‘It’s a waste of time anyways, might as well have fun,’ she said. We exchanged a look.
‘Have you met him yet?’ I asked, referring to the man she was to marry the moment she turned eighteen.
‘Not yet, but soon.’ She looked away, and I could feel the helplessness rolling off her.
‘I don’t understand your father. Why is he doing this? Who even does this in this day and age?’ I said, voicing our shared frustration.
Zina shrugged, feigning nonchalance. ‘It’s a family tradition. It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘It’s not like talking about it will change anything.’
‘And your mother? What is she saying?’
She shrugged again as a corner of her mouth turned up. ‘Well, let’s just hope he’s young and not some old man.’
8
Patriotism
Patriotism in London in 2014 meant attending boozy parties where the latest Nigerian releases were blasted from outsized speakers and posting a green-white-green flag with the caption ‘Naija for life’ on the first day of October. On Independence Day that year, I tweeted:
Someone replied:
It was the beauty of the London scene – the blend of cultures and, for many, a shared history of colonisation and migration. At the Notting Hill Carnival, flags were waved and worn as clothing, music – from the townships of Jamaica to the streets of Lagos – blasted on speakers as we swallowed Trinidadian roti and Guyanese pepperpot. On Twitter, we fought faux diaspora wars for supremacy and threw accusations of appropriation and influence, but in reality, and in truth, we were one – pledging allegiance to a country that had become our home.
Patriotism, to my great uncle in the ’60s, had meant running off to join a new army to fight for the country he dreamt of and debated about daily with my grandfather. To my mother, in February of 1999, patriotism meant voting in the upcoming presidential election, the first since the ’93 military coup. I was to turn 18 that year – not before the elections, but still – and I shared my mother’s excitement. When the campaign jingles came on the television, I called for her to come watch. I visited home more often now.
The ghost of Uncle Ikenna’s allegiance came calling a few weeks before voting day – someone finally had conclusive information on his whereabouts during the war following years of stony silence. My mother packed her bags in a barely suppressed frenzy, having applied for leave at her new job as a clerk at a government parastatal. By then I’d long resumed classes, immersing myself in the usual routines.
I had returned to school four months after the incident to find I’d lost my class representative position; the class had voted in my absence, not for a temporary but a permanent replacement. The doctors said I’d done well to recover so quickly but it felt anything but well to return to classes and struggle to recall names, places, dates, to fall into an occasional stammer when called upon to speak, to spend extra hours poring over notes, pleading with the letters to stick. Lecturers were willing to make concessions but only so much, and by the middle of the semester, I was sure I was bound to fail.
‘I swear I’m doing my best,’ I tearfully admitted to Zina when a test result came back. I’d been brilliant all my life, and having my nimble brain so viciously snatched from me, I had no idea who I was anymore.
‘It will get better as you heal,’ the therapist told me. ‘Keep doing your exercises.’
My father began to wage a different kind of war when my mother did not return to him even after her stint in a police cell. The gossip magazine covers were melodramatic with jagged lines running through glossy pictures of my parents, the stories salacious and outrightly defamatory. I read the details from the faces of others, the remorseful manner in which they rushed to tuck the pages in their bags and pockets when I was near, as though in possession of an illegal substance.
‘Have you read this?’ Zina asked, slapping one of the magazines on my bed one evening.
‘No, I haven’t,’ I replied calmly, continuing to iron the dress in front of me.
‘Why?’ she asked. I could hear the incredulity in her voice.
‘Because I don’t want to know. What’s the point?’
She threw up her hands, her consternation apparent. ‘You could at least try to know why everyone keeps talking every time you pass by.’
‘They’ve been talking about me for almost a year now.’
Zina sighed as she balanced on my bed, just beside the smoking iron.
‘Don’t burn yourself o, biko,’ I shouted, snatching the iron and placing it on the other end of the bed.
‘I’ve read it, do you want me to tell you what’s in there? It’s really bad.’
‘No.’ It couldn’t be worse than any of the usual slander men adopted when women left them: accusations of infidelity and poor parenting.
Zina rolled her eyes. ‘What are you even ironing for God’s sake? It’s Friday evening.’
‘I know.’
‘And? Where are you going?’
‘To the party,’ I said with a triumphant smile and Zina stared, stunned.
Someone popular was throwing a party; I wasn’t sure who, but the fliers had been lying around the porter’s desk as I’d passed, the red letters asking to be picked up. And as I stared at the gratuitous promises of fun and good music, I decided I was going to attend. Perhaps doing something out of character would help me find myself again.
Ceri was throwing Iain a birthday party, their first as a married couple.
‘I hope it’s not one of those parties you people have in this country that’s just alcohol and chatting,’ I joked as she handed me the invite. Going to my first party as a student in England, I’d been flummoxed to find people standing and drinking as house music played in the background. I’d thought in horror: No food? Not even fried meat or puff puff?
I wore my most comfortable slacks and a fitted turtleneck sweater I thought flattered my figure. They lived in a redbrick house in a quiet neighbourhood just outside London with a sizeable garden – a home for a couple hoping to have a family someday, unlike my cold urban flat.
The aroma of cooking wafted through the air as Ceri led me down the hall, walls decorated with family pictures, towards the noise of the garden.
‘Where’s the birthday boy?’ I asked, infusing as much cheer as I could into my voice.
