You Know You Belong

FIRST THREE CHAPTERS (FROM THE ADVANCED READER COPY)

I’m Here Now

Life is short. Those were the words that held my gaze an hour after the doctor, with a solemn voice and sad eyes, told us Grandma Lily had passed away. I remember holding Dad’s hand a little tighter as I stared at that uninspiring painting of a dove with the words underneath. And I remember thinking, ‘how cliché’, but also how painfully true. Nothing ever prepares you for when a loved one dies. One minute they are there, and the next they are so far away you can never get them back.
I lived with my paternal grandmother, Lily Costa, in Glenwood Springs, Colorado, until she passed away the summer I turned nine. Grandma Lily had been a huge part of my life, well kind of the only part of my life, and her being gone made me feel empty, lonely, and unsure of who I really was without her.
I always wondered why I lived with her and not with my parents. Not that I had any complaints. She was an angel. Still, it was strange, and sometimes I longed to have my parents with me. I wanted to be like the other kids in my school who always had their parents around during school events. They always seemed so happy, so complete.
Grandma Lily had been married to Dominic Oghenerhoro, a Nigerian of Urhobo descent. They had two boys, my dad, James Oghenerhoro, and his older brother, Joshua. They were married for seventeen years until she filed for a divorce, and they went their separate ways. He returned to Nigeria, leaving the boys with her. After graduating from the university, Dad and his brother went in search of Dominic and decided to stay in Nigeria with him, leaving my grandmother devastated. She once told me her life had been like an empty box until I had shown up and filled it up with the sweetest things. She said I was her little light, shining brighter than the sun, illuminating her world.
In all my nine years with her, Dad always kept in contact. He visited nineteen times, yes, I calculated. And of those times, he always arrived in time for my birthday. He never missed it. My mother, whom everyone simply called Nan, was not Nigerian.

She was from the island country of Cape Kilo and from the Amani tribe, one of the major tribes there.
She was a complete stranger to me, although everyone repeated how alike we both were, sharing the same round eyes and sharp cheekbones. She visited only twice, both on my birthdays, spaced three years apart. I had a feeling she was forced to come on those two occasions.
After the funeral, I packed my bags and donned on my Batman sweatshirt and a pair of shorts, not yet ready to begin a new life elsewhere.
“Are you ready, Zen?” Dad asked, stretching out his hand. “My camera.”
”It’s right here,” he said, handing me the camera from the entryway table.
Grandma Lily knew I had taken an interest in photography ever since I saw the pictures she took growing up in Italy. She bought me my first camera to encourage me to follow my passion.
“Why wasn’t mom here for the funeral?” I asked.
Dad opened the back door of the car and put in my carry-on luggage. He took a long time to reply. Finally, he said, “She was busy, and she’s really sorry.”
I did not believe she was sorry or busy.
We arrived in Lagos by 4 p.m. that day. I disliked the heat and the dust, but I was excited to be in my home country.
Dad put my luggage into the trunk of one of the cars and opened the passenger door for me. In a minute, we were out on the road. I hungrily took in the sights.
“Where are we headed?” I asked, taking a break from looking at the yellow buses with people crammed inside.
“Victoria Island,” Dad answered.
When we arrived at our destination, it was already dark. Two men in blue khaki uniforms allowed us through a massive gate. On the side of the fence was the inscription ‘Oak Leaves Estate ’ in bold colors. We slowed down after taking a turn to the left. The butterfly-shaped gate to the two -story building was thrown wide open by someone whose face was hidden by a white cap.

Dad parked the car in a carport.
“Welcome home.” Dad smiled, taking the bags out of the car. “Where’s mom?”
“She’ll be back later tonight. She has to work.”
I followed Dad through the front door with a lion-head knob into the warm house, and we went up the stairs.
He opened the door to the room at the end of the hall. The cold air coming from inside was refreshing. I looked at the blinking light on the air-conditioning unit.
“This is your room. Blue is still your favorite color right?.” I nodded
The paint was more periwinkle than blue, with white stripes running vertically down the walls. The duvet on the bed was blue, and so was the soft rug placed at the center of the tiled floor. An HP computer sat on a large reading table, and beside it was a stack of books. I walked around the room and peered through the curtained window. I had a clear view of the gazebo, hammock, and square pool behind the house.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he said, assuming the air of a host. “Thanks … Dad,” I added as an afterthought.
“You’re most welcome.”
After he left, I sat on the bed and cried. I missed Grandma Lily so much. I missed the way she rolled her hair into a bun as she made her vanilla cupcakes. I missed her telling me what to do when I was confused and felt like the world was against me. But I was about to begin my new life with my parents, and that was as exciting as it was scary.
I did not see Mom until morning. She looked surprised to see me. She gave me a brief hug before telling me she had to go to work and to make myself feel at home.
Later that week, a party was thrown to celebrate my arrival. There, I met my paternal grandfather again for the third time.
My uncle, Joshua, his wife and his two children, Deki and Ufuoma, were also at the party.

