Nowadays, Momma smelled like Yves Saint Laurent Black Opium, and her kitchen counters were Caledonia gray granite. But her hands were still quick and precise. I showed her a picture of the jumbo twists I wanted, and she hummed, using the sharp end of the rat-tailed comb to part my hair into squares. The steady pattern of tugs against my scalp, the clack of clips and combs, and the lightly floral smell of conditioner lulled me into a quiet stupor.
“So,” Momma said, as she began to twist. “Tabatha says that you’re suffering from a heartbreak.”
I startled awake. Fucking hell, Tabs. Tell them all my business, why don’t you? This close, Momma could feel me stiffen, and she chuckled.
“Your sister loves you,” she said, as if she’d heard my internal dialogue. “The way she harassed me! ‘Your daughter is having a hard time, and she can’t even rely on her own mother to help her!’ Ay! Awurade. This is why you don’t have girls.” She handed me the rest of my twist to finish. “You’re both so much like me. Your poor father.”
My budding fury at Tabatha quelled. She had done good work by trying to assemble my forces. She’d always been our parents’ darling, even during her tantrums, and as children she had used that knowledge to her advantage and my occasional detriment. But now? I could imagine her on the phone with Momma, cutting her down through gritted teeth: What kind of mother are you, huh?
“Yeah.” I shrugged.
“Tell me about this boy.”
And so, I told my mother about Ricky. I walked her through our first meeting, our accidental run-ins in the hospital that quickly became purposeful. I told her about Shae, and the Korean spa, and how he’d offered a shoulder for me to cry on when Nia moved out. I told her about Camila, and his initial resistance to claiming me as his. I told her how he told me that he loved me, and how I loved him so much that I could hardly get through a meal without thinking about the ones we had eaten together. I told her about how, after all that, I still let him go.
By the end, my face was wet with tears. I didn’t expect Momma to say much. Ricky was, after all, far from her ideal choice for a partner for me—not Ghanaian, not wealthy, not raised in a traditional family structure. At best, she would say good riddance, and offer me half-baked condolences, accompanied by the declaration that at least now I could focus on my studies—
“Why did you stop talking to him?” Momma asked instead, matter-of-factly.
I strained to meet her eye, only to be limited by the tug on my half-done braid.
“I told you,” I said, gritting my teeth against the pain. “He was wishy-washy. I couldn’t tell what he wanted—”
“Sounds to me like you could.” She handed me another twist, then rubbed a dollop of leave-in conditioner between her palms. “Nana Adjoa,* I think you’ve made a mistake.”
I gaped, my fingers almost losing purchase on my twist.
“How,” I asked, amazed, “am I making a mistake?”
Tutting, Momma wrapped an extension around the base of my scalp.
“All these friends you have spoiled you. You expect people to know exactly how to love you on the spot,” she declared. “The man was there for you when you needed him, was he not? Just take your time and see where things go.”
Off the top of my head, I could think of about five different women for whom waiting around had ended in heartbreak. Myself included. I said as much.
“Frederick?” Momma scoffed. “That boy couldn’t even manage to pay the twenty dollars for gas to come greet your family. This new one—he’s sitting in libraries with your sister to help you with something that will further your career, for no benefit to himself. Look at the behavior, not the words, Angela.”
“Momma,” I said, panicked. “But what about you? Daddy was sure about you. You got married, like, six months after meeting each other. You knew.”
Momma paused, smoothing her hand down my finished plait.
“We didn’t,” she said.
It took all my self-control not to whip around and disrupt her work.
“What?” I said, gripping my knees. My mind was racing, the doubt that I had felt since breaking up with Ricky over a month ago ominous and looming now. “But. You met in church in London, right? And then six months after meeting you were married. Why would you—？”
“Ah,” Momma said. “There’s been a misunderstanding. Your father and I met again in London. We’d known each other for ten years before that.”