My mouth falls open.
“Yes, she’s now a vice president,” says Mum, strolling into the living room. My heart pounds frantically in my chest.
“Wow! Congratulations, sis!” Kemi bundles me into a hug. “I swear, you’re bossing it. So, when do you start your new role? And what exactly will you be doing?” She is too busy firing questions at me to sense my discomfort.
“Th-th-thanks,” I say, my thudding heart now in my throat. I shoot a quick glance at Mum, who’s connecting her charger to her phone. “I don’t start for a few weeks,” I finally say. “It’s really just a change in job title. Anyway, we missed you yesterday. How was Uche’s mum’s birthday dinner?”
By the time Kemi is mid-sentence, Mum is thankfully out of the living room, and hopefully, out of earshot. I’m about to interrupt Kemi to tell her the truth, when I think, Do I really want to? She would only give me that pity-guilty expression of hers. It’s as though ever since she got engaged, anything bad or humiliating that happens to me is somehow her fault. I can’t bear her tiptoeing around me, and I know it’s why she doesn’t ask me about my love life—not like there’s much to tell anyway. Besides, she’s starting to hang out with Mum so much that she makes it easy for me to stay away.
“How was the engagement party?” Kemi asks, rubbing her stomach.
Femi and Latoya flash to mind. “It was fun, I guess . . . Oh my gosh! Do you remember this photo?” I swing the glass door open and pull out the first photo that I see worthy of that exclamation. The photo I’ve picked is one of Kemi when she was about eleven, wearing a black leotard. Her complexion was even lighter at the time, and her hair is standing on end in giant dudu plaits.
“Argh!” Kemi snatches the photo. “Mum did not rate me. Look at my hair!”
I laugh as I peer over her shoulder. “But look at your posture. You know you were made to perform, right? Best in your class, I remember.”
“Well, Mum didn’t rate my acting.” Kemi pulls a mocking face.
“What are you talking about?” I laugh. “Mum thinks you can act. We used to say you’d win an Oscar.”
“Come on, Yinka. Mum did not give two hoots about my acting. It wasn’t academic enough,” she says in a sardonic tone. “Do you know what Mum said when I got an A in drama? ‘But what use is that?’？” she finishes in a Nigerian accent.
I wince. Mum has always been more of a fan of STEM subjects. Whether her preference had anything to do with her being a nurse and Daddy being an engineer, I don’t know. I do know that when Kemi told Mum that she wanted to be a drama teacher, she wasn’t impressed.
“I thought this was just a hobby,” she said to Kemi with that baffled expression of hers which read, My daughter has clearly lost the plot.
Growing up I knew it was hard for Kemi to watch Mum praise my academic achievements, and that’s why I made it my priority to be her biggest cheerleader. I helped her practice her lines, and I made an effort to attend all of her drama productions, especially when Mum said she couldn’t because she had to work.
“Well . . . you’re in Mum’s good books now,” I say, substituting the photo for another one. This time, it’s a photo of Uche and Kemi on the day of their traditional wedding. Kemi looks like she could grace the wedding section of BellaNaija with her gold gèlè and her lace-sequin a?? ?bí and her regal-looking feathered fan. As for Uche, he’s all swaggered up in his matching agbádá and faux elephant-tusk beads.
“Aww,” says Kemi. She tilts her head to my shoulder. And for a moment, we just stare at the photo.
“Daddy would have been so proud,” I whisper. Kemi squeezes my hand.
“Okay. Now your turn.” She snaps back to the present and returns the photo, grabbing one of me on my graduation day. “My God, Yinka. Look at how long your hair was!”
“And she went and cut it all off!”
Kemi and I jolt apart. Mum is back, and she gives her wrapper a hoist before shuffling toward us.
“Let me see.” She beckons for the photo and stares solemnly at it.
“So long,” she says with great remorse. She shakes her head, glances up at me and screws her brows. “Yinka. Why did you have to cut your hair? This one suits you now.” She dabs a finger at the photo to emphasize her point. “You know this hairstyle you have on your head is for boys, ehn?”
“Mum!” Kemi covers her face.
“What, now?” Mum pushes out her lips. “You have your own preference and I have mine. My preference is long hair. Long hair! And Yinka’s not yet married,” she adds. Oh, great. I was hoping she wouldn’t mention the m-word for once. “If she was married like you, eh-hehhh, then she could do whatever hairstyle she likes.”
“Mum!” Kemi says again, emphasizing the indignity of the conversation.
I shake my head. “Okay, Mum. I know you don’t like my hair.” I return the photo into the cabinet, ignoring Kemi’s guilty expression. Then I spot something. “Well, well, well. Look at what we have here.” With a delicious smile, I pull out an old photograph of my parents. Daddy has a massive afro while Mum has a mop of Jerri-curls.
“Is this short hair I see?” I tease, brandishing the photo under her nose.
“Abeg.” Mum flails her arm. “That was the fashion at the time.”
“And you weren’t even married yet,” I wail, and Kemi laughs. “Aunty Debbie told me that this photo was taken on your first date. Tell us, where did he take you? Was he a nervous wreck? Did he even talk?”
Mum snatches the photo. “Yinka, you ask too many questions. Every time you come, you dey ask question as if you’re a news reporter.” She returns the photo to its place and stands in front of the cabinet.
Mum’s always like this. Never wanting to talk about Daddy or anything in the past, always shutting me down. I know she can be superstitious—she doesn’t like to talk about the dead. But come on, we’re talking about Daddy.
“Anyway, food is nearly ready. I just need to prepare the pounded yam.” Mum wipes her brow, and I make a mental note to talk to her after we’ve eaten.
“I’ll lay the table,” I offer.
“No, Yinka. You’ll help me in the kitchen.”
I turn to Kemi. She normally helps Mum.
“Or I can help,” Kemi says.
Mum shakes her head. “Kemi, tell me. Who is it that is pregnant? You or Yinka?”
* * *
—
On the stove, there’s a pot of red stew and what looks like spinach inside, simmering.
Mum grabs the kettle and pours boiling water into another pot filled with fine yam powder, then hands me a wooden spatula. “Prepare the pounded yam,” she says.
I swallow. I hardly ever make Nigerian food.
“Go on, then,” she cries, and I edge tentatively toward the stove, clutching the spatula like a toilet plunger. Looking down at the pot, I dip the spatula inside. I tell myself, It’s just like making mashed potatoes.
“Ah, ah! Start now!” Mum cries, jolting me. “Don’t just stand there. Use your arms.”