Uncle Joshua, without his beard, looked like Dad’s twin brother.
I didn’t know what made it so, but I felt more confortable around my maternal grandmother, who had flown in all the way from Cape Kilo. And Aunt Gini, my mother’s younger and only sister. She would use the F-word occasionally while speaking and be yelled at by Grandma. She had just recently divorced her first husband and was rather happy about it.
Aunt Gini talked about quitting her job as a flight attendant to concentrate on her jewelry business and fashion line, which were making a name for themselves. She then showed us her new tattoo of a compass on her ankle. Grandma once again yelled at her, this time to stop ruining her skin with ungodly tattoos.
“I’ve got an appointment for a thigh tattoo I’m not missing,” she replied. I really likedAunt Gini.
In the weeks that followed, I had to adjust to a lot of things. One was learning how to ‘greet ’ people older than I was. I had to say good morning or good afternoon or good evening, depending on the time of the day. It was such a tedious task. I also had to adjust to a lot of food. I could manage eating moi-moi, but I did not like beans made with palm oil. It just did not appeal to me. I took an instant liking to akara and egusi soup, as long as it was not peppery. I could not adjust to the pepper.
I was quite happy, experimenting with new things and researching the beautiful yet mysterious country that held so much potential, until things started changing. Mom was a saint at first, spending time with me and taking me to events for Elite!, the fashion studio she co-founded. But that all changed quickly. She began coming home later than usual and snapped at me for every little mistake. I started to feel that I was not wanted. That something must be wrong with me to never ever be on her good side.
I tried to be a better daughter. I stayed quiet around her, and I never bothered her. I always answered promptly the few times she knew I existed.
But that changed nothing.
It became obvious when I waited almost three hours for her to pick me up from school. In the end, Dad came to my rescue. He did not want me to feel bad, so he

suggested we go out for ice cream.
“Why does mom hate me?” I asked when we were seated in the restaurant. “She doesn’t hate you. She’s just very busy with work. Eat your ice cream.”
And I ate, knowing my instinct was right.
All mom had to say when she was confronted later that night about not showing up was, “I forgot.” And when dad demanded an apology, she said something in Amani that made him stop asking any more questions.
From that moment, my presence seemed to create a rift between her and dad. It started out as harsh whispers which immediately stopped whenever I appeared. They would smile and walk in opposite directions. It escalated within a short time. Harsh whispers that turned into loud arguments, with terrible words thrown back and forth. Mom was usually the one who began such quarrels, and ninety-nine percent of the time, I was the trigger.
Dad was a peacemaker, but it was hard to remain calm when someone was screaming into his face. They argued about every little thing, and when I could not take it any longer, I called Grandma. She told me to pray. She sounded convinced that would help.
Aunt Gini told me not to worry, that my parents always fought. It was their way of showing they loved each other. That they cared too much. That didn’t sound right.
Things did not change, even though I prayed every night to God to do something. Anything.
Then I made the mistake of trying to intervene during one of their squabbles.
“Stay the hell away! This doesn’t concern you!” Mom yelled, pushing me aside.
I fell to the floor and ended up fracturing my arm in the process. I did not notice it at first because a high-pitched scream erupted from Mom when Dad punched a hole through the new family portrait. It was a defining moment for me. I concluded that the situation was beyond spiritual help, so I resorted to putting on my headphones. God bless Nathaniel Baldwin.

All I had to do was crank the volume up and let the music block everything out. In no time, I had learnt to lock myself in my own world where nothing could reach me. Sometimes the situation got so bad that mom would leave the house for a few days after a fight. Dad would plunge into a quagmire of despair, worrying over her. Whenever she returned, she would say nothing. Dad would eventually calm down and try to talk to her. There would be peace for a while, until the next inevitable fight.
Aunt Gini would somehow find out and call to check on me. “I’m fine,” I would answer.
“Believe it or not, there was a time your parents were really in love.” “You mean in hate, don’t you?”
“It’s going to be OK, Zen,” were her reiterating words.
I was not so sure. I was waiting for the day one of them would hand the other divorce papers and finally be done with it. But according to Grandma, in African society, divorce was not a usual thing, although at that time Aunt Gini was well on her way to a second one.
Grandma asked to keep praying and to remain positive no matter how bad things were. What she didn’t know was that my positivity had long since died and would never return.

I DIDN’T ASK FOR THIS

The holiday before my last term as a senior in secondary school was the longest I had ever experienced. On Christmas Day, I spent the entire day watching The Walking Dead, even though I had been invited to a party next door. New Year’s Day was no different either.
The day I was to resume school for the second term, my alarm clock, which rested on my bedside table, woke me up at exactly 5:30 a.m., as it did every day. It had rained the night before, and I wished I could remain in bed and sleep all day. But I knew if I dared spend a minute more on the bed, Dad would come in to give me

