Urenna, Jachinma and Sofuchi’s eyes followed my approach, their faces a blanket of disconcerted distrust. ‘Hi!’ I called when I was close. They didn’t respond.
Nulia grabbed my arm and pulled me towards the seat she’d reserved. ‘I almost thought you weren’t coming. I’ve been so bored without you!’ she effused, dragging my handbag and scattering through it. ‘You’ll have to dash me this bag, it’s so fine. Which label is this?’ she said, running her fingers over the leather surface.
‘When you’re not a thief,’ I retorted and snatched my bag from between her fingers.
‘Ahn-ahn. Why are you acting like you don’t have finer ones? I should even visit you to raid your wardrobe. You think I don’t see your pictures? We should take a picture together before you go, see we’re both wearing red. Did you come with your Range?’
I laughed, not showing my discomfort. ‘Nulia, are you sure you’re here for a birthday party? In fact, where is the celebrant?’ I asked, leaning my head to the side in search of Jimeto.
‘He’s inside the house,’ Sofuchi answered. I turned, surprised she’d spoken to me. She averted her eyes as I studied her. I’d always thought she was the prettiest of the lot of us, with her unblemished ebony skin, but I was the fairest and so everyone said I was the prettiest. She looked pregnant, and if indeed she was, she would have been the last of my sisters to have a child; it made me wonder how much pressure she was under to fulfil this pre-eminent duty.
‘Mummy is changing him into a second outfit,’ Nulia adjoined. ‘I don’t know whether she thinks he’s a girl or something. How many suits can he wear?’
‘Thank you,’ I said to Sofuchi and rose to go inside.
Nothing had changed: the photographs that decorated the room, the Catholic calendar plastered to the wall, the large crucifix above the television, the rosary that drooped down from above it. In a prominent corner hung a full-size portrait of the last picture we’d taken together as a family – just after my brother was born.
It didn’t surprise me that there was no sign of my father on the premises; he never attended such events. He was raised to believe men provided, and he’d always done just that.
My mother emerged like a ghost from the staircase as I picked at the figurines on the étagère; my father had added new ones in my absence. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded. My nephew was by her side, peeping at me with avid interest.
I straightened my spine, forced a broad smile on my face I was sure was too bright, and stretched the wrapped presents in front of me like a shield. ‘I came to wish Jimeto a happy birthday.’
I moved closer, slowly, like a zoophilist afraid to frighten their subject of interest away. When I stood in front of them, I bent to greet Jimeto. My mother snatched him behind her.
‘I just wanted to wish him a happy birthday and give him his gifts,’ I explained, straightening myself once more.
‘Zinachukwu. I asked, what are you doing here?’
My confidence disappeared. ‘I–I–heard today was Jimeto’s birthday so I came.’
‘Who is Jimeto to you that you think you can come in when you like to wish him anything? So after how many years, you remember you have a family? Who even told you about the party?’
I could feel the tears gathering at the back of my eyes but I was powerless to stop them. I sighed. ‘What have I done that is so wrong? You told me to leave then, you said I should make something of myself and I did. You never gave me a chance but somehow I did. I might not be the biggest name in the industry but you can’t say I’m a failure. Why do you hate me so much?’
My mother cackled, a sound that resembled nails against a chalkboard, then she said, ‘Success? You call the rubbish life you’re living successful? You don’t even go by your real name anymore, just Zina. Zina who? Go outside and look at your sisters and their families, that is success. You chose your selfish ambitions over your own family and you expect to be welcomed back like a queen. Not once have you shown any form of remorse! You’ve made your choice, be happy with it.’
A woman’s hand grabbed my shoulder as I hurried towards the gate. I stopped to look at her. ‘Ehen! I thought it was you. You’re so beautiful! I really like your films. My daughter likes you too. Please can you take a picture with us?’ She was already searching her phone for the camera icon, not bothering to wait for my response.
I posed for the pictures, grateful for the sunglasses I’d brought along. I pushed the wrapped gifts into her daughter’s hands before I left. ‘Give this to the birthday boy,’ I told her. Then I rushed out the gate. I could hear Nulia’s voice behind me screaming my name.
The nightmares would come, I knew – they always did after I saw my mother. Rather than await the torture, I pre-empted their arrival this time: bite, break, swallow.
