But Eriife assured me that it wasn’t like previous times. Rising insecurity in northern states and numerous accounts of corruption amidst rampant and abject poverty had unsettled the people, made them hungry for different. Campaigns were in full swing and camps of the two main political parties formed hard lines. Then the parties declared their candidates.
‘I thought you said people wanted change?’ I asked Eriife. ‘How can your party declare a former military dictator as a candidate, the same man that put my father behind bars in the ’80s?’
‘It’s been thirty years, Ego. Are you going to hold that grudge for so long? He’s a refined democrat now. This is politics, we had to go with someone that can canvass support for us in certain parts of the country. Read our manifesto; we’re for the people. Hope you’re seriously thinking about my proposal, come home. We’re winning this,’ she said. She forwarded a link to me when the call ended. A multinational was seeking a Chief Legal Officer. Her message said:
Send me your CV, I promised them that I have the right candidate for the role. See how much they’re willing to pay you. In dollars! As an expatriate, they’ll cover your living expenses, and the cost of living is lower here and you won’t be paying all the multiple taxes over there. You better not ignore me.
I sent my resume to satisfy the agitation inside.
I ran into Emeka’s aunt on Kensington High Street, shopping bags brimming with clothes and shoes caught tightly between her fingers. I’d met her once, on a Sunday afternoon in Emeka’s parents’ living room, and I thought then, as I did now, that she did not look like a pastor’s sister. Her skirts rode up her legs, brushing the top of thigh-high boots, and multiple gold pieces were arranged in a tower along her neck. Her makeup was heavy handed, her lipstick a red that was intended to shock.
‘She’s a proper rebel that one,’ Emeka had said then.
‘Nwakaego,’ she called from behind as we passed each other. I hadn’t heard my name pronounced properly in England in years. I turned.
‘Ehen! I thought it was you. Longest time! It’s me, Emeka’s Aunty Ngozi.’
We chatted briefly. She was in London on holiday with her newest husband; she had the glow of a newlywed. Before she left, she pulled a card from her bag and jotted down two phone numbers.
‘That’s my hotel. I’m leaving on Sunday, but you can stop by any time before then. The first number is mine, I’m roaming so you should be able to reach me. The second is Emeka’s, that boy has refused to marry or date for years now, please call him. I don’t know why you broke up, but Emeka is a man now, he’s more mature, I’m sure you can work it out.’
They never told her.
At home, I logged into my old email address and dug beyond the newsletters and alumni emails for the last email I’d received before I left Nigeria, one I hadn’t opened since the first time I read it:
Dear Nwakaego,
Your mother told me that you’re leaving Nigeria soon. Please don’t be annoyed with her. I’ve been pestering her for a while now; I even stopped by her office and waited till she was closing for the day. You’re so lucky to have her, she’s wonderful.
I know what my mother did. I’ve been silent all this while because I know what she did and I had no idea how to fix this without sounding like I’m making excuses. So instead, I decided to write to say how sorry I am.
I’m so sorry, Ego. I should have known that something wasn’t right when she asked me to invite you to her party. I was so eager, so hopeful for her to believe you, to believe me that you wouldn’t lie that I excitedly brought the card to your door. Please believe me when I say I had no idea he would be there that day, I would never do that to you, ever.
I’m sorry I wasn’t there that day, I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you better. I should have believed you when you said there was something wrong about him, I shouldn’t have let you keep working with him, I should have fought harder against the church establishment, I should have done something.
I want you to know how happy and proud I am of you that you got this scholarship. Not bad for a girl that claims she lost her brain. I’ve always believed you were a star, that was all I saw when I saw you – a star much too bright for this place.
I don’t think I have any right to say this, but I love you. The words seem so useless because I should have done better. I’m not asking you to forgive me, I understand why you can’t. Instead, I’ll hold out hope that in another life, in another time, we will meet again and then I’ll be able to show you just how much you mean to me.
Yours always,
E.
I’d lived in the UK long enough to qualify for a citizenship application.
‘You better not return to this country as a Nigerian,’ Zina warned me. And so I applied for British citizenship, compiling the documents needed to be considered. As I pressed the submit button on the portal, I immediately questioned my decision to do so. I couldn’t say I loved the United Kingdom; wasn’t one supposed to love the country whose citizenship one sought? It had given me a new lease on life, but I felt no earnest devotion when I saw the flag or when the anthem was played. Perhaps I did not love Nigeria either; I hadn’t chosen to be born there. It was a strange place to be in; one of emotional statelessness.
The offer for the Chief Legal Officer role came, and when I turned it down, they raised the pay offer; Eriife had informed them I was on the verge of a different citizenship.
I handed in my resignation the week the new Nigerian government was sworn in. Eriife posted pictures in our group chat at Eagle Square wearing the party’s chosen colours and waving the flag.
‘I belong to everybody and I belong to nobody,’ the former dictator announced in a lauded speech.
‘See, I told you he was reformed,’ Eriife wrote.
‘Mtchew,’ Zina wrote.
‘Oh my God, why? Did you get another job?’ Ceri asked, her voice high with panic, when I informed her of my decision.
I thought about how to explain my decision in a way that she would understand. Eventually, I settled on, ‘I’m going home.’ Then we both cried into our coffee. On my final day at work, Anna smiled, happy to be rid of my discomfiting presence and Rayan said, ‘You’re making a mistake. Where else would you find the opportunities you have in this country?’
Ceri organised a send-off; a party at her house where afrobeats boomed endlessly from the speakers until I was forced to approach the DJ – a cheeky Welsh lad – to congratulate him on a job well done.
Rodney stood in a corner, his eyes studiously tracking my every movement like I was a specimen he wished to understand. He said, ‘You could always change your mind.’ I knew he was referring to more than my decision to move back home.
I shopped, consciously this time, for Nkechi, Zina and Aunty Ada, Eriife and her family, for Nwamaka and her two children. My sister now lived the life my mother once did, appearing in magazines for parties and events only the rich attended. I’d found out about her children from a Nigerian blog.
I attended church the weekend after my British passport came in the post; I never wanted it to be said that I’d never attended church while I was there. Leaving Nigeria had made me less religious; Njoki said it was because back home, we relied on God for things other more responsible governments provided for their citizens. Instead, I hungered for a different kind of God – a companion and a friend.
The night before my flight to Lagos, I sat in a corner of the Sichuanese restaurant waiting to order dan dan mian. ‘Very spicy,’ the owner said with a blinding smile and a thumbs up before I could. Then I watched her move to the next table – a white couple – and call for her son to translate after several attempts to take down their order.
At the door, she said, ‘See you soon!’ And I wanted to say, ‘Not soon – I’m leaving. I’m going home.’ But I did not know how.
In my room, I opened the only item I was yet to pack – my laptop – and clicked on the tab I’d left open since I’d first opened it; a source of inspiration as I taped boxes to be shipped and folded blouses into veritable squares. Then I clicked Reply.
2
ZINA
