“Right.” Groaning, I kick off my shoes. “Oya, let’s get this over with. Where’s everyone?”
“Uncle is entertaining your guest. Mom’s getting dinner ready. We’ve all been stalling, anticipating your arrival.” She tilts her head and observes me from an angle. “Azere, you don’t look so good. You look . . . terrified. What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing. I’m fine. Mom’s waiting.”
I rush down the corridor, and pictures of my family, framed on the beige wall, blur at the corner of my eye. Nerves and dread rattle in the pit of my stomach. I inhale and exhale at a steady, controlled pace.
“Mom?” I say, entering the kitchen. My voice is a whisper muffled by the swishing of the kitchen ventilation.
“Mommy,” I speak louder this time, “good evening.”
She focuses on her task, separating browned plantains from sizzling oil and tossing them into a bowl lined with paper towels.
“Sorry I’m late.”
Seconds after my apology, she spins around, and her floor-length lilac dress sways against her petite physique. “A-ze-re.” When the syllables in my name are emphasized, it means I’m in trouble. “I expected you an hour ago.” She scowls and pins her dark lips in a rigid line. “Ah-ahn! What took you so long?”
Despite thirteen years in Canada, her Nigerian accent is still thick. Sometimes, it’s like her accent is calling out to mine, saying: “Hey, authentic Nigerian Azere, come out and play.” And that’s when the accent, the one I tried hard to hide after my move to Canada, forces its way out. This happens whenever I’m at home with my family, when I don’t feel the complete pressure of being wedged between two worlds, when I’m not a Nigerian Canadian. When I’m just Nigerian. Then I speak freely, mixing pidgin English with Edo or simply speaking fluent English but with a Nigerian intonation, altering the rhythm of each word.
“Mommy,” I say, “lahọ. Don’t be angry. I’m here now. Sorry for being late.”
“Don’t tell me sorry o. Sorry for yourself.”
I hate it when she does that, when she turns my apology into an insult. Sorry for yourself. Try to apologize to a Nigerian mother and that’s usually the phrase you get in return.
“Anyway.” She leaves her position by the stove and circles me. She’s inspecting my outfit, ensuring I appear appealing to my latest suitor. As she moves, the fluorescent light gleams on her smooth, dark skin that’s oiled with shea butter. “Azere, why are you dressed like this? Eh?” She yanks on the loose-fitting blouse I’m wearing. “What is the meaning of this nonsense? Your figure is not even showing at all. What kind of wahala is this? It looks like your breasts are playing hide and seek.”
“Mostly hide,” my sister chimes in.
“Lord, have mercy.” My mother rubs the creases that line her tense forehead. “In fact, why aren’t you wearing Nigerian clothes? Eh? I know you have many. Or did you throw them away to make room in your closet for jeans and T-shirts?”
“No, Mommy. I still have them.”
“Then why aren’t you wearing one? You’re meeting your future husband for the first time. And let me also add that this boy is a doctor. A medical doctor. You should have dressed like a bride. Instead, you look like a farmer going to harvest cassava. To make matters worse, you are too thin. Look.” She pokes my collarbone. “They’re all sticking out.”
“Osanobua,” I say, grumbling. “Mommy, they’ve always been like that.”
“No. Not when you were living in this house, eating Nigerian food on a regular basis. Now you are on your own, eating those yeye Canadian food every single day. Quinoa salad, avocado toast, smoothie bowl.” She rolls her eyes. “If you were eating Nigerian food, you would be more robust and have enough flesh to cover your bones.”
“Right.” I have no words. None.
“Anyway, what can we do now? You are here, he is here. Let us go.”
“Okay,” I say. “Sure. But I just need a minute.”
“A minute to do what? To do what, Azere?”
To mentally prepare myself for another tragic setup.
“You have kept that man waiting long enough.” My mother grimaces, and her round face distorts awkwardly. “He did not come here to gist with your uncle.” Because she’s irritated, her Nigerian accent deepens. She speaks slowly, stressing the syllables in each word. “You are not wast-ing an-oth-er min-ute—not ev-en a sec-ond.” She grips my arm and hauls me toward the living room. “Oya. Let us go. And don’t forget to smile and flirt with your eyes.”
Flirt with my eyes. How the hell does that work?
To my right, Efe shuffles beside me. She gives me two thumbs up, and I stick out my tongue at her.
“Look who has finally arrived,” my mom announces when we enter the living room. “Ah-ahn.” She scans the space, then turns to my uncle, who is sitting in a brown armchair, effortlessly projecting confidence and authority as patriarch of the family. “Where is Azere’s future husband? Where did he go?”
“He stepped out to take a work call,” my uncle answers. “He should be back shortly.”
“Thank God.” My mother exhales. “I thought Azere found a way to chase this one off without even meeting him.”
I roll my eyes and turn my attention elsewhere. “Good evening, Uncle,” I say.
“Omwinwen.” He calls me his child in Edo, our language. He’s been calling me that since I was twelve—since my father, his younger brother, died.
After the funeral, my uncle—who immigrated to Canada in his early twenties and had a successful career as an engineer—brought my family over to live with him. He shouldered the responsibilities his brother left behind. Omwinwen. At first, it was strange to hear him call me that. I wasn’t his child. I had never even met the man until my father’s death. And though he had my father’s full face, deep-set eyes, sienna pigment, and dimpled smile, the distinction was clear. He was not my father.
He was a widower. He lost his wife to cancer and was the father of a boy, Jacob. My uncle understood loss and honored the ties of family. My mother, my sister, and I lived with him for four years after coming to Canada. Selflessly, he took care of us. He provided necessities and more and even financed my mother’s nursing school education. He never resented our presence, nor did he deviate from his unassigned duty. In time, reservations and technicalities were put aside. I loved and respected him. He became my father, and his son, my brother.
“Azere,” my uncle says, looking over my shoulder. “Your visitor is here. Turn around. Greet him.”