a lecture.
“Do you want to walk to school?” he would usually begin, giving me a look of disapproval. “You have to learn from the ants. They never sleep, you know. Always working and—”
That was always my cue to tune off as I nodded mechanically.
I dragged myself out of bed and made my way sluggishly to the bathroom. I proceeded to the sink to brush my teeth, but stopped midway when I heard footsteps.
“Zenobia, are you in there?” Dad asked, sounding as though he was contemplating whether to knock. “I’m decent, just brushing my teeth,” I told him.
He pushed the door open but did not cross the threshold. His lower eyelids were swollen, like he had not slept in days.
“Good morning, Dad.”
“Morning, dear. How was your night?” “Alright.”
I took out my brush from the empty rack meant for toothbrushes.
“When you’re done, please see me. I’ll be in my study,” he said and left.
For the first time in a long while, he was not hurrying me up for school. There was a look on his face that made me sure whatever he was preparing to tell me would not be to my liking.
The door to the master bedroom was ajar when I got there after taking a hurried shower. I knocked.
“Dad?”
“Come in.”
He was fumbling with his tie as he motioned for me to sit on one of the blue leather armchairs that facing the TV. I waited in silence. It was unusual he was taking this much time to speak, since he had to drop me off at school first before heading to work.
“Dad?” .
“Yes,” he answered, trying to avoid my gaze.
He cleared his throat and coughed. It was a fake cough, which meant whatever he

had to say certainly wasn’t going to be good.
“There will be no school for you today.” He paused to let his words sink in. It appeared he wanted me to say something. I remained silent.
“Or the day after. There’ll be no school for you until your General Certificate exams start. I’m going to find you a very good private tutor.” Another pause again.
I still did not know how to react, so I simply stated the obvious. “But I like my school.”
Even though I had no friends and everyone thought I was the snobbiest of snobs, it was better than staying home, where I could be ambushed at any time of the day by my parents.
“The teachers can help me with whatever any private tutor will.”
He relaxed and smiled. “I’m your dad. I know this will be good for you. Besides, with exams coming, little will be done in school. Students will sit all day in class and gist from now till forever. You remember Doctor Balogun?”
I nodded.
“His daughter is doing the same thing, and it has been working out just fine. And he gets to spend more time with her before she goes off to university.”
He smiled.
His statement amazed me. I had no one but my books to gist with, and he knew that.
I wanted to say it out loud, but I knew that would dampen his mood and perhaps ruin his day.
“Kids have to socialize.”
He would make that passing comment whenever I refused to attend parties or bring a friend over. But he knew the reason I would never do that being the psychiatrist that he was, always trying understand his daughter better.

I did not want to be embarrassed if a friend saw him and Mom fighting over nothing.
What I really wanted was to spend even less time at home. But hearing the

emotion behind him talking about his friend spending more time with his daughter, I caved.
I walked down the stairs to Mom’s room, where I found her arranging her clothes in the closet. On one hand she held a jacket, in the other, her phone pressed to her ear. She was yelling at her assistant. Lately, she was on the phone a lot, yelling and coordinating.
She hung up and listened when I told her about what Dad had told me. “Did you know?” I asked.
“No, I didn’t.”
My heart sank just a little. Even after all these years, I couldn’t believe still held out hope she’d mirror some of the feelings Dad had toward me. Would it be so bad to want to spend time with me before I left home?
She looked down at me, sighed,and asked , “Well, what do you want me to do?” “I just wanted you to know.”
“Now I know.” She was back on her phone again.

I stood up and walked away, wondering why I bothered in the first place. She was already yelling. Her voice stopped me at the doorway.
“What now?” I muttered to myself.
“Tell that girl she’d better throw away that sad excuse for a stew before I enter that kitchen. I can’t eat poison to work.”
She was referring to Abigail, the new maid, who had put in a ton of pepper and a strong-smelling spice into last night’s stew.
I found Abigail in the kitchen washing out the pot. I nodded in approval at her instinctive thinking.
‘May you leave here in one piece, ’ I mumbled to myself.
Bisi, the last maid, had been lucky to leave physically unscathed. Mentally, however, she was scarred for life.
Back in my room, I sat down on the bed and glanced at the oval mirror on the dressing table. I should have been careful what I wished for. Now I had all day to

sleep if I wanted to.
I reached for my phone so I could call Deki. He was the only one who counted as a friend. I had always felt that cousins were obligated to like each other and declare themselves friends.
Deki was the one who introduced me to a bad but welcoming habit. I never thought smoking a cigarette would be so calming until he lit one up and pushed it into my mouth. He was a complicated individual. Underneath all the forced bravado, I could tell he too had been wounded at home in some way, and like me, was just trying to find ways to escape.
Since then, he had become my regular cigarette supplier. In times of stress, which, incidentally happened every day, I smoked in the bathroom to calm my nerves.
That was what I proceeded to do when I heard Mom and Dad arguing about his decision. I had to steady my trembling right hand to get the cigarette to my lips.
I threw the cigarette away and decided to call Aunt Gini. “And what’s your mother saying about this?”.
“What do you think?”
She sighed.”You’d think I’d know my own sister. Cheer up, darling. You could come live with me.”
“Mom would rather throw me in front of a bus than allow that. So, would Dad. Something about you being a horrible influence. That is actually the only thing they both agree on.”
She laughed softly.
I remembered the year after I arrived in Lagos when Aunt Gini took me along to get another tattoo on her thigh and got me a temporary one on my arm. Dad went crazy and warned her never to try such a thing ever again, or she would be banned from seeing me. To Aunt Gini that would only be a challenge.
“A divorce is not a bad thing, Zen. When a man starts to bore you, you leave
him.”
She was referring to her recent ex-husband, her fourth. Aunt Gini would never allow a man to anchor her to the shore, which meant she could lead a pirate’s life,

wandering the seas.
Aunt Gini was life.
“You’re not a bad influence.”
“I know. I’m awesome. Take care, darling. Love you.” “Love you, too,” I said and hung up.

