I heard the sound of sniffling and I moved away to pull out a cigarette from my bag. I watched Ego talk to her mother from behind my sunglasses, remembering how I’d wished my mother loved me like Aunty Uju loved her daughter.
Ego eyed the cigarette between my lips when the call ended, considering whether to make a comment. The first time I pulled a cigarette from my bag, she’d screamed in comical horror, ‘You smoke now?’ And since then, she’d been given to launch into regular lectures on the habit. ‘You can die early. Do you know that?’ she warned once. I’d shrugged and noted the surprise in her eyes that death was hardly enough to scare me.
I tried to form an O with the smoke from the cigarette, just like I’d learned to do on set, to provoke a reaction out of Ego this time, but it came out mushed. Her eyes were bloodshot; emotionally exhausted.
‘Nkechi texted to say she can’t make it. She’ll come on her own,’ Ego said, ignoring my cigarette.
I put my arm around her shoulder; in heels, I was nearly her height. ‘Let’s go,’ I said. Then I put out the cigarette and crushed it under my heel.
‘Did something happen between you and Eriife while I was away?’ Ego asked suddenly in the car on the drive home.
I waited till we arrived at a crowded junction, the cars squashed as close as possible together in unmoving traffic, then I turned to look at her. ‘No, nothing happened. Why?’
‘She said the same thing, but the both of you are lying.’
I folded my arms across my chest. ‘Why do you think we’re lying?’
‘You don’t talk to or about each other. You think I haven’t noticed? You act like the other doesn’t exist. When I went to visit her and her family, you suddenly had a meeting with your friend Zin—’
‘I actually had a meeting with Zino,’ I interjected.
She hissed. ‘That’s not the point. She wouldn’t even come to your house to visit when I suggested it and she’s never called your phone in my presence.’
‘What if she calls it in your absence?’ I joked. Ego was in no mood to joke. I sighed. ‘You’re overthinking this. People grow up and grow apart. We’re different people with different lives. We don’t have much in common and we don’t have to be friends just because our mothers were friends.’
‘Is that all? Are you sure?’
The car in front of me moved and I turned my attention back to the roads, escaping giving an answer.
I dragged Ego along to our monthly gathering because I did not want her moping at home by herself.
‘Remember not to take anything too seriously, these women are all actresses, they’re different,’ I told Ego as we neared Tari’s house – it was her turn to host. ‘And most importantly, don’t judge. I’ve told them I’m bringing my friend who’s just returned to the country. It’s why they’ve allowed you to come, they’re curious about you.’
‘I haven’t just got back.’
‘As far as most people here are concerned, you’ve just got back. You were there for over ten years. You’re a proper IJGB,’ I said.
‘Ahn-ahn!’ Ego exclaimed as we drove through the gilded gates of Tari’s home. A uniformed policeman saluted as we passed. ‘Is this your friend royalty or what?’
I laughed, moving towards the car park. ‘No, she’s married to a former footballer.’ Tari’s husband had played for a club in a first-division league in Europe until an unfortunate injury had ended his career, and then he’d returned home with his millions to live like a king at the official age of thirty but his wife was thirty-five and we all knew he was older than she was.
‘Why do footballers like actresses and beauty queens so much?’ Ego said as we walked the distance to the house, her eyes grazing over the sports cars and motorcycles. Luxury wasn’t something that shocked her; she’d known it for a decent part of her life.
‘Shhh, someone will hear you.’
Stewards greeted us at the door and in the corridor leading to the living room, brandishing trays of small chops, puff puff, stick meat, peppered snails, samosas and plantain balls. Tari loved to put on a show, in her outlandish yet amiable war with Cassandra for primacy.
Cassandra was married to a retired British vice chairman at an oil company, a man old enough to be her father. He had a family in the UK, a daughter and a son young enough to be Cassandra’s siblings. Cassandra lived an independent life; her husband did not breathe down her neck or question where she went or who she met with. She shuffled her time between London, New York and Lagos, and she was already in the process of applying for British citizenship. Often, the other women deferred to her with a grudging respect that she’d managed to climb her way to a pinnacle.
‘Ah you’re here, my darling,’ Tari said, rising from a gold-plated armchair in a thigh-length sequinned dress that shimmered against the chandelier lights.
‘I’ve never seen such garish furniture. My God!’ Ego whispered beside me.
‘Is anyone else here?’ I asked just before we exchanged air kisses.
‘No, you know they’re always late,’ Tari responded, rolling her eyes. Then turning shining eyes to Ego, ‘Is this the friend from Britain? It’s so lovely to meet you, darling,’ she said and traded air kisses before I could respond.
I was ignored while we waited for the others, Tari’s full attention taken by Ego as she hounded her with questions about the UK and the places she’d been to. ‘I love going to Harrods. That’s where I get all my clothes, nowhere else – except the Italian designers of course,’ I heard her say. I smiled, amused by Tari’s effort at foreignness, the extra ‘r’ that adjoined her high-pitched tone, the unnatural way she laughed. I wouldn’t tease her in front of Ego.
Cassandra arrived next, her high-priced weave brushing the top of her bottom. ‘I had to go for brunch with my husband and his friends,’ she explained. Zahrah rushed in behind her, spurting apologies in her American accent, and as always, Marve was the last to join us. ‘I’m so sorry guys, I was at a seminar,’ she said, pushing her designer handbag into a corner by her side, like she expected it to be snatched from her. Her name was Marvelous, assigned to her by her very religious mother, but she’d shortened it to Marve, because Marvelous was simply not cool enough.
Our friendships were ropy, but we were connected by our shared profession; we knew and had worked with each other at some point in the past, and most importantly, we were friends with Tari. And Tari had been the one to suggest we meet once a month to ‘catch up’. ‘We all need friends in this business.’
‘What seminar is that?’ Zahrah asked, picking up a stick of meat and turning it to the side before taking a bite.
‘It’s an exclusive ring masterclass for only those that can afford to pay. It was wonderful, you should have seen the big big women that attended, all of them single and searching,’ Marve said.
I shook my head and bit into a samosa. ‘Ring masterclass? Why would you waste money on such nonsense?’
‘I’m the only one that’s not seriously attached in this room and you’re asking why? I already have a calendar date I’ve marked. I must have my own ring by then,’ Marve responded.
‘Zina isn’t seriously attached,’ Zahrah pointed out, waving her hand with the diamond engagement ring in my direction. Her family was well-connected with vast farmland up north and ties within the government. She’d spent most of her teenage years in America and only returned on her father’s insistence. Now she was set to marry a childhood sweetheart from an equally well-connected family.
‘How come the rich only always marry each other?’ Tari had commented behind Zahrah’s back, her voice coated in malice. She’d married her own husband by sheer luck. He’d told his mother he had no interest in dating any of the foreign women in his club’s country; he’d wanted a home-grown woman instead, and she’d gone over to Tari’s father’s house to request his well-behaved daughter on her son’s behalf.
‘You marry the people you know, Tari. They grow up together, lunch together, school together. Who else do you expect them to marry?’ I’d replied.
‘Zina isn’t serious please,’ Marve said now, swiping her hand dismissively.
