Tiptoeing noiselessly, he made his way from the door to his bedroom. With the same carefulness he had demonstrated with the front door, he opened and closed the bedroom door. It was until then that he released the alcohol laced breath he had been holding. He groped for the light switch on the wall and turned it on. Orange fluorescence light flooded the room, momentarily blinding him. When he refocused his vision, he saw her. She was sitting right in the middle of his bed. Waiting for him. All his precautions not to wake her up had been unnecessary.

The look his mother gave him said it all. This confrontation was long overdue. She knew he had been sneaking in and out of the house for the past couple of nights. But why now? Why had she chosen this moment to catch him in the act?

Rosemary gave her teenage son a disdainful once-over before glaring at him. It was the look of condemnation. It never failed to make him feel guilty. No sooner would she glare at him that he would begin to confess and apologize for his wrong doings. Tonight, he looked neither remorseful nor apologetic and neither has he said a word. If anything, his posture was defensive, and he was staring at her as though he expected her to initiate the conversation.

She was taken aback by this behavior. But she did not let her surprise show, as she rose up from his bed to confront him face to face. She glared at him a second time. He met her stare levelly. Before, he would have avoided her gaze. Fear clutched at her heart. When exactly had this transformation began? Since when was he able to defy her stare?

Her husband had often teased her about her venomous stare. He had said one look from her could get a murderer to confess to his crimes. It was her most effective weapon in training her only son from becoming wayward in a world so perverse and sinful. But it has lost its power. For the first time since he could recite the ten commandments, the boy standing in front of her was looking her back in the eyes.

He was breaking the fifth commandment, but he did not care. Alex could almost hear his mother’s mental monologue as she grappled to make sense of his behavior. She should have let things be. Didn’t she know that the only reason he has been sneaking in and out of the house was not to disturb her sleep? It was not because he cared if she finds out about his newly found habit. Why did she have to force this confrontation on him? He did not want to confront her yet. He was not ready to. Every time he thought about what she had done, he still felt enraged.

“Alex,” Rosemary began authoritatively.

She was never the first to open her mouth when chastising her son. She was the one always in control. It seemed as though, he was in charge this time around. The role reversal rankled her, but more specifically, it scared her. Her son thought the sun rises and sets on her, since when had that changed? Even though she had not paid much attention to him in recent times, she was sure this rebellion was very new. It was best to nip it in the bud.

“Have you been out drinking?”

Standing this close to him, she could smell his breath. It was a redundant question. The look he gave her said as much.

“I know I have been really busy lately, but if you are doing this to get my attention, you got my attention now.”

“What exactly have you been busy with mom? You are a full-time house wife.”

She looked taken aback by his response, but she recovered quickly.

“Alex you know I am the leader of the prayer group at church, my duties_”

His snicker prevented her from completing her statement. The very idea that her son would ever mock her had never crossed her mind. She tried to keep the panic away from her voice.

“Alex, you know what the bible says about that kind of behavior.”

“But that’s not my problem mom, I don’t believe in the bible.”

If he had raised his hands and slapped her, she couldn’t have looked more stricken.

“I rebuke the devil in Jesus name!”

“Save it mom, I don’t believe in Jesus. Neither do I believe in the devil.”

“Alex Robert Pierce, have you lost your mind!” Rosemary shrieked, her eyes widening in self-righteous indignation. “How dare you speak such blasphemy. I should have known something was terribly wrong when you walked out on pastor on Sunday. What has come over you?”

She peered at him as if looking for physical evidence of what has indeed come over him.

“Your father must hear about this. I must inform pastor too. The devil is trying to take over heart.”

“As for informing dad, you can save yourself the phone bill and let the man work in peace. He has more important things to do than hear about his seventeen-year-old son drinking.”

Alex had never challenged his mother. He was just as amazed at his newly found boldness as she was. She made a shocked sound and gaped at him. He continued.

“As for telling pastor, what’s he going to do about it?”

“Alex, what has come over you? You used to fear and respect pastor.”

 Yea, that was before I found him with you!

There, he said it and there was no taking it back. Except, he had not actually vocalized the words. That was what had been nagging at him since last Saturday. And when the pastor had smiled at him in that pretentious manner he did on Sunday, Alex had made sure to wipe that smile off his hypocritical face before walking out right in the middle of the service. He had not been back to church since then.

Alex had never missed a church service. He was often teased as the pastor’s protégé. But this week, he had not attended Tuesday bible study, Thursday prayer meeting, Friday vigil and Saturday choir practice. Every night, he had gone drinking instead.