---

Finding a good private tutor was not as easy as Dad thought it would be. He interviewed a couple of people, and when he found them wanting, discarded them. After a long search, he finally chose one: Miss Precious Okeke.
She was in her early thirties but looked younger than her age. She was dark in complexion, had acne spots on her face, and an athletic build. Dad approved of her because they shared the same alma mater. Mom was indifferent toward his choice.
Miss Okeke was good at her job, and I liked how patient and soft spoken she was. Things were going well, until Mom came pouncing into my room one evening like an enraged dragon.
At first, I could not make out what she was angry about. I caught words like gold necklace, jewelry, stolen. After a while, she began cursing in Amani. When she calmed down, she demanded to know where I had hidden them.
“I didn’t take your jewelry,” I told her.
“Then who did? Abigail would not dare take any of my things because she knows I will kill her. Who else will steal my jewelry if not the devil’s incarnate.”
The devil being Dad. Of all the nicknames she gave him, that was the only one that never went out of season.
“Who did you sell them to? Your ugly teacher?”
Yes, my teacher was the only one who could have taken her jewelry because she had almost ten minutes to herself the previous day before Dad and I returned from our outing.
I told Mom this, and she immediately turned her anger towards Miss Okeke. She spat so much venom about the woman that I almost forgot I had been the guilty party

seconds earlier.
Subsequent investigations were carried out, and Miss Okeke was found guilty. It took all the effort Dad could muster to keep Miss Okeke from going to jail and to keep his head attached to his neck. After all, he was the one who let a thief into our home. It was a total riot in the house that day.
Regardless of the unfortunate incident, Dad insisted that I stay at home to study. Meanwhile, he would continue his search for an efficient and non-thieving tutor.

I HAVE TO NOT BE HERE

“Your cousin is coming over tomorrow to stay the weekend,” Mom announced as she shredded the vegetables on the sink with her hands.
Deki had texted the previous day to tell me he was coming.
“I don’t like that boy one bit,” she continued, putting the vegetables into a deep colander. I watched from a corner as Abigail poured a large quantity of semovita into a pot of boiling water. “And I clearly can’t tell your father about the boy’s upsetting vibe. He would ignore me. Deki has an evil spirit in him. I can sense it.”
I laughed it off and said jokingly, “Maybe we should invite Pastor David to deliver him then.”
“This is no joking matter,” she said. “Maybe I will.”
I shook my head in amusement and went back to my room.
The fact that Deki was spending the weekend was perfect, sort of. At least I would have someone to study with, since he was preparing to write JAMB. He had failed to gain admission into any university the previous year, so he was trying again. Word had it that Grandpa refused to use his numerous connections to help him. Grandpa was not known to be selfish, in fact, he gave freely, but only to those who earned it, and Deki had not earned his help. The old man was a firm believer in hard work.
Deki arrived an hour later than he planned that windy Thursday afternoon. The only luggage he brought with him, although he was staying the weekend, was his school bag, which did not look remotely heavy to me. He looked around the living room like he was seeing it for the first time. Was he high? Adjusting the bag on his broad shoulders with a quick movement, he prostrated halfway to greet Dad who was home earlier that day for some reason.
“Migwo.”

“Vrendo,” Dad replied, giving him a wide approving smile. “Omagare?” “Oyoma.” Deki stood up straight.
After spending a month with Grandpa’s family in Warri, Deki had returned armed with the ability to converse almost fluently in Urhobo and pidgin English.
Dad asked about his sister and his mother as I returned my gaze to the movie on the TV screen.
Deki slumped on the chair beside me and sighed, saying they were doing fine.
“Zen, won’t you say hi to your cousin?” My head perked up at the sound of my name.
“Yanjowo,” Deki told Dad. “We know how we run our things.” Dad chuckled and picked up the remote to change the channel.
“I should drop my bag,” Deki said, standing up.
I followed him to the guest room. The moment we were behind closed doors, he gave me an unnecessary bear hug.
“Let me go,” I protested.
“Are you not happy to see me, dear cousin?” he teased. “I am happy,” I answered calmly.
“Then why do you look gloomy?” “Stomach ache,” I lied.
“Sorry. Your period?” I ignored him.
He opened his bag and brought out his clothes, laying them parallel to each other on the bed.
“You didn’t bring any books? I thought you were here to study, at least partially.”
“No,” was his plain and only answer. “But you brought it, right?”
“Here you go.” He handed me a small green pack.
“This you remember to bring, but not your books.” I put the pack, which contained the cigarettes, in my pocket.

