“You don’t have to go,” he said again, the same way.
Aima knew she should ignore him, but to her regret, she was still soft. “What do you want me to do? Stay here? And do what?”
“What we’ve been doing,” he answered. She knew he meant loving each other, but they’d already been over this.
“Wasting time? Living in sin?”
He flinched. “Please don’t start that again; it’s not true. We’re not wasting time, and you didn’t care about this living in sin nonsense until we came home.”
Aima wiped a thin film of sweat from her forehead and sighed. It was humid beyond belief; New Lagos was in the middle of the rainy season. Of course Kalu didn’t care. He was the man—he would get congratulated for getting her to live with and fuck him without having to marry her. She was the one considered to be a whore, a slut, a loose girl, easy, no morals. He didn’t care that she’d woken up one morning and seen the sunlight break through the glass and something about the New Lagos dawn had woken God up in her heart. She had tried explaining it so many times, but he was hung up on the woman she used to be, and she was disappointed in the man he still was.
“I don’t have energy for this, Kalu. Not again.”
They’d been arguing for months and it was tiring, so tiring to fight for what was supposed to be love, allegedly love. It didn’t feel like love anymore. Their relationship felt distorted, a mask of dissatisfaction or apathy that had fallen into the skin underneath, cannibalized it. Whatever it had been, if it had been love, that thing was gone, dead. Aima wrapped her hand around the handle of her suitcase and swiveled it to start entering the airport. If she didn’t move, Kalu was just going to stand there and continue being the coward he’d recently decided to be. Before she could walk away, though, he came in for a hug.
“You can’t just go like that, without saying goodbye.”
Aima made a face and reached around him with one arm, going for a pat on his left shoulder, but Kalu wrapped her up as if nothing had changed for them. His palm was wide and gentle at the back of her head, and he buried his face in her neck, muffling his voice. “Please,” he whispered. “I love you so much, baby.”
Aima felt tears start up and it made her angry. He smelled like home. He smelled like a hundred sleepy mornings together, and it wasn’t fair. As if she didn’t love him. As if any of this was happening because they didn’t love each other. He smelled like light, clean and bright and tearing through her. Aima squeezed her eyes tightly, refusing to cry in front of all these people.
“Love isn’t enough, and you know it,” she snapped, pulling herself away.
Her wheels clattered against the cement, and she didn’t look back as she dragged her suitcase past the men at the door, ignoring their voices as they tried to get her attention. Once inside, she put her suitcase on the conveyor belt, through the X-ray machine; then she collected it from the other side and stood in the crush of people.
What was she supposed to do now? The counter for British Airways already had a long queue of people waiting to check in, heaping their bags on the scale and arguing with the airline employees about weight restrictions. Aima stood motionless and considered. She could get to the lounge, put her earphones back on, and listen to some music, pretend that none of this was actually happening. In three hours, she would be airborne and out of this damn place. The night would carry her away, and before sunrise, she would be in London.
Her phone buzzed and she glanced at the screen. Kalu. I love you so much. I am so sorry. Have a safe flight.
Aima wasn’t sure why that pissed her off all over again. It should be fine that he gave up. It showed who he really was, and besides, she wanted him to give up, didn’t she? If she was leaving, didn’t that mean she wanted to be let go of? Her jaw clenched with a surge of rage. No, Kalu shouldn’t have caved. She wasn’t sure what he should have done other than be a different person who wanted something different, or wasn’t afraid, or whatever, but he had definitely done the wrong thing. Aima shoved her phone into her handbag and turned left, walking to the Airtel booth, temper steaming off her. People stepped out of her way with curious glances at the set of her face. She recharged her phone credit, bought a new data plan, and went down to Arrivals, leaning her suitcase against her thigh to carry it down the stairs. Standing outside a snack stall, she took her phone back out and called Ijendu.
“Bebi gehl.” Ijendu’s voice sang over the line. “How far? Have you checked in yet?”
“Ije, I have a favor to ask, biko.”
“No problem. What do you need?”
Aima hesitated, then jumped. “I don’t want to take this flight. Is it all right if I come and stay with you? Just for a little bit?”
Ijendu whooped in her ear. “Ahn, of course, bebi! My house is your house. You don’t even have to ask. So, you and Kalu are working it out, abi? I knew it. It’s not possible to just have everything end like that, not for the two of you.”
The rage hammered under her molars. “No, we’re not working anything out. Unless he proposes, I’m not interested in whatever he has to say.”
“Ah-ahn now. It’s not by force, Aima. Let him propose on his own time. Men don’t like it when you pressure them like that.”
“I don’t care what he likes. That’s his own problem.”
Ijendu tsked in her ear. “Babe, this your vex is much. The man loves you.”
