Advance praise for We Were Girls Once
‘Gorgeous and ambitious. Odafen writes women the way they should be written, that is to say, ecstatically. A lovely epic about female friendship and a country finding itself’ Novuyo Rosa Tshuma, author of House of Stone
‘Odafen writes with great insight and compassion about life, sisterhood, family, community and power. Each of her characters is so fully realised, their histories so richly drawn that they feel alive. This is a superbly written novel’ Chika Unigwe, author of The Middle Daughter
‘A gorgeous story of the redemptive power of friendship. With moving and immersive prose, Odafen invites us into the lives of three friends whose lives take remarkable turns, diverge and return to each other. Deftly, gracefully, she paints a vivid and unflinching portrait of Nigerian society of the past and present, its failures and triumphs… I thoroughly felt this book’ Francesca Ekwuyasi, author of Butter Honey Pig Bread
‘We Were Girls Once is a beautiful, blazing book. The characters are complex and true, the setting vividly rendered, and the plot at once heartbreaking and mesmeric. This novel stands as proof that the political and the personal are always intertwined. Aiwanose Odafen is a master storyteller. I couldn’t put the book down, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it when I was done’ Abby Geni, author of The Lightkeepers
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For my family
For those of us
who were imprinted with fear
like a faint line in the center of our foreheads
learning to be afraid with our mother’s milk
for by this weapon
this illusion of some safety to be found
the heavy-footed hoped to silence us
For all of us
this instant and this triumph
We were never meant to survive.
A Litany for Survival AUDRE LORDE
1
EGO
The difference between a flower and a weed is a judgment.
UNKNOWN
1
Home
Sometimes it was one word, other times two. Stuttering at the corner of my brain, angling desperately to make themselves known. Whenever this happened, I was reminded of my father.
Here I was, thousands of miles away, in another country, on another continent, thirty-three years old, and still I could not break the hold he had over me, the power with which he pervaded my subconscious, controlling my actions, determining my thoughts.
In the early mornings, squashed between bodies as Londoners scuttled onto the Tube, pushing and shoving, I heard the condescending arrogance of his voice: ‘Riff raff.’ At the office, when a colleague did or said something he would consider strange or colonial: ‘White man’s rubbish.’ But as always, he was loudest in my happiest moments – when I received a promotion or a complimentary email from a superior acknowledging my tireless efforts: ‘You’re a disgrace.’ I could never escape his words or the crushing feeling of inadequacy: the reminder that I would never be good enough.
On my 30th birthday, my mother had gotten me an enormous fruit cake decorated in icing with the words, ‘Happy Birthday Ego Baby’. My colleagues, assuming it was from a boyfriend, were afraid to cut into it, unwilling to offend. Speaking to my mother later, she cackled at their assumptions, then asked me, rather directly, if I had received anything from a romantic interest, until my stepfather shouted, ‘Obianuju, leave her alone,’ before taking the phone to wish me a happy birthday as well. My mother giggled in the background, a girlish sound that made me long for what they had.
Messages flooded my Facebook profile, strangers and friends – Zina posted three times and Eriife twice, because that was what best friends did – welcoming me to this great new age that solidified my spinsterhood. I went through the messages one after the other, liking and commenting, even the random ‘HBD’s from people who couldn’t be bothered to type in full. I kept it open as I worked, watching my notifications, waiting for his name to pop up. At midnight, wine drunk and forlorn, I stumbled onto his page to see he’d posted hours earlier – a newspaper article announcing a new business venture, a quote by the state governor embedded in it. As always, my grandmother – my mother’s mother – was in the comments: ‘Congratulations, my son.’ For minutes, my finger hovered over the block button, willing myself to end the torment, then I slammed my laptop shut, disgusted at my cowardice.
He’d been the one to add me on Facebook, a year after I moved to London, still struggling with the city’s pace, the aloofness of its habitants. I’d stared at the invite on my phone, confirming that it was indeed my father, then left it unanswered for weeks, relishing the power to deny him something. Eventually, defeated by the uselessness of it, I clicked ‘Accept’.
As with everything else, my father used Facebook for his own aggrandisation: to announce a new government appointment, a new business venture, a new family. I became careful with my posts. Did he see them? Were they impressive enough? Did I give too much away? Were my words crafted appropriately?
Frustrated by my self-consciousness, I gave up on the platform altogether, long before privacy concerns began to surface in the news.
‘What time is it?’ Anna, a director at the law firm, asked, standing in front of my desk. The tightness of her bun made her blotchy face appear even sterner than usual.
I minimised the brief to counsel I was reviewing, then looked up, smiled politely and said, ‘One o’clock.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, then walked away, her heels clicking on the tiles.
Beside me, Ceri giggled, and when Anna was far enough, she leaned in to whisper, ‘Why does she keep doing that?’