“I think bringing this makes you happier than me bringing my books. I have to see a friend. He lives around.”
“Which friend ofyours lives in this estate?”
“An old friend of mine, Praise. You have to come with me.”
It sounded more like an order than an invitation. I wanted to say no, but Mom would be back in the house soon and I did not want to be around when she returned.
Dad was already half asleep on the couch, the remote slipping from his hand. I took it from him and placed it on the white ottoman.
“Dad, we’re going out,” I whispered. “Alright.”
He blinked his tired eyes twice and yawned before adjusting himselfproperly.
“He may not remember giving us permission to go out when he wakes up,” I informed Deki.
Praise opened the door after the second ring of the doorbell. He smiled when he saw Deki. His cheeks reminded me of egg rolls, and his stomach protruded slightly from his shirt which was improperly buttoned.
“Guy, how far?” Praise said.
“I dey oh. You just forgot about me. No be so oh.”
“This fine girl looks familiar. I think I’ve seen her around.”
“She’s my cousin, Zenobia,” Deki said, settling on one of the couches as if he owned the place.
My eyes moved from Praise’s face to his shirt. Should I say something about it? “Would you like a drink?” Praise asked me.
“No, thanks.” “Why not?”
Before I could answer, he said, “It doesn’t matter. I’ll get you something.”
“I really don’t want a drink.” I pointed at his shirt. “Your buttons.”
“Oh, thanks.” He walked toward a corridor behind the staircase and came back with three cans of a foreign beer.
Deki accepted one.

I refused mine.
“Don’t tell me you don’t drink alcohol,” he chuckled.
“It doesn’t matter what I drink. I clearly told you I didn’t want one. ” “Come on, don’t be such a downer.”
That did it.
“Look,” I began, facing him squarely and narrowing my eyes in the exact manner Mom did when she wanted to let everyone know her decision was final. “I told you I did not want it. I am not interested in drinking beer.”
His eyes shot up in surprise, but he left me alone.
“She has stomach pain,” Deki put in to placate Praise. “I’ll drink hers.” I tried to tune out their conversation as they drank. It was disturbing to hear them talk about celebrities they would pay to have sex with.
As we headed home, I noticed Deki’s footsteps becoming irregular. The tone of his voice rose and went low unevenly.
“You’re drunk?”
“I’m not,” he argued.
I chuckled at his obvious plight.
“You’re such a wuss. Just two bottles of that rubbish and you can’t even walk straight.”
“I’m not drunk,” he repeated, placing his right arm around me. “Just don’t throw up on me.”
“You’re worse than a rabid dog!” was the first thing I heard when I walked into the house, half dragging Deki with me.
The yelling was coming from the top of the stairs.
“How dare you say that?!” Mom shouted at the top of her voice. “How dare you, you demon!”
“Oh, now I’m a demon?”
Dad came bounding down the stairs and found us at the bottom.
“Where have you been?” he asked, fuming yet still trying to appear calm.
“We went out.”

“What’s wrong with him?” “He’s sick.”
I was just glad Deki kept his mouth shut and tried to look unwell.
He sighed. “Zen, please go to your room and get him something to eat.”
“You devil! You demon! Why did I bind myself to this torturous place?” Mom’s voice floated down harshly.
Dad exhaled sharply and descended the final steps. He walked out the backdoor and slammed it heavily.
I had had enough.
I called Grandma and told her I was coming to stay with her, even if my parents forbade me, for the nth time.
I brought it up as we had dinner together for the first time in almost a year.
“Why do you want to go to Ohara?” Mom asked, placing her fork down carefully.
“Because I feel I’ll study better there, far away from here.” “What do you mean by that?”
My eyes wandered around the table, from Deki, who was pretending he did not exist, to Dad, who was calmly considering what I had said, and finally back to mom who was gritting her teeth mercilessly.
“Dad,” I called softly, hoping with all my heart he would finally let me go.
“Have you called your grandmother and told her about this?”
“Yes.”
“When do you want to leave?”
“Hey!” Mom yelled. “She cannot go to that place. It is not ideal for her.”
“And what right do you have to tell her that?” Dad turned to me, waiting for an answer.
This was very different than the last conversation we had about me going to Ohara.
“Saturday,” I replied, encouraged by his questions.
Mom could not help but be vexed by our ignoring her. “Are you seriously

considering this? I say she doesn’t go.”
“If she wants to go, then she can.” Dad’s words were yea and amen to me.
I felt myself about to burst with excitement. There it was, just a few hours away. I could almost taste it, feel it, see it surround me and fill me with a certain kind of unexplained joy; freedom.
The night before I was to leave for Ohara, Dad came into my room and sat down at the edge of my bed. It was hard to make out his features, but I could tell he was not happy.
I remained still, pretending to be asleep.
A long time passed before he said with a shaky voice, “I wish I could have given you a better home.”
That was the first time I heard Dad cry.