“Ije, please—”
“Okay, okay, sorry. Go and find your taxi. I’ll be at the house.”
Aima hung up and called an Uber. Eleven minutes. She sighed and sat down on her suitcase, trying not to put too much of her weight on it, hovering on the edge. She was good at that, trying not to put too much pressure on things, trying to fit into slivers of space, press herself against the edges so she wouldn’t bother anyone. It was probably why Kalu was so shocked when she stopped doing it, when she looked around and thought—Wait, I’m not happy like this. When she’d told him what would make her happy, he’d acted like she’d asked him to kill his own mother. Maybe he’d thought she would go back to the edges and give him back the space to do whatever he wanted on his own time, but that’s the problem with pressing yourself down too much, folding and folding when you’re not really made of a material that’s suitable for those kinds of creases. At some point, you just spring back up when you can’t take another bending, not a single pleat more. And upon that, you spring back with force, and your momentum can be quite upsetting to people who didn’t expect you to claim your space.
Aima had thought about folding back, of course; she knew how much easier everything would be if she just agreed with Kalu that, yes, there was no rush to get married and they didn’t have to do things on the time line of anyone else; except that she wasn’t anyone else. She mattered in this, and he’d acted like she didn’t even have the common sense to think or decide or want things for herself, like she was just giving him an ultimatum because everyone else said it was somehow for them not to even be engaged yet. Something about that, how pliable he thought she was, had annoyed her to the point where she couldn’t give way, not this time. And so here she was, suitcase packed and Kalu driving away after four whole years. Amazing.
Her phone rang and she picked it up, coordinating with the driver, who pulled up in a small but clean blue car. He made to get out of the driver’s seat, but Aima waved him off and put her suitcase in the back seat herself, climbing in next to it.
“Mbano Estate?” the driver asked.
“Yes, thank you.” Aima slid her earphones back into her ears and rested her forehead on the glass of the window again, watching the city reverse the way it had come less than an hour before. It was a thick city, especially in the lowland—brash and pungent, a hammering of colors and people. She tried not to focus on the burning sorrow in her chest, the despair that wouldn’t even allow her to pray. She’d prayed before, for a love that would never leave her lonely. She’d gotten it in Kalu; she’d been safe in it for years, allowed herself to feel safe only for it all to be stripped away in the end. What kind of an answer to a prayer was that?
They were supposed to be together until old age claimed them. They’d both talked about forever, built a home together, made plans, and foolishly, she’d thought it was enough. Maybe this was all a lesson, that because she hadn’t formalized it in God’s house, that’s why she wasn’t getting her happy ending? Maybe she had been rash, careless to think that she didn’t have to do things the right way. Maybe she should have known that if he didn’t love God the way she did, then he couldn’t have been the real answer to her prayers. This could have all been a false faith, and now her eyes were being torn open. If there was gratitude to give God for that clarity, that release from a lie, Aima couldn’t quite find it in her to send it up. Right now, she didn’t want to talk to God. All she had was a plate full of bitter silence.
There was no traffic in their direction, so the Uber reached Ijendu’s house quickly, not even thirty minutes through the twisting roads that took them into the highland. Aima thanked the driver and unloaded without waiting for Ijendu’s gateman to open the gate. As the car drove away, the gateman came out of the pedestrian door, the collar of his uniform stained with sweat.
“Ah, Aunty, it’s you. Nnọọ.”
He took the suitcase from her and she allowed it, following him into the compound. There were orange and lemon trees lining the walls, heavy with green fruit. Ijendu’s mother was growing grapefruits and pomelos in the backyard—the woman could chatter on for hours about grafting and finger limes if you let her. The air was sweet from all the citrus, and Aima walked slowly to the back door, listening to the evening birds and the lack of the rest of the city.
Ijendu was in the kitchen with pink glasses perched on her nose, her long legs bare and brown under a pair of sleep shorts. She could’ve been a model if her parents had allowed it; she had the graceful limbs, the soaring neck, and a sculpted face that was almost painful to look at, she was so striking. Ever since they were girls together, Aima had always thought Ijendu looked a little inhuman in that high-fashion way. She was pulling a plate of jollof rice out of the microwave when Aima entered.
“Ah, perfect,” Ijendu said. “I just finished warming your own.” She handed Aima the plate and grabbed a jug of water, gesturing to the dining room with her head. “Bịa, ka anyị rie.”
The room was decorated in typical rich Igbo ornateness—scalloped edges to the furniture, marble and gold, tufted and buttoned crimson upholstery. Two place settings had been laid out and Ijendu put Aima’s plate down on one of them.
“I had them fry some fish for you instead of chicken,” she said. She was keeping her voice light, but her eyes were soft and sympathetic.
