by Jane Igharo
“This is true.”
“Good. Because I want you to take me seriously. And I want you to tell me stuff or I’ll be forced to tap your phone.”
“Eavesdropping no longer good enough for you?”
“Nah. I’ve changed levels. Met some people at school who are very skilled. If you know what I mean. I currently have many resources at my disposal.” She flips her shoulder-length hair and winks at me.
I’m not sure if she’s joking, but I crack up, and she does too. The laughter is so intense, tears sprout to my eyes. I wipe them away, but they spring out again. The new batch streams down my cheeks. My laughter is no longer genuine. I can’t remember what I found so funny, but I remember the pain that’s been clawing at my heart for days. It’s here now, provoking more tears.
“I miss Rafael,” I confess. “So much.”
Efe, suddenly silent, stares at me.
“We were supposed to spend the holidays together.” My awkward mixture of chuckles and sobs continue. “I even got him a present. One of those World’s Greatest Dad mugs. It’s cheesy as hell, but he would have loved it.” When Efe holds me, the laughter stops and I just cry.
“It’s okay,” she says, rubbing my back. “It’s okay, Azere.”
“No. No, it’s not. Nothing’s okay.”
“Zere, can I give you some advice?”
I nod, bobbing my head against her shoulder.
“Now, I know this is going to sound harsh, but consider it a necessary harshness.” She releases me and meets my stare. “Azere, you gotta pull yourself together and figure your shit out.”
“What?” Not the advice I was hoping to hear.
“Seriously, Azere. You have to figure out what you want. Forget about Mom and Dad. For once in your life, stop trying to please them. If you want to be with Rafael, be with him.” She takes my hand and squeezes it—not gently but firmly. “I know it hasn’t been easy, especially with everything Mom has put you through, but you have to find the strength to stand by your decision. Even when things are difficult. Do you understand?”
“Yeah. I understand.”
The problem is, I’m not sure how to do that.
chapter
37
Christina’s Christmas gift to me is a weekend getaway to Muskoka, a vacation destination in the heart of Ontario’s cottage country. She insisted I need to relax before the baby arrives, which, according to Farah, is the eighth of January. I’m totally prepared. I’ve assembled the nursery, read a few baby prep books, and even attended a few prenatal classes—solo, of course. Christina is right. I do need to unwind. I deserve it.
On Friday, the day after Christmas, we make the two-hour drive from Toronto, eating Timbits and listening to a Beyoncé playlist. As we near her parents’ cottage, I look through the window and past the silver lining of a frosted lake where there’s a cluster of fir trees. The lush forestry is rooted at the base of craggy, snow-hooded mountains that peak and slope.
As I admire the scenery, something stirs inside me—something familiar but distant. I recall a childhood spent fetching water from streams, harvesting cassava with my father on our farm, climbing trees to pluck fruits, playing soccer atop red sand and dust. This panorama, secluded from the city, reminds me of that time, and I smile.
The car curves into a steep pathway. As we travel farther down the route, past more clusters of shrubs, a cabin comes into view. The rustic and refined pine lodge occupies an immense amount of space. Sunlight shimmers over the snow sprinkled on the high rooftop. Smoke emits from the stone chimney and meanders whimsically in the air. The charming view is like something out of a winter postcard.
“And we’re here,” Christina says. She parks the car and unfastens her seatbelt. “I’ll get the bags. You head for the door.”
“All right.” I zip up my parka and step out of the car. After inhaling the fresh air and releasing it in a gratifying sigh, I walk on the ridged cobblestones that pave a curved path to the front door. Before reaching my destination, the door opens. I freeze on a stone tablet and gawk at the couple standing under the doorframe. “Auntie. Uncle,” I say, acknowledging Christina’s parents.
“Hello, Azere,” her mother says, chipper.
“It’s been such a long time,” her father adds. “How’ve you been?”
“Great. Just . . . um . . . great.” I turn around and glare at my friend, who has two duffel bags in her hands and one over her shoulder. “I didn’t know you guys would be here.”
“Really?” her mother asks. “Christina didn’t tell you?”
“I did, Mom. She must have forgotten.”
“Right.” I turn to her parents and force a smile. Unfortunately, it doesn’t compare to the genuine ones on their faces. “I totally forgot.”
“Well, come inside. It’s freezing.” She steps aside and ushers us into her warm home. Christina shuffles behind me, balancing the bags like an inexperienced bellhop.
“I’ll take those.” Her father, a handsome man with sand-colored hair and hazel eyes, takes the bags. “I’ll put them in your rooms.” He turns down the lengthy corridor, and his wife follows behind him.
“What the hell, Chris? You told me we were gonna spend the weekend stuffing our faces and binge-watching Skinny Girl in Transit. You didn’t tell me your parents were gonna be here.”
“Well, we’re still gonna watch Skinny Girl in Transit because I’m obsessed. But first, we have to talk to my parents for a little bit.”
“Talk to your parents about what?”
“Zere, you broke up with Rafael. And even though you’re doing who knows what with Elijah, you miss him. You’re miserable.”
“Christina, what exactly is your point?”
“My point is, you want to be with Rafael. But from where I’m standing, there are two reasons why you’re not with him. One, you’re a puppet and your mom’s your master. Two, you believe being with someone outside your ethnicity will make you less of a Nigerian—a notion I believe was somehow planted into your brain by your mother.” She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, I can’t help you with the first reason. That’s something you gotta man up and do on your own. But I can help you with the second reason. This is me helping.”
“By having me spend the weekend with your parents?”
“Zere, my parents have been in an interracial relationship for twenty-seven years. Did I mention they’re happy? Like seriously, they still make out. I’ve caught them. Many times.” She shudders.
“So, what? You want me to take a glimpse into their happily ever after?”
“Sure. You could do that. But you could also talk to them.” Her hand drops on my shoulder. “Zere, when my mom was twenty-five, she was in the same position you’re in now. She was a Nigerian woman in love with a man who wasn’t Nigerian.”
“I never said I was in love with Rafael.”
“Yeah. Sure.” She scoffs. “Whatever. Anyway, my mom wanted to be with my dad. Her family wasn’t having it. They were scared she would marry outside her ethnicity and lose her heritage. I think it’s a fear lots of immigrants face, you know?”
“Yeah. I know.”
“Anyway, my mom’s parents were gonna disown her. They gave her an ultimatum—them or my dad.”
“And she chose your dad.”
“Yeah. On the day she was supposed to marry someone else.”
“Wait.” Now, I’m interested. “What exactly happened?”
“She was walking down the aisle to the groom her parents approved of. She ended up going through the emergency exit. Sounds like a rom-com, right?”
I nod eagerly. “Yeah. And why are you just telling me this incredibly interesting story now?”
“Well, we don’t really talk about it. I’m only making an exception because I want you to see that my mom chose my dad even when it wasn’t convenient.”
; “Because truth is, love is hardly ever convenient.” A honeyed voice resounds in the corridor.
Our heads spin to Christina’s mom. Her slender physique doesn’t fill the sweater dress that exposes her long legs. She’s beautiful. I’ve always admired her features—the stunning shade of her coppery-brown skin and the black locks that twist and puff above her head like an abundance of dark clouds.
“You girls should get cleaned up,” she says, approaching us. “When you’re rested . . .” Tenderly, she strokes Christina’s hair flat, but the coils spring wild again. “And when we’ve had dinner”—she focuses on me—“we’ll talk.”
* * *
* * *
AFTER DINNER, WE ALL SIT IN THE SUNROOM. THE BLAZE IN the stone fireplace creates a cozy ambiance. Christina’s parents nestle under a thick quilt. My snuggle buddy is Christina. We share a wool blanket and look through the floor-to-ceiling windows, enjoying the sight of dusk shimmering over the frosty lake.
“I love it here. It’s so beautiful,” I say, bringing a cup of hot chocolate to my lips.
“That’s the greatest thing about this place,” Christina’s dad says. “The scenery.” His attention moves to his wife. He pulls the quilt over her legs, depriving himself of its comfort.
“Twenty-seven years,” I say. “That’s pretty impressive. How do you make it work?”
They both turn to me, but it’s Christina’s mom who speaks.
“Love, patience, respect, trust.” That isn’t the answer I was hoping for, and she realizes it. She leans away from her husband and sits up. “Acceptance,” she says. “We’re different. Obviously. But I accept his differences, and he accepts mine.” She tucks a dark curl behind her ear and searches my eyes. “Christina tells me you’ve been struggling with the fact that Rafael isn’t Nigerian. It’s been a little difficult.”
“Yeah.” I place the cup of hot chocolate on the table and pull the plush blanket to my chest. “Auntie, I tried. Believe me. I really did. But there was always this voice in the back of my head, reminding me we were too different.” Reminding me of what I could lose by being with him—my culture, my identity. That same voice constantly reminded me of the promise I had broken.
“And whose voice was that?”
I don’t answer.
“Mine was my mother’s,” she confesses. “Her voice was always in the back of my head, telling me it could never work because I was Nigerian and Frank was Italian.”
“But you chose him. And the voice—your mother’s—wasn’t it still there, tormenting you, making you feel guilty?” I speak from experience.
“The day I walked out the church instead of down the aisle, it stopped. I decided to listen to my voice, not my mother’s. And my voice told me Frank was the one.” Her eyebrows draw together as she studies me. “What about you, Azere? What is your voice telling you?”
I’m quiet, but Christina speaks on my behalf.
“Azere is still trying to find her voice,” she says. “She had it once. Walked out of a kitchen instead of a church, but it was equally empowering. But somehow, sadly, she lost it again.”
I don’t reprimand her because she isn’t being malicious. She’s being honest. The rebellion I felt months ago was brief. Yet, it prompted me to speak up, to stand up to my mom, to take what I wanted despite the consequences. I was that girl for a moment in my life. I wish I could be her again.
“Auntie, did your family forgive you? Did they forgive you for choosing him?”
“Eventually,” she says. “Years after the runaway-bride fiasco. When Christina was born, I sent them a picture. They wanted to meet their first grandchild. Forgiveness came slowly after.”
“Told ya,” Christina gloats. “Babies have a way of bringing people together. I was the glue that mended my family.”
“Yeah, they were in love with Christina. At first, they tolerated Frank because of her. Slowly, they got to know him.” She looks at her husband, and her lips turn up in a smile. “Now, they love him too.”
“What about your family, Uncle? Were they okay with you marrying a Nigerian?”
“My family in Canada was fine with it. But my family in Italy, my grandparents, didn’t approve. They love Christina. But Grace, not so much.” He rubs his wife’s shoulder. “They’re old. They’ve lived in a small village their whole lives and are set in their ways.”
“But Mom, bisnonna is warming up to you,” Christina says. “Last time we went to Italy, she was pretty cool. You spoke Italian and totally impressed her.”
She speaks Italian. Interesting. “What about you, Uncle? Do you speak Edo?”
“I ghuan khere,” he says. Translation: I speak a little.
I’m amazed.
“Don’t look so surprised, Azere,” Christina’s mother says. “We’ve been together for years. It’s only normal we learn about each other’s culture—I take on some of his, and he takes on some of mine. Doing that doesn’t mean he’s any less of an Italian and I’m any less of a Nigerian. It just means our world expanded, became richer.”
Perhaps that was Rafael’s intention, and I was too scared and naive to envision it.
“I was excited to learn about Frank’s culture because I loved him. Azere, do you love Rafael?”
My lips are sealed, confining the answer like it’s the content in Pandora’s box.
“You’re scared to admit how you feel because the consequences are grave—be with him, lose your mom. I get it. But if you really love him, you shouldn’t let anything get in the way. Especially your mother’s voice.”
During my relationship with Rafael, that voice was relentless. It confused me and controlled me. However, after listening to Christina’s parents, I’m inspired to resist that ever-present voice.
That night, before getting ready for bed, I reach for my phone and compose a text message.
Rafael. Can we talk?
I hit Send before I change my mind.
Delivered. That appears under the message I’ve sent.
Minutes pass. Hours pass. No response.
In bed, a little after two in the morning, I check my phone.
Read. That appears under the message I sent over five hours ago. And yet, no reply.
chapter
38
I spent two days in Muskoka, sipping hot chocolate by the fireplace, enjoying the stunning landscape, and watching Christina’s parents with a renewed hope for Rafael and me. Sunday morning, as Christina drove us back to Toronto, I ignored the fact that Rafael hadn’t answered my message. At home, without my best friend, ignoring that fact proved difficult. And that’s why I’m here—in a private elevator that will soon open to reveal Rafael’s waterfront penthouse.
Just as my anticipation peaks, the double steel doors part. I step out of the elevator and look from the sitting room to the kitchen.
“Rafael?” I move to the balcony where he often sits, even when it’s cold. I attempt to slide the glass door open, but light footsteps make me whirl around.
“Azere,” Selena says, smiling. “Hi.” She rushes forward and hugs me. “It’s so good to see you.”
“You too, Selena.” I hold her tight. Over her shoulder, Rafael stands with his hands in his pockets, his face deadpan.
“What a pleasant surprise.” She pulls back and turns to her brother. “Right, Rafael?”
He says nothing—not a word, and his face remains straight.
“Anyway.” She turns to me. “You actually came at the perfect time. We just finished setting up the nursery. Wanna see? Come. I’ll show you.” She takes my hand and leads me to the second floor. Rafael trails a few feet behind us, taking his time on the floating stairs. When we reach the third door on the floor, Selena claps and squeals. “I present to you Baby Castellano’s nursery.” She turns the knob and pushes the door wide open.
The first thing that
comes into view is the wall decal that’s in the form of a massive tree. The tree’s leafy branches curve over the crib; its white color pops out against the gray wall and complements the subtle hints of turquoise that decorate the room.
“You did this?” I turn to Rafael behind me.
“We did this,” Selena corrects. “I was the interior decorator, he was the handyman.”
“It’s beautiful.” I step into the room and further examine the space.
On one wall, there’s a shelf hosting an array of stuffed animals and a second shelf with towels, diapers, and blankets. Silver picture frames with paintings of baby animals—an elephant, a lion, a giraffe, and a zebra—cover another wall.
“You did an amazing job.”
Selena accepts the compliment with a wide grin, but Rafael is still sporting his stoic expression. The tension between us can’t be mistaken for anything else. I consider cowering and leaving, but heavy breathing and the pitter-patter of little paws make me perk up.
“Hey, Milo.” The small dog enters the room with his tail wagging. He approaches me, and I bend down, as much as my round stomach will allow, to pet him. “Did you miss me?” He licks my hand, and I giggle. “I missed you too, boy.”
“Selena.” Rafael clears his throat. “Can you give me and Azere a minute?”
“Um . . .” She looks from her brother to me. “Yeah. Sure.”
“And take Milo.”
“Okay.” She heads to the door and calls for the dog, promising him treats if he follows. He accepts the bribe and trots off, and Rafael and I are left alone.
It’s beyond awkward. It has been since he walked in on Elijah and me. At the office, we interact only when it’s necessary, and our conversations are short. He makes it to every doctor’s appointment but converses with Farah far more than he does with me. Maybe whatever he felt for me is gone now. After everything, I wouldn’t blame him.
“Azere, what are you doing here?” His voice is firm and flinty.
“I wanted to see you.” My voice is small and weak in comparison to his. “I sent you a text message. You read it. I know you did. And you said nothing.”