It was something she would tweet about, I knew, but for now, her focus – online at least – had shifted to foreign politics and had been firmly placed there for several months, meandering from rants about Brexit to comments on the US election cycle, even though she insisted over and over that she detested politics.
Her reaction to the Brexit votes had made me question whether she loved England far more than she let on, but for America she held a special affinity.
‘Americans have a way of making everything a performance,’ she told me. ‘Even the way they debate their politics on TV, it’s all so Hollywood.’
On the morning of the election results, she came into my room before the sun could find its way out, her face hewed with sorrow. Her phone displayed the electoral map of America, unusually red. ‘How can this be happening? My mother lives there.’
‘It’s just the early results, it will change, don’t worry,’ I assured her.
I’d been wrong.
Her sheer anguish at the events would lead me to believe that it was possible to love a country not for itself but for the loved ones it held.
We dropped the boxes on the floor in Ego’s room. She’d already begun to pull items from the shelves and the wardrobes; clothes were strewn on the bed and books were arranged in boxes, and I realised just how deserted the place would be when she was gone.
‘Zina, do you think I’m too nice?’ Ego asked all of a sudden.
I blinked, confused by the question. ‘Nooo,’ I said slowly. ‘Why would you ask that? Did anyone say you’re too nice? You know our work culture here is different, very subservient and reliant on respect, it might take a while for them to get used to your relaxed style.’
‘I think I’m too nice,’ she replied glumly.
‘Why?’
‘All the other senior executive staff are such bullies you know, and I really didn’t want to propagate the whole mean female boss stereotype and so I tried to be friendly and down to earth with everyone when I resumed; I mean I smiled till my gums hurt! Me that used to mind my business when I was in London o. And now I think they’re taking me for granted. I ask for tasks to be done and mine are always done last, because no one is scared of me. The other day I held a meeting with new male hires and you wouldn’t believe that they left me alone to clear the tea items. Then yesterday, a manager told me that I put on a lot of makeup for a lawyer. Of course, I told him to learn to mind his business and face his work but the fact that he had the effrontery to say such nonsense to my face! I’ve already given up my nice skirts and fitting dresses for trouser suits because the CEO said they were too clinging. Do I have to give up lipstick too?’ She collapsed on the bed.
‘You never told me all this was happening to you,’ I said, stretching out on the mattress beside her.
‘I didn’t want you to think I was struggling. You’ve been calling me “superstar” since I got back. I finally told Emeka about it and he thinks I need to put my foot down more often, stop being so polite.’
I chuckled. ‘You’re still a superstar to me. And I agree with Emeka: you need to put your foot down. England has softened you up. The Ego of before never let people get away with rubbish.’
She rolled off the bed and began pulling more books from the shelf. ‘I don’t want to be known as difficult or a witch. In the UK, I didn’t care what anyone thought.’
‘My dear, it’s better to be a witch than to be a mumu. These people will take advantage of you.’
She nodded. ‘You have a point. I’ve been back for a year and yet it still doesn’t feel like I belong; I didn’t belong over there and I don’t belong here either.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘But it’s true, nothing is the way I remember it, not even the food. It was too cold for me in London and it’s too hot for me in Lagos. And now I’m not even Nigerian enough for work?’
‘What accent do you use at the office? Maybe that’s part of the problem,’ I joked.
‘Semi-British,’ she returned and made a face.
‘That sound you make when you call your friend Ceri? Is that thing a British accent?’
A book flew in my direction, I dodged it.
‘Fool!’
We laughed.
The moving van came at 5pm instead of 4pm as agreed, and the driver complained of traffic on Ozumba Mbadiwe Expressway. Within an hour, Ego’s room had been cleared, and the items in the storage room moved to the back of the van. We followed behind in my car.
‘Your house is going to be empty now that I’ve moved out. You know, you’re a strange one. You don’t have a driver, you order all your food from caterers, no live-in help or anything, they all come and go except your gateman.’
‘I enjoy being alone,’ I explained.
‘You lived with me.’
I shrugged.
In my early years, my mother had been a paranoid woman, she believed in witches and unknown powers, in poisoned and bewitched items, in enemies lurking, plotting to do you harm. We had no nannies, no cooks, no live-in help aside from our gateman Salau, and somehow, even though I barely shared her beliefs, I’d become just the same.
Urenna’s first son turned ten that year and my mother insisted on throwing a party when my sister’s husband declared he did not have money for such frivolities. Nulia forwarded the invite via WhatsApp: Ejimetochukwu, suited up at the centre, surrounded by the words, ‘You’re cordially invited to celebrate with the Okafors on the momentous occasion of our son turning a Glorious Ten.’
Glorious. It was a word my mother liked. The fact that my father’s surname was used on the invite was a clear shot at Urenna’s husband: they would claim his wife and her children if he pushed his luck.
Nulia’s message said: ‘You should come, Mummy said it’s going to be big this year. Come with a nice gift so they won’t throw you out xx.’
The house had begun to feel empty since Ego left. It was that thing about life where a momentary change left you unable to return to how it had been before. I stopped at a popular game store, paid for a PlayStation console and a few games – what I assumed were the perfect gifts for a ten-year-old – to be wrapped and drove to my parents’ house.
The music reverberated through the compound gates, thumping from the speakers, causing the earth under our feet to quake a little. I parked my car across the street and walked to the gate with the gifts under my arm, ignoring the stunned expression on Salau’s face as I passed.
Colourful inflated castles bobbed in the air, and children sprang from their confines screaming at the top of their lungs. An MC led the gatherings, urging other attendees into dance competitions and coaxing their parents into interactive games. Costumed cartoon characters ran around and danced, scaring some of the children to tears. Smoke from the back of the compound where the caterers were at work wafted through the air. It was just like it had been when we were children. My mother loved to plan parties, and regardless of circumstance, she ensured all her children had birthday parties for their tenth birthdays; except me – I’d been in boarding school then. Ifeadigo had celebrated every birthday until he left for senior secondary school, but he was their only son.
Under a canopy, my sisters were huddled together, observing the goings-on, pointing and laughing at their children’s antics. Nulia was squeezed beside them, seemingly uninterested, then she sighted me from afar and she jumped to wave. I moved quickly towards them, keeping my head averted to avoid notice.
