But Zina refused to let things calcify between us as they had with our mothers. Barely a week later she was at our door with a bowl of the spicy rice I liked – we called it Mallam Rice after the smiling Hausa man who sold it – and Craig David’s latest album wrapped in film.
It would never occur to me to tell her that the reason her words had struck so hard was my awareness that my father wasn’t ignoring my existence; he just hadn’t found a use for me yet.
Elections that year were violent, but then again, they always were: riots, killings, sudden disappearances were the norm, rather than the exception. My mother insisted on going out to vote, even when Akin advised against it. Her chosen candidates for president and governorship did not win, and for weeks afterwards she lamented how the masses never voted for the best people to take the country forward.
Eriife’s boyfriend’s party secured a second term for the Lagos state governorship and a state dinner was held to celebrate. Eriife obtained an invite for us – cursive letters underneath the state coat of arms, embossed in gold on hard cream cardboard paper, delivered in an embellished white envelope.
My mother considered it an affront: ‘Is this her way of rubbing it in that they won? A party of thieves.’
I chuckled. ‘Mummy, I doubt she knows who your preferred candidate was.’
‘Hmm,’ my mother grunted. ‘Her boyfriend better become president one day the way she’s running around, carrying him on her head.’
The state dinner fell on my mother’s birthday and Akin informed us that he was throwing her a surprise party, not that she could have attended the dinner anyway – my father was usually front and centre at such events.
Akin took my mother shopping to get her out of the house so we could hang the balloons and lights in her absence. We chattered while we worked, pinching pieces of beef and chicken from the feast the caterer had brought over.
‘Stop chewing and keep hanging. We don’t have much time left,’ Emeka instructed from his position atop a ladder, like an overseer on a farm.
‘Yes, sir,’ Nkechi responded with a mock salute.
‘These service people have taught you how to be bossy ehn,’ I said. ‘Oya come and help me blow this balloon. I have meat in my mouth.’
The shoes were how I discovered that Nwamaka had been in communication with my father: brand new Steve Madden slinky platform mules hidden at the back of her closet, where I was searching for a duster. It all fell into place: how my father had known our new address, why police had come to harass my mother in Akin’s absence, and why my father had accused my mother of adultery in court.
Picking up a mule, I called for Nwamaka.
She came running, her smile wide and unaware. ‘Yes? Did you find it?’
I raised the shoe and watched her smile disappear.
‘Since when has this been going on?’ I asked.
It was the ultimate betrayal. Our mother had sold every valuable she owned to afford my sisters’ fees, taking on side jobs and investment schemes, vehemently rejecting Akin’s offer to help. ‘They are my children, I can do this,’ I’d heard her insist, the only time I’d ever heard them argue. Their love was one in sync, making up for time lost. But that day my mother had insisted, and Akin had given in, even though he’d argued – quite reasonably – that he earned in foreign currency. He held a position as a professor at a university in the United States, having migrated not long after my parents married.
‘Yes? I’m listening. And don’t even bother lying,’ I said to my sister.
‘It–it’s not as bad as you th–think.’
‘How bad do you think I think it is? How are you any different from Judas Iscariot?’
‘You’ve already concluded without giving me a chance to explain! He came to my school, okay? He said he would make things easier for us and that he’s sorry, he wants to be a good father. He’s willing to do better if Mummy gives him a chance.’
‘And you believed him? After all this time?’
‘Are you not tired?!’ she demanded. ‘Of living like this? Have you forgotten how it was before? How we lived? The kind of things we had? Mummy wouldn’t even collect money from Uncle Akin, and Aunty Sally has to go behind her back to do anything for us. I’m tired of feeling like a pauper, of watching my classmates throw things that my father can afford in my face. He said he’s sorry, what more do you want? He even asked me to bring you next time I’m coming to see him.’
‘God forbid!’
‘He’s still our father whether we like it or not.’
I raised the braids by the side of my head and pointed at the scar etched in skin. ‘Maybe you’ve forgotten but I cannot forget. I don’t have that luxury.’
We pretended all was well when my mother returned, beaming as she unwrapped the brand-new Nokia 2100 Akin had purchased as an additional surprise.
‘Isn’t it too much?’ she said, laughing as she encircled her arms around him.
Nwamaka’s eyes held mine, saying our father could afford even more.
Aunty Sally coordinated the cake-cutting countdown and Sister Bolatito led the closing prayers.
Zina had a gift for my mother too. ‘Happy birthday, ma,’ she said as she handed a wrapped package to my mother.
‘You knew about this too?! Thank you, my daughter. Come, come and take a picture with me. I must remember this day,’ my mother said, dragging her to go find Mr Silas who we’d booked for the event.
Months later, our mothers would barely glance at each other at our graduation.
14
America
Things with Rodney ended before they’d even started, and I thought to myself afterwards that there’d been nothing to end.
‘Nwakaego, what are you doing?’ Zina said with a deep drawn-out sigh, not really expecting an answer.
‘He just wasn’t for me,’ I told her.
Rodney had returned from Bristol in early December avidly expectant. We’d been talking for over a month and things had been progressing smoothly. He was, I felt, the universe’s attempt at making a mockery of my excuses for remaining encumbered by the past – I’d wanted perfection and it had sent it my way and yet I was dissatisfied.