I HOPE THIS HELPS

“Why didn’t you get your hair done?” Deki asked as I used a scrunchie to hold my hair up into a ponytail.
“No time.”
I hurriedly threw on a jacket and looked at my bags on the bed.
“Are you sure you don’t want to change your mind?”
That was the fourth time Deki had asked that question. “What will you be doing in a village?”
“My beautiful grandmother lives in that village. I’ll be fine.” He rolled his eyes.
“Help me,” I told him. “With what?”
“My bags, stupid.”
He smiled and helped me drag the bags down the staircase, placing them at the edge of the steps to keep them from toppling over.
Dad was talking to Ishiaku, the security man who had replaced the burly and vivacious Samuel. He wore a pair of loose long johns, leaving his hairy chest barely covered.
“Don’t forget to buy it,” Dad said to him before turning to me. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“You look happy,” he said. “I’m glad. Don’t forget to tell your grandma to get you apples. I’ll send her money every week.”
Dad was the only one I knew who strongly believed an apple a day kept the doctor away. And he indeed ate apples every day. It was weird.
“I won’t forget.”
“Where’s your mom?” “Probably sleeping.”

Biodun was the driver who had only been with us for a few months. He was charcoal-dark and had a thick Yoruba accent. He had a nasty jagged scar at the back of his ear that made me suspicious of him.
He said good morning to Dad and lingered in the living room watching the early morning news. He shook his head and gave a long hiss.
“When will this ASUU strike end?” he asked no one in particular.
“I believe they will call it off soon,” Dad told him as he brought my bags closer.
“My younger sister has been at home for the past two weeks doing nothing. I’ve already told her to learn any handiwork she can find.”
“No one is saying anything progressive about it, not the government, not the lecturers, who remain indifferent to the situation. That’s why a lot of people are
” angry.
Biodun hissed again. “I don’t even know why they started the strike in the first place.”
Dad sighed. “You should be on our way,” he said, then looked at me. “Where’s your camera?”
I planned to take as much pictures as I could during my time in Ohara. It was going be part of my portfolio for my application to study Documentary Photography.
Dad was supportive of my career choice. Mom, on the other hand, didn’t care as much.
The car roared to life before I had even settled into it.
“Be a good girl,” Deki said, patting my hair playfully through the window. I gently removed his hand.
“Don’t forget to study,” Dad added, waving.
I blew him a kiss, and he laughed, saying something to Deki. Deki came out of the house to the street and stood watching.
I waved one last time, put my head out of the window, and shouted, “Get out of there while you still can!”
Biodun turned on the air conditioning and rolled up the windows.

“So you’re writing your O’levels this year,” Biodun began, trying to strike up a conversation.
O’levels?
His eyes were fixed on the road as he accelerated toward the airport. “You have to study hard. Face your books.” He nodded as if affirming his own advice. “There will be many distractions. Boys will come and tell you nonsense just to ruin your future.
Do not be swayed. And now there’s all this Facebook, and tikitoki?” “TikTok,” I corrected.
He laughed at his mistake. He sensed I was not interested in what he had to
say and turned on the radio.
Johnny Drille’s voice filled the car in a smooth gyration. I listened until he changed the station. I put on my headphones instead and played whatever song matched my mood, watching the clouds chase each other across the sky. One of the cloud undoubtedly looked like a sword, and another like a baby carrying a lamp.
We got to the airport on time, and an hour and thirty minutes later, I was in the air. Four hours later, I was on my way to meet the driver hired to take me to Ohara at the parking lot.
The surrounding areas was dotted with dramatic rock formations, most of them stretching past the clouds.
The driver’s name was Timothy. He was tall and lean, and he spoke without an accent.
“Is this your first time in Kilo?” he asked. “Yes,” I replied.
“Were you served rice and tasi on the plane?”
“Yes,” I replied. Tasi was the iconic palm oil stew Cape Kilo was known for. “I really enjoyed it.”
He grinned. “Ohara is two hours away from the city.” He fastened his seat belt. I already knew that from my research. “Let me know ifyou need anything.”
“Sure.”
As we entered the highway, I brought out my camera to take a few pictures. I

noticed the sun battling with the clouds for control. The rocks I had seen earlier disappeared beneath the growing cloud cover.
The clouds soon darkened and the temperature dropped. “It’s about to rain,” Timothy pointed out.
Thunder echoed in the distance, and within a few minutes, rain began to fall.
It drummed a soft tattoo on the roof of the car, water trickling down the sides and creating wrinkled patterns. Timothy concentrated on driving carefully through the downpour . A few cars drove past us, their red taillights barely visible.
Then out of nowhere, it came at us.
Timothy tried to swerve to avoid hitting the figure, but the car only careened toward it. There was a loud impact, and the car skidded to an abrupt stop.
We’ve killed someone was the first thought that went through my mind.
I looked at Timothy, whose careworn face doubled my panic. He looked confused on what to do.
“I’ll go and check,” he told me timidly.
In my head, I began coming up with ways to extricate myself in case he found a body. I was not about to go to jail or bury a body out in the bushes.
He pushed on the door handle and stepped out into the heavy rain. I waited with my heart in my mouth.
My worries vanished when he came back and said, “It was just a tree branch. We’ll have to wait until the rain dies down a little before moving.”
I mumbled, ”OK.” .
There was nothing like the relief you feel when the thing you hit with your car did not turn out to be a person. I put my headphones back on.
The sun was shining brightly when we arrived at the beam bridge that led to the smaller island where Ohara was located.
I took more pictures of the bright blue water and even got an amused cab driver whose Nissan was full of sugar cane, to smile before I snapped. My fingers tingled excitedly.