There was no hell fire or heaven, it was one big lie invented by pastors and religious leaders. If there was indeed a place called hell, like pastor usually preached, didn’t he fear that he would go to hell for fornicating with Alex’s mother? And what about his mother, if she truly believed in hell, would she have wrapped her legs around the pastor’s waist like she did in his office when Alex had been looking at them from the broken window?

The image he recalled made him shudder. The alcohol he had drank earlier came up to his throat and he ran to the bathroom to throw up. His mother followed him in alarm, but he shut the bathroom door in her face. She called his name several times, but he ignored her. Bitter tears stung his eyes as he retched out his gut.

He felt betrayed by his mom and the man he had respected and idolized. His mother was right, Alex had adored the pastor. When every other kid talked and raved about their favorite superheroes, his had been pastor Simon. Spiderman and Superman had nothing on him. Pastor Simon was God’s special messenger navigating between the world, heaven and hell to bring peace to those who follow God’s commandment, and rain down fire and brimstone on those who did not. Every Sunday from the pulpit, standing in his white and royal blue robe, Pastor Simon promised that the good people will go heaven and the bad people will go to hell. He was the appointed one to lead the way to heaven. God himself chose him for that special mission. How could Spiderman top that?

Alex had believed every word pastor Simon said since he was a child. He had worshipped the man. Whenever the pastor spoke to him, Alex felt like God himself had spoken to him. But now his faith was crushed. He wasn’t even sure he believed in God anymore. Maybe he too was a figure made up by the so-called men of God to hoodwink the congregation, while they live secretly in pleasure and lasciviousness.

Alex wiped his tears and washed his mouth and face in the bathroom sink. When he returned to his room, his mother was gone. He heard her speaking on the phone in the living room. He didn’t have to guess who she was speaking with.

“He’s acting so strange. It’s so unlike him. I think the devil is after my son.”

His anger resurfaced at the hypocrisy. He marched into the parlor and snatched the phone from her hand. She gave him a dazed look, which soon turned into an appalled look when he said into the phone, “I saw you with my mother you phony hypocrite!”

But he was wrong.

The person on the other end of the line was not pastor Simon.

It was Alex’s father.

The post Caught in the Act – A Short Story appeared first on Rachael Sade's Blog.

My three siblings and I were sitting on a large piece of rock, my elder brother Tope, my younger brother Victor and my younger sister Kemi. We were waiting for the embassy officers to call us forward, we waited for possibly two hours. I had neither a wrist watch nor a cell phone, and I did not feel like speaking so I did not ask. But we waited for a long time, long enough for my sharp brain to do an analysis on some of the interviewees and file them under whatever category I saw fit, Americanah, Johnny Just Come, Ajebo, Ajepako, SU and so on. A lady walked passed me, going nowhere in particular, it was either she had become restless from sitting too long or she just wanted to show off her looks to the gentlemen leaning against a wall, I voted for the latter as I watched her move to and fro like a peacock who did not know what to do with her feathers. She was an Ajebo, I could tell from the way she walked and the amount of jewelry she had on. She even wore one on her left arm and two bracelets on her ankle. She has had a maid all her life and have never washed her own panties, I surmised. Just as I was making this analysis, a man on the phone a few feet away caught my attention. He was sobbing loudly and clearly did not care that he had a large audience. I cannot recall ever seeing a man cry out loud in public in Nigeria. It was after all something only women were supposed to do. I could not pick out the language he was speaking to the other person on the end of the line, he was probably an Igbo or a Calabar , I wasn’t sure, but I knew he had been rejected, we all knew. But none of us said a word, we felt sorry for the man. He had probably lost his only chance at escaping the country. Papa Christ my dad’s friend who drove us to the embassy was the first to speak, stating the obvious, “they did not give him a visa”, Tope responded, “that is so sad”. I couldn’t join the conversation, it would have been rude for a girl to jump in when two men were speaking.

