‘Andre, how could you?’ the female lead screamed and we laughed.
‘She’ll still go back to him anyways,’ Ego said, then we were both silent.
‘How are you?’ I said finally into the loaded silence between us.
She turned to look at me for the first time since I’d arrived and I read the answer in her eyes; the memories laden with pain and something else, something that resembled peace.
‘That’s a tough question to answer,’ she said at last.
‘You don’t have to answer it.’
‘I want to answer it.’ She paused. ‘I’m feeling so many emotions at once that I’m waiting for one to finally take control. I’m scared. I know my life’s not going to be the same again now everyone knows what happened. It’s out there now and I keep wondering how people will react to me. Will they believe me? Will they hear my name and immediately think, “Oh, isn’t that the woman that accused Kamsi?” Is that all they’ll ever know me for? You know?’
I nodded encouragingly.
‘I know I’ll get abused, I know Kamsi is more powerful than ever.’ I grabbed her hand and pulled her closer on the settee as she continued, ‘I know all these things but I don’t regret it. I don’t regret it because for the first time in forever, I feel free. I’ve carried it around for so long – the pain, the bitterness, wishing I’d done things differently that day, blaming myself endlessly.’
‘It was never your fault,’ I cut in sharply.
Tears pooled in her eyes. ‘I know that. I’ve always known that, but it didn’t stop me feeling that it was.’ She laughed, different from her earlier laugh in its humourlessness. ‘The brain is a funny thing, isn’t it? You can know something isn’t true but it doesn’t stop you feeling that way. I’ve borne it alone all these years and now he can finally share the shame for what he did to me.’
An association of pastors issued a statement two days later to say it stood firmly by its member and that the accusations were a demonic attempt to sully his good efforts in bringing souls to the body of Christ.
The Actors Practitioners Guild issued a statement on the third day: I’d failed to respond to all attempts to get in touch with me for a ‘robust’ response and explanation for recent conduct, and owing to recent complaints of insulting and inappropriate behaviour from a recently appointed senior member (a Mr Charles Bekinware), I was hereby suspended indefinitely and all directors and associated organisations barred from working with me.
On the fifth day, police vans surrounded my home. I called Emeka. ‘Are they there too? Is she okay?’ I heard the strangled fear in my own voice but I could not control it.
‘Yes, they’re here. I’ve called my lawyers and I’ve been posting regular updates on social media so everyone knows what happened if we suddenly disappear.’
‘My God,’ I breathed. ‘These people move like the mafia.’
Nulia called me that evening, reminding me my mother was yet to let me know just how much of a disgrace she thought I was for attacking a man of God. She was crying.
I chuckled. ‘Nulia, please stop being dramatic, it’s really not that bad. I’m still alive.’
‘You know already?’
I paused. ‘Know what?’
‘Mummy didn’t want anyone to tell you, but she has cancer.’
It was only then that I finally collapsed.
29
Pressure
Agwo emeghi ihe o jiri buru agwo, umuaka ejiri ya kee nku – if a snake fails to show its venom, little children will use it to tie firewood. It was what my mother said the first and only time she defied my father. He’d just returned from a business trip and she’d found something – something that looked like a sacheted balloon to my seven-year-old eye – in his bags. But that was not why she fought him. It was the scent, the perfume that permeated the four corners of the suitcase, rising from it like a burning incense; a woman’s perfume that didn’t belong to my mother.
I watched my mother’s face contort into a mask of pain as she confronted him. ‘Am I not enough for you, Uzondu? Am I not?’ she asked, her voice choked with unshed tears. And I heard the wounded pride in her pain; she was Adaugo Omimi, the type they referred to as a complete package. She could have gotten any man she wanted, and there had been many – her father boasted of the offers often – but she’d chosen my father. And yet she wasn’t enough?
It was a question she posed often: ‘Is your family not enough for you? Is this not enough for you? Am I not enough for you?’
Enough. Surely something had to be enough, contentment had to be established at some point. But I’d inherited my father’s avarice for more.
They fought: an acerbic exchange of words followed by successive blows. My father had landed the first one and my mother had retaliated, until they tore madly at each other. Then, as if grasping the reality of what was taking place, he pushed her away and stalked out the door. By the time he returned, we were long gone to Aunty Uju’s house, our boxes in their extra bedrooms. ‘Agwo emeghi ihe o jiri buru agwo, umuaka ejiri ya kee nku,’ she told Aunty Uju as she narrated what had happened to her. And for the first time, I was proud of my mother.
My father searched the state for us until his hunt finally brought him to Aunty Uju’s door.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ I heard Aunty Uju tell him calmly.
My mother indicated with her finger to her lips for us to not make a sound. I did not hear what my father said next, but Aunty Uju responded with, ‘And what will you do?’ She was still with Uncle Gozie then and even my father knew where his money and power had their limits.
The elders settled the matter, and in public my father carried himself with bravado, mouthing a forced apology only when the elders demanded it, but behind closed doors, he knelt before my mother in contrition and pitiful plea. He shed heavy remorseful tears that he would do better; he would make sure she never had reason to leave again. And as far as I knew, he kept his end of the bargain.
The second time I was proud of my mother, my father’s businesses struggled. ‘We’re going through a lot, these military governments really don’t know how to manage the economy,’ he said to her. What he meant to say was that he wasn’t liquid enough to pay our school fees. He’d never let my mother work; she was too beautiful and could be taken away.
That first Monday we stayed at home, my mother went into her room and pulled an empty box from the top of her wardrobe, then she filled it with her most expensive and luxurious wrappers, and we watched with bemusement as she dragged the loaded suitcase out the door. Hours later, she returned with bundles of cash and an empty suitcase. ‘Enter the car,’ she told me and my sisters. In the school bursar’s office, she counted the amount needed and signed all the documents and I thought I’d never seen her look more confident. But at home, she told us to go thank my father for paying our fees; she never wanted him to feel inadequate.
Memories continued to flicker through my brain like screens in a cinema. Did she ever plan to tell me? Would she rather I found out at her graveside?
I was floundering, I knew, struggling to find purchase in this new upturned world. And for the first time, I understood why my mother clung so doggedly to religion, at least she had that comfort.
I called Bayo. I wasn’t even sure why, but I needed a familiar footing that assured me. He’d lost his mother recently; he would understand.
‘Hello? It’s Zina,’ I said when he picked up, not sure if he’d deleted my number.
‘Yes, I know it’s you,’ he grumbled, like it was an unwanted nuisance.