---

Ohara village was located on the outskirts of Waini town, where most of the commercial activities took place. It was an entity of its own, ruled by a Lei, a king, who Timothy said was the youngest the village had ever had.
“The new Lei went to school abroad. He studied architecture or something like that. Rumor has it he’s looking for a wife.” Timothy smiled and winked at me.
I did not know what to make of it. All I could think of was Aunt Gini saying in passing how she found power very tempting, that if she had the chance to marry a prince or a king, she would not pass up the opportunity to become a royalty. It just was not done.
We crossed a wooden bridge that that held a signpost. It read ‘Welcome to Ohara’ in fading blue letters.
As we drove carefully along the gravel-covered road, I took in the mix of building styles. Most were of the Portuguese colonial style, with wooden balconies, and whitewashed walls contrasting with the colorful tiles.
A little boy ran alongside our car, using the edge of a fat stick to push a worn-out tire.
I brought out my camera and took a picture of him as his leg hung mid-air.
“Get lost before I run you down!” Timothy suddenly shouted at the boy, who
responded by calling him ‘shit face’ in Amani. Timothy cussed back at him in Portuguese. I had to stop myself from laughing.
Timothy slowed down and stopped the car in front of an imposing gate with high walls. I recognized the gate from Grandma’s pictures.
“I’ll go in and open the gate,” I told Timothy, as if I knew my way, and got out of the car.
I pushed open the smaller gate and entered. The large compound only had one modern two-story building, surrounded by several trees I could not recognize. The only ones I did were the mango and palm trees. Grandma’s Camry, gifted to her

after retiring from teaching, was parked in a corner, looking old and slightly dusty. I walked up to the front door and knocked. There was no answer.
“Who’s there?” a familiar voice called.
“The prettiest grandma in the whole world,” I said, smiling when she finally showed up, a knife and a bunch of vegetable leaves in her hand.
“Who am I seeing in my house?” she said in Amani.
My smile grew as I rushed to meet her and nearly knocked her over with my hug. She smelled faintly of oranges.
“Good evening, Grandma,” I said when she pulled me back to observe me properly. Her eyes seemed unsure that I was actually there.
“Zenobia, you’re really here.” She laughed as though finally concluding that I was real. Her eyes beamed with happiness. “You’ve grown since the last time I saw
” you.
“I finally started eating beans.”
She laughed out loud. “What about the driver?”
I had completely forgotten I was supposed to open the gate for him. “Ihma is busy inside. Let me get the key to open the gate.”
I took the keys and let Timothy inside.
He greeted Grandma, who thanked him for bringing me safely. She prayed for him after he said he would be heading back to the airport that same day without fail.
“When you called to tell me you were coming to stay with me, I could not believe my ears. I thought I had finally gone senile with age.”
I laughed.
“Did your mother approve ofyou coming?” “She did not.”
Grandma sighed. “I called someone to fix the TV. It doesn’t have Netflix or anything, like that though.”
I smiled. “Don’t worry about that, Grandma.”
I was perfectly fine not watching TV as long as I was here. Besides, I had my phone.

I went on to tell her about our encounter with the tree trunk as I drank orange juice brought by Ihma, the girl who helped Grandma around the house. She was
skinny and short, but anyone could easily tell she was older than her body made her appear.
“I thought we killed someone.” I laughed so hard I nearly spilled my drink.
“Nobody should drive in the rain that heavy. It is more dangerous than you think,” she warned, her oval eyes dimming sightly.
“Dad said to tell you he will call you and send you some money.”
“Your father is too generous. He sends me more money than I can spend.” She paused. “Your mother complained to me that you stopped school for a while. All she does is complain to me.”
“It’s why I’m able to sit here with you.”
I checked my phone to see if there were any missed calls or messages.
“There’s no good connection here. Your room has better reception. Ihma will help you with your bags.”
The room was cozy and cool, with its own bathroom and balcony. . I lay down on the soft bed and called Dad to tell him I had arrived.
I called Mom right after, but she didn’t answer, so I sent her a text instead.
I shut my eyes for a second and opened them again when my phone started ringing. It was an unknown number. I swiped right.
“Are you there yet?” came the voice on the phone. It was Aunt Gini.
“I just arrived.”
“How is the old woman?” “Warm and super pretty.”
“Even with all the grey hair?” I could hear people shouting and loud music in the background.
“Especially with the gray hair.”
“That damn woman.” Her laughter rang softly in my ears. She sounded so much like Grandma when she laughed. “Take care of her, Zen.”

“I will.”
“Love you lots. Bye.” “Love you too.”
I wanted to get up and go back to the living room, but my body would not budge. I closed my eyes, hoping to get a few minutes of sleep.
The soft hum of the ceiling fan and the cool air it circulated woke me up from my slumber. It was already nighttime and the only source of light was the moon that shone through the window. I reached for my phone, thinking I was in my room in Lagos, and felt nothing. Then I remembered where I was and smiled.
I went back to sleep only to be woken up again by my empty stomach. It was already bright outside. I dragged myself lazily out of bed and went downstairs to the dining room, where I met Grandma reading her Bible with her glasses balanced on the ridge of her pointed nose.
“Morning, Grandma.” I yawned between words. “How was your night?”
“Fine. I’m so hungry.”
“When I went to check up on you, you were already asleep. I did not have the heart to wake you up to eat, so this morning you’ll eat both breakfast and dinner.”
“I’ll get really fat before I leave here.” She smiled. “It’s not a bad thing.”
She went into the kitchen and brought in sliced bread and tea. In another plate were boiled eggs and some seafood fried rice.
“Thank you, Grandma.” “All thanks to God.”
I reached for the bread first and ate two slices at once.
“Don’t forget the rice,” Grandma said as she drank her own tea and flipped the pages of the Bible.
“Where’s Ihma?” I asked. “She went to second mass.” “You didn’t attend mass?”

“No, I wanted to be here when you woke up.”
I looked out the window. “Are you still driving that Camry?” I asked. “Of course.”
“I thought it would have been replaced. Last time you came to visit us, you said it was giving you problems.”
“Cars give trouble time after time, but they get better. I like my car.” “I’ll tell Dad to buy you a new one.”
“Don’t bother your father. He’s already doing enough as it is. And your aunt sends me money every week. Even your mother goes out ofher way to send me some money sometimes.”
“She does?”
“Yes. Sometimes she can surprise you.”
The only surprises I’d ever gotten from her were trauma-inducing ones. Grandma smiled brightly.
“I’ll be going to Benny Uli’s house later today for a meeting. You should come with me.”
“Sure.”
Thirty minutes after noon, Grandma and I found ourselves at Benny Uli’s house. Although the house was just around the bend, we took the car because
Grandma’s feet were hurting. I could hear the chatter of women as we came out of the car.
About a dozen wooden chairs were arranged in a semicircle in front of the cottage-style house. The chairs were occupied by women who were part of St. Hilda’s parish, Ohara. Benny’s first daughter was about to be married, and they had come to make plans regarding their attire and several other things.
I greeted the women in Amani, and they all responded cheerily.
“Your grandmother told me you will soon be done with high school and going to the university right after,” one of the women, whom I found out later was Mrs. Uli said.
“Yes.”

“Gwane,” she turned to Grandma, her hands on her thighs, “you must be so proud.”
Grandma replied her with a pleasant smile.
I quietly slipped out at the commencement of the meeting when they began talking at the top of their voices. Most times they spoke Amani, which I could barely understand.
I went toward the house and saw that the front door was open. I peeked inside and found two men in the living room. One was very old, with the grayest hair I had ever seen, and the other, with a rotund stomach, I assumed to be Benny Uli.
“Are you looking for someone?” the man asked when he spotted me. His accent was stronger than Grandma’s.
“No, sorry.”
“Come in. Don’t just stand there.”
I removed my sandals and stepped inside. The old man was fast asleep, his head drooping to the side.
I mumbled my greetings and made my way to the cane chair farthest from where they both sat.
“Are you Gwane’s daughter?” Benny Uli asked. “Granddaughter,” I corrected.
“Aha! The resemblance is uncanny.,” he remarked.
The old man coughed and made a gargling noise in his throat. The uproar
outside made me glad I had left the meeting.
“It’s a good thing you didn’t stay out there with those women, they like to talk and shout.”
I gave a faint smile and turned my attention to the reporter discussing a new discovery in the world of science. Benny Uli changed the channel, and a live footage of a mob being tear-gassed came up on screen. Then gunshots erupted.
“This is nothing compared to what we faced in the Melba war. I was just a boy then,” he said. A strange look crossed his face when he asked,me “Have you ever witnessed a real war, my girl?”

Are there any fake wars? I almost asked him. “No sir.”
“How old are you?” “Sixteen.”
“I see.”
For the next hour I listened to him talk about wars and everything it entailed; the blood, the casualties, the death of many innocents.
Benny Uli was about to tell me about his struggles at Makelele University when Grandma came to my rescue. I was beginning to get traumatized.
“What was Benny telling you?” Grandma asked as we got into the car. “War and love of country.”
Grandma shook her head. “That man.”
“So it took almost three hours to decide on what to wear to a wedding?” I said. “Unbelievable.”
“Zen, it’s not that simple. Besides, we didn’t just talk about what to wear.”
During the drive home, Grandma told me in a hushed voice that the girl about to get married was pregnant, and it was against the church’s doctrine to give such “stray girls” a proper church wedding. Only a traditional wedding ceremony was allowed.
That night, I dreamed I was in the army, gun in hand and running side by side with Benny Uli. We shot aimlessly, trying to drive enemy soldiers out of Ohara.