A text message was on my screen when I finally opened my eyes: ‘Hi Zina. It’s me, Bayo.’
26
Circumstances
We have no say in the circumstances of our birth – the very things that determine the people we become: our parents, our families, our country.
The children running around in the sandy compound of their thatched roof hut home surrounded by a thicket of bushes, shrieking their names as they play catch, pulling at the hems of each other’s shirts, oblivious as to how a proportion of the trajectory of their lives’ stories had been set in ink, the strength of will and force of nature it would take to turn it, the scars the efforts would leave, the country that had inherently failed them. I watched them through the window by my side, unsure of where I was exactly, uninterested in knowing.
‘How long until we get to Ogbomosho?’ I asked the airport taxi driver, not removing my eyes from the children. The smallest and quickest had just caught the eldest and they’d both fallen into the sand in shrill laughter, their backs covered in sand. I searched for a sign of electricity and saw a lone bulb, hanging at a corner of the ceiling of an adjoining hut. Questions scurried in my mind: did the electricity come often enough? Was that enough for them to study in the evenings? Were there any schools nearby? Such was the injustice of the lottery of birth.
‘About thirty minutes, ma,’ the driver said. I strained my neck to get a better glimpse of the children already disappearing into the foliage. How old were they? ‘Madam, you like children? You get any?’ the driver asked, smiling at me through the rearview mirror; he’d been paying attention.
I wasn’t sure how to answer the first question, nor the second. If he’d asked my mother, she would have said no to the first, and for the second, she would have answered yes, only to emphasise the role I’d played in that no longer being so. No woman who loved children, who had a modicum of maternal instincts, would have done what I did.
There were gift hampers with chocolates, roses and wine waiting on my bed when I arrived at the hotel in Ogbomosho. ‘We were told you’d be coming early, ma,’ the steward that assisted me to my room explained. I always arrived a day ahead of everyone to enjoy a moment of solitude before the madness began – the twelve-hour days and early-morning shoots, the late nights rehearsing lines and miming scenes – but it wasn’t often that I received such an affectionate welcome filming outside a major city, or with a producer who wasn’t Zino.
The producers for the film had changed at the last minute, the government’s latest fiscal policies were discouraging international investors despite the boom in the film industry and explosion in overseas interest.
Zino complained that many had turned their focus to low-budget movies – filmed and edited in a matter of days – that earned a quick turnover by selling to cable TV. ‘Not that those are bad of course, everyone is allowed to make their money and there’s a market for that, but we also need to be able to convince investors to finance big-budget projects that can move the industry forward on a larger scale. The issue is the economy and the government. Imagine investing in dollars and the naira earnings don’t meet up because the exchange rate has moved against you in a matter of months, with a government that regularly interferes in the market,’ he said.
This time, the producers had withdrawn after initial funds were blocked by a parastatal for supposed investigation. A local financier had eventually taken up the project but by then, filming had already been on hold for well over six months.
A card was tucked into one of the hampers and I reached for it just as my phone rang – it was Marve. It was strange; she never called. We were friends with Tare and not necessarily each other. But I’d noticed a change since our last meeting, a new willingness to trust.
Tare and Cassandra had fallen out over Cassandra liking an anonymous Instagram blog post accusing Tare’s husband of an affair with another actress, an accusation Tare had asserted was contrived to dent her family’s image. Cassandra insisted that the ‘like’ had been an accident on her part as she’d read the post, and they’d both taken to passing subliminals via Instagram stories:
‘Avoid enemies cloaked as friends. And avoid marrying men old enough to be your fathers #wisdomoftheday,’ was Tare’s first jab.
‘Exodus 20:16 – Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour #godwillfightforme. Also, my children look better than yours,’ Cassandra returned.
As expected, Cassandra was absent from the get-togethers after that, and our numbers fell even further with Zahrah’s absence as she travelled up north to prepare for her upcoming wedding. Marve offered to host; a neutral ground should Cassandra decide to change her mind, and then at the very last minute, Tare phoned to say she wouldn’t be coming. For the first time, it was just me and Marve in the same room, forced to get to know each other.
‘You have to learn to secure your options,’ she told me. She had three boyfriends – an accountant, an entertainer and a businessman, even though she wasn’t particularly sure of the specialty of his business.