Tope is four years older than I am, he was 19. I did not like him very much because he was always trying to boss me around and we always fought, sometimes breaking lamps and fracturing furniture, dining tables, stools and stands to the consternation or my mother, and later my maternal grandmother; after my mother travelled to America. I always get beat up of course. He was much stronger than I, but then I would escape to my room, lock the door and haul loud insults at him from the safety of my closed room. He would severely bang the door in anger as I shouted at him through tears and a swollen face. I had a sharp mouth and a good command of the English language which I always put to good use, “you violated he-goat! Chimpanzee! Do you call yourself a man? You are not a man, go and fight with your mate, you’re here beating up a woman, you think that makes you a strong person? You’re coward! Bastard!” He would keep banging the door in anger, as my mother or grandmother make effort to deter him, “leave her alone! It’s enough! Do you want to kill her?” If he fails to listen, which he always does, my mother would turn to me “Linda, keep quiet, don’t talk to your brother like that”, I would then turn my anger on both of them, “don’t call him my brother! He’s a monster! I don’t know where you picked him from, you’d better return him!”, but I actually never doubted that he was my biological brother, although sometimes, I fantasized about being an adopted child and finding out later that my real parents were rich politicians. Our shouting would go on for another couple of minutes and would not stop, until one of us got tired. This was our usual routine, there was hardly a week in which we did not exchange kicks and blows. This was part of the reason why I wanted so badly to move to America. I was told in America, you were not allowed to beat women, you could go to jail for that. I could not wait to call the police on Tope if he dares to raise his hands on me in America. Later, When we got to America, I threatened him with this several times, he never once beat me in America, I do not know if it was because he was actually afraid I was going to call the cops or if he was afraid of my father who did not condone beating women or if he was just more mature.

I was always respectful to adults because I was expected to be. Besides, it did not take a lot to show respect to people, all you had to do was use the appropriate honorifics and kneel when greeting. It mattered little what you actually thought as long as you showed respect. Refusal to do so will earn you a slap across the face or a stroke of cane or some other form of punishment. I hated being flogged, so I’d rather show respect than let people know how I truly felt about them. The only person I refused to show respect to was Tope, in my opinion he did not deserve my respect, real or pretended and this always annoyed him, which was the main reason why we fought. I did not respect him because I thought he was a spoiled pampered child. Because he was a boy and I a girl, I did all the house chores, including cook the food, serve him the food, clear the plates after him and wash the dishes. While he sat down like the king of the jungle doing nothing. This angered me, but no one seemed to see things from my perspective. According to my mother, she was preparing me for when I get married. Since I’m the woman, I’m the one who has to take care of the house, it does not matter whether my brother can clean or cook or not, it was his wife’s responsibility. I felt sorry for the unknown woman, but on this rationale, what I considered my domestic slavery continued. It was around this issue that I formed the idea that I was a feminist. I wanted the equal treatment of men and women. I thought life unfair to me just because of my sex. Often I wanted to retort back to my mother and ask her who has been cooking for my father since he traveled to America. If he does not know how to cook and clean will he marry another woman? But I wouldn’t dare voice out such a thought. I hated, truly hated being whipped. Although my mother was not the whipping type, neither was my grandmother, but they both loved to punish by asking you to kneel down and raise your hands to the sky. I did not like kneeling either, but ever so often I had to because I did not know how to speak to an adult. I thought I was very respectful, but when I ask some certain questions, they consider it rude and thus I had to kneel. For example, when I asked my grandma what she had done with the money my parents recently sent and why she was asking for more money so soon, I had to kneel.

The man on the phone at the embassy was still crying when it was finally our turn. My siblings and I rose from our sitting position on the flat rock and marched slowly along the other interviewee to the inside of the embassy. We were very confident we were going to be given our visas. After all, both of our parents were American citizens. They could not possibly prevent us from reuniting with our parents, I rationalized, only to be told they could not issue us visas unless we went through DNA tests to prove that our parents were actually our biological parents. We returned home sad faced. The following week we went for our DNA tests. While waiting for the results, I fantasized about being an adopted child or a switched at birth. What if we found that my parents were not my biological parents? What if my real parents were some rich Nigerian politician with lots and lots of money? Or what if my mother had been unfaithful, and my real father was someone else? These were the things I thought of. I anticipated a dramatic event that would rock my otherwise very stable world, but the DNA results came back, and all my siblings were my true biological siblings and my parents were my real parents. All things remained the same.

Traveling to America was the most grueling experience ever! I later fell sick after we finally received our visas, and after Tope and Victor who was 13 travelled to America. My parents could not afford to buy our tickets all at once so Kemi and I had to wait for another six months before traveling, Kemi was 9. Those months made up the most interesting months of my life ever. For the first time in my life, I was admitted to a hospital. My grandmother thought I had gotten pregnant, her worst nightmare. It was not uncommon for teenage girls to get pregnant in Nigeria, this was mostly due to poverty. Young women sometimes rely on men for their upkeep and in exchange for money, sleep with them. My grandmother’s sole prayer was to deliver me to my mother as my mother had left me when she was traveling, un-pregnant. But the doctor reassured her that it was malaria. In my opinion, it was the stress of the entire travelling process. I knew a few teenage girls who had already had an abortion. Even the ugly ones, which surprised me. I would ask myself, what does he see in her? I wasn’t a belle myself, but all my curves were already out, enough for any man to think I was older than I actually was. Besides, I was well spoken and I dressed well, courtesy of the cloths my parents sent me from America. These combined with the fact that my parents were in America, attracted boys like honey attracts bees. They would howl at me everywhere I went, I could hardly walk in the street without some teenage boy or adult male trying to get my attention. I was known for ignoring them. Some would ask my friends to speak with me, I ignored them all. I did not consider myself a snob. But when I was 12, Tope said he had a dream that I got pregnant. I don’t know if he was trying to scare me or if it was true. But his dreams usually came true. For instance, when he dreamt about seeing 2 face , the following day, he saw 2 face at Lagos Island. I did not want his dream for me to come to pass, so I ran from boys like people run from lepers. I had a few crushes, but I never did anything about them. The guys must have been so disappointed.

Femi was the last guy I had a crush on the months before I traveled to America. We attended the same neighborhood church. Femi was in the university and I was graduating high school that year. Femi lived with his married aunty. He was not particularly attractive, he was an average height, dark and skinny. Femi was the president of the drama group in my church, I was a member. He was very talented, well-mannered and well spoken, so the ladies gravitated towards him. I liked him for these same reasons. I knew he liked me too because he would always find an occasion to speak with me after church, during drama practice, and whenever he had the opportunity. But it was too late for any form of romance on my part, I would be traveling in just a couple of months. Besides, Femi was in the university and I was still a teenager, although about to graduate from high school, I was still only 15. “He likes you”, Angela the only friend I had at church would say. “I know”, I would reply. Angela was the nicest person I knew, the other girls were snobs, they were skinny, light skinned and they could sing, I was neither of those things. Angela could sing, and was light-skinned but she was not skinny. Angela never treated me condescendingly for singing off key. All the teenage girls at church all sang in the church choir. I had the worst singing voice ever, but my speaking voice made up for it and I was a good actress. What I lacked in singing, I made up for in acting. I was good at memorizing lines and writing drama scripts for church plays, and when I spoke, people thought I was born overseas. They must have truly believed this too, since my parents were in America. But I had never even been on a plane, talk less of being born overseas. But I spoke with the confidence of a person who knew a lot about America. After all, I’ve dreamt of the place since I was little. I made up stories about receiving gift baskets full of chocolates and goodies from strangers on a regular day, and picking up gold from the streets of America to my naïve friends in primary school. If they asked me how I knew, I told them my daddy told me. They had no reason to doubt me and I believed it myself. America to me was exactly as the bible describes heaven:
The wall was made of jasper, and the city of pure gold, as pure as glass. The foundations of the city walls were decorated with every kind of precious stone. The first foundation was jasper, the second sapphire, the third agate, the fourth emerald, the fifth onyx, the sixth ruby, the seventh chrysolite, the eighth beryl, the ninth topaz, the tenth turquoise, the eleventh jacinth, and the twelfth amethyst. The twelve gates were twelve pearls, each gate made of a single pearl. The great street of the city was of gold, as pure as transparent glass.

I was six years old when my father traveled to America, Tope was ten, Victor was four and Kemi was one. My mother was a housewife. She had a tailoring shop, but it was not a real source of income. We all depended on my father, who would send us money monthly to pay for school fees, rent and upkeep. My aunt, who is my mother’s cousin lived with us to assist my mother in looking after us. When my mother travelled some years later to join my father, my aunt remained and my grandmother came from the village to stay with us in Lagos. My grandmother and I were best of friends until we started living together. She favored my brother over me because he looked like my mum. I have been told that I am the photocopy of my father; short, black and thick. Whereas, he took after my mother, tall, skinny and light-skinned. My younger siblings did not count, they were still very young. I took pride in doing well at school, I had friends and we were the most intelligent girls in the class, we were the school prefects. I was appointed the library prefect because I loved reading. So although I felt like a maid at home, I was a princess at school. Reading many Harlequin romance novels also helped with my vocabulary. And being able to speak good English in Nigeria impressed a lot of people. “If only you were light-skinned, people will think you’re a half cast” Angela would say, “but at least you speak better than all those stick legs”, she was referring to the other girls in the choir. Although we were taught not to backbite at Sunday school, we still did. We made fun of the other girls behind their backs, as surely they did of us. But we all smiled and laughed during rehearsals as if we haven’t just been talking about how Chichi thinks she is miss world when in fact she looked like an ostrich, and how Mary walks like a pregnant hen thinking she was cat-walking. Angela and I especially did not like Nneka. Nneka was Igbo and we were Yorubas, but our mutual dislike of her had nothing to do with ethnicity. Nneka was the biggest snob of all, she was beautiful and skinny and she was a very good singer. She was an alien to those insecurities that plