On the balcony, I lounge on a chair and Milo hops on my lap. Lake Ontario expands beyond the terrace, city lights and the auburn and indigo hues of dusk reflecting over its swaying, glistening form. The view is serene; it’s the reason I bought the lakefront property. This close to the water, the air is cooler, which I prefer. I enjoy the breeze, the music, and the company of Milo, who is receiving some much-deserved love and attention. When I close my eyes, my mind wanders off to her again.
Azere.
I think about her—how she walks purposefully, gracefully in stilettos. I think about how her long lashes brush against the thin crease of skin beneath her brown eyes. I think of all her small gestures that seem as seamless and fluid as a dance. Like the way her fingers twirl a lock of her patterned hair—around and around, pulling and smoothening.
Each memory makes my heart race.
My eyes flash open, and as I look over the vast, tranquil lake, I can’t help but wonder if the memory of our night together is etched in her mind as it is in mine.
chapter
4
My suspicion has been confirmed.
Denial is pointless now, and yet, it’s the one thing capable of getting me through this night.
I pull into my mom’s driveway and park the black Toyota. Tears burn my eyes, and I fan them away. I cried in my apartment immediately after learning the truth, a truth that will surely upend my world. It’s best I keep this information to myself. My family can’t know—no one can.
Just pretend like everything is okay. You can do this, Azere.
I twist a lock of braid between two fingers. Feeling the intertwining pattern of the neat plait relaxes me. I continue the motion for seconds before stepping out of the car.
I’ve got this.
The pavement is wet from rain that only just stopped. Along with the petrichor drifting in the warm May air, there is a trace of my mother’s cooking. The aroma of the signature ingredients— ground crayfish and red palm oil—reminds me of life in the Nigerian village I was born and grew up in.
It was nothing like this charming suburban neighborhood. As I admire the trimmed lawns, some with For Sale signs wedged in them, I remember that houses in my village weren’t sold and bought. Generations of my family lived, thrived, multiplied, and died in one house, our single history just as important as every building block keeping the structure standing year after year. I remember how we all shared a lifestyle and an identity that was crafted by those who came before us. My father, like his father, was a farmer. My mother sold foodstuff in the market. When she was young, she would balance a tray of smoked fish on her head and hawk on the streets. At nine, I did the same. With one hand supporting the tray on my head and the other braced on my hip, I strolled down the streets laden with red sand and dust, the same streets my mother had walked and her mother before her.
I remember at home, in our immense compound, I plucked guavas and cashews from the trees my grandfather had planted as a child. In the mornings, I walked two miles through narrow, crooked roads to attend the school my great-grandfather had helped construct. In the evenings, as the scorching heat of day waned and termites fluttered toward lit kerosene lanterns, my father told my sister and me greatly exaggerated tales of our ancestors—the fighters and the cowards, the dreamers and the unbelievers, the vengeful and the justified.
In Nigeria, my entire life was an extension of my lineage. There—in a close-knit community, tucked away from the rest of the world—nothing existed but the paths my ancestors had paved, the buildings they had molded with sand and concrete and sweat, the lands they had cultivated and bled to defend, the traditions they had created and nurtured, the myths they had fabricated and adopted as truths.
In that village, life was simpler, more familiar. I miss it.
The faint sound of a dribbling ball redirects my attention to the suburban neighborhood, to Jason Carter who is approaching me and bouncing a basketball against the pavement with weary disinterest.
“Hey, Azere.” He tucks the ball in his armpit, and an impish grin appears on his boyish face. “What’s up, babe?”
“Babe?” I frown and cock my head. “Seriously?”
I babysat Jason when he was a kid. When he was a sweet kid. Now, he’s eighteen. He has a rugged beard patched along his weak jawline, an ego with its own zip code, and an agenda to add my name to his developing little black book.
“Or do you prefer sweetheart?”
“Funny,” I say. “That’s what I used to call you right after tucking you in bed.”
“Well, if you wanna relive the past, I’m up for it. But just so you know, I sleep naked now.”
“Yeah.” I give him a once-over, shifting my eyes from his head to his feet. “I’m sure there’s been no progress.”
“Seeing is believing, babe. Once I get you alone, I’m sure I can make you a believer. But you gotta promise. If I show you mine, you gotta show me yours.”
“Gosh.” I cringe. “When did you become such a perv?”
“I’m just a man who knows what he wants.” His fingers move through his hair, tousling the confusion of thick brown curls and blond tangled frizz.
“Well, man.” I lick my thumb and bring it to his face. “Looks like you’ve been playing in the sandbox.”
My wet thumb smears a patch of dirt on his cheek. When I pull back, he gawks at me—his skin flushed and his mouth wide open. Above our heads, moths flutter around the glow of the streetlight.
“You might want to close that big mouth of yours.” I pat his cheek and turn away. The stone walkway leads me to the front door of the quaint bungalow.
“Well, look who it is,” my sister, Efe, says when I step into the air-conditioned house. She’s standing by the entry table, sipping red wine with perfect ease. “Mom has a surprise for you, and it’s in the living room.” She struts toward me, her yellow sundress flapping against her knees.
She looks like me, with the same glistening chestnut skin and full lips. Our slight differences are aspects that make her prettier. Like the slanted cheekbones that shape her oval face and her honey-brown eyes that have a sharp lift at their corners, creating a cat eye.
“So,” I say. “What does this one look like?”
“Rich. He looks rich.” She strokes a lock of her chemically straightened hair behind her multi-pierced ear. “He smells rich too.”
“Rich has a smell?”
“If you have the nose for it. He kinda looks familiar too, but . . .” She squints and taps her pursed lips, thinking.
“Yeah? But what?” I urge.
“I don’t know. Can’t make the connection. But maybe you know him.”