Roses, scarlet and perfumed, decorated my living room when I finally sauntered down the stairs in the morning; they could only have been from one person.
‘Good morning, our queen. Look at the time you’re waking up. You’re lucky it’s a weekend,’ Ego said as I ambled down the stairs.
‘Good morning to you too. I see Emeka has finally gotten my address,’ I retorted, pointedly staring at the roses as I settled into a seat across the dining table.
The slices of bread in her fingers suddenly became very interesting. ‘What do you mean? They could be for you.’
My laughter was a shrill echo. ‘Nwakaego please. Who would send me flowers? Or you think I don’t know that lover boy’s signature? Aren’t those the same type of roses he always sent to our campus room? Now he can afford to send you plenty and my whole house is smelling like a garden.’
‘What do you mean who would send you flowers? What happened to your handsome Turkish guy, Halil? He was here just last week. I liked him.’ It was the fact that everyone seemed to like him that disconcerted me. Liking came with expectations – of settling and permanence.
‘We had a quarrel. He’s Muslim, I’m Christian,’ I said blithely.
Ego’s eyes formed slits. ‘Since when did you become religious, Zina? You both drink wine, a lot of it, and I’ve seen him sleep over a couple of times. Last I checked, these things are unacceptable in both your religions.’
‘We had a random conversation about church and suddenly he went into this rant about how my religion is false, and then tried to kiss me afterwards. Anyways, it doesn’t matter.’
She giggled. ‘You’re so temperamental. You’re just like my mother’s brother Ikechukwu. Would you believe me and Nkechi had to go and beg him yesterday to return to his own home? He said his wife insulted him, and that she only did it because she was the one who built the house with her business funds.’
I was unamused. ‘Ego, don’t try to change the subject. Why is Emeka sending roses to my house?’
We stared at each other in tense silence until she decided to tell the truth. ‘I sent him an email before I returned to Nigeria. We’ve been in touch since I got back to the country. I know what you’re going to say, but he’s not the reason I came back. We both needed some form of closure, you know.’ Her eyes took on a faraway look. ‘We met up at a restaurant to talk and… at first we weren’t sure what to say to each but then he asked me how I’d been, took my hands and said he’d missed me… you should have seen his eyes. He’s just…’
‘Hmm,’ I grunted.
I expected to feel anger, frustration even at her decision to connect with him again, but the only emotion I could conjure was admiration for her ability to be so fixated on one person for so many years.
‘Nothing’s happened. We’re just friends,’ she blurted out. ‘We hang out at restaurants, go watch movies together, things like that.’
‘Friends don’t send these many roses to each other.’
She squeezed her eyes shut. ‘Fine. We kissed a few days ago.’
‘Ay!’ I screamed. ‘Nwakaego Azubuike. Now you’re telling the truth! So these are the extracurricular activities you’ve been engaging in after work? No wonder you’re always late.’
Tears gathered abruptly in her eyes and my amusement vanished. ‘Zina, I don’t know what to do,’ she wailed.
Breakfast was cold by the time Ego stopped crying, and by then, we’d moved to the living room and I’d lost my appetite. ‘It’s not your fault, I want you to always remember that. It was never your fault,’ I said, my arm around her shoulder. ‘And I understand that it’s not his either.’ I had no issues with Emeka, I just wanted Ego to forget, to move on from the horror of that period.
‘He’s still the same; he hasn’t changed,’ she said with a small smile.
I thought of asking about his parents, but I glanced at her face and thought I’d allow her dream, if only for a little while.
The Cosmopolitan was buzzing as I arrived from a meeting with a financier, servers scurried about with platters above their head, an aroma of fried food and alcohol lingering behind them.
‘Do you need me to accompany you?’ Zino had asked over the phone before the meeting.
‘Zino, I’m going to be thirty-five soon,’ I said to him. ‘I should start going for things like this by myself. They said they wanted to meet me directly, not even my agent.’
‘Be careful,’ he had said.
Now Zino murmured as I took the seat beside him. ‘How did it go?’
‘Long story,’ I groaned, feeling my frustration at the day’s events kick in.
I’d arrived at the investor’s office suited and eager to impress, until he’d arrived alone, and I instinctively knew what the meeting was about, just as I’d known the first time a director had slipped a note in my direction.
‘What would you like to drink? We’ve all placed our orders,’ Dapo shouted, his voice overshadowing mine. The others at the table nodded. The group of us were friends not because we were friends but because we all knew each other, and in Lagos, that was as good as friendship.
‘A mojito is fine,’ I said, reeling off the first cocktail that came to mind. Dapo raised a hand to call a waiter.
‘Mojito? Please, that thing tastes like rum and toothpaste here, never order a mojito in Lagos,’ Simi said, batting her lashes in disgust. She had moved back to Nigeria from Texas over five years ago but still complained with the superiority of one who’d only just returned, and I’d come to accept that being a returnee was the only personality she possessed.
‘You’re right. That thing tastes awful,’ Zutere concurred beside her, even though he’d spent all his life in Lagos and his consulting firm salary meant he could only afford to travel once a year.
‘A daiquiri then?’ I acquiesced, feeling tired.
‘Syrup and sugar,’ Simi chimed in dismissal.
Zino’s hand covered mine, telling me to ignore Simi; he could tell I wasn’t in the mood.
My phone buzzed, a text from Ego: ‘I can’t make it today, have a date with Emeka. Have fun!’
‘I prefer your actress friends to those guys,’ Ego had said to me the first time she’d met them. ‘Minus Zino, of course. It’s impossible to dislike Zino,’ she quickly added. ‘When is he coming to visit? He makes the best conversations.’
‘Why do you prefer them?’ I asked.
‘They might be aspirational and maybe a little provincial but at least they’re well aware of who and what they are. These other guys are living in another universe. Imagine Zutere saying he doesn’t go to mainland Lagos. Don’t human beings live there? I left British classism to come and meet its younger brother in Lagos.’
