask me all the questions you want later.”

  “Okay.”

  I doze off quickly and settle deep in my subconscious. I dream about everything—dying fathers and wailing mothers, wedding bells and screaming babies, snow and blood, red sand and cinders, love and regret. It’s not a peaceful sleep, as my fears and desires manifest as one twisted, bittersweet dream. When my eyes open and his signature scent fills my nose, I’m grateful for where I am and who I’m with.

  “Rafael, will you stay the night?”

  “Yeah. Of course.”

  “Wait.” My head snaps up. “What about Milo?”

  “He’s with Jenny, the dog walker and sometimes sitter. I wasn’t sure how today would play out, so I made arrangements in case you needed me.”

  “That was really sweet of you.” I throw my arms around his neck, locking him in a tight embrace. “Thank you.” I pull back and watch him, study his eyes. “You’re a good man, Rafael.” A smile ticks at the corners of my lips, but the thought of my mother stops it from spreading. “I wish my mom could see that. I wish she would give you a chance.”

  “Give her time, Zere. She’ll come around.”

  I highly doubt it. Tonight, I went against my mother’s command. It almost felt like going against my nature. I suppose it would after so many years of being compliant.

  In Nigeria, my sister and I were raised to obey our elders. While Efe rebelled, I stayed in line. I tried to set the example. I tried to make our parents proud by any means. I was the obedient daughter when my father asked me to make a promise I didn’t quite understand. I was the obedient daughter when my mother perpetuated that promise and forced me into multiple unsuitable relationships.

  In the movie Ella Enchanted, Ella’s fairy godmother bestows upon her the gift of obedience. But the gift is more like a curse, especially when Ella is ordered to kill the man she loves. Faced with such a dilemma, Ella finds the strength to free herself from the curse and to be disobedient for the first time in her life. As a result, she saves herself, saves the man she loves, and secures her happily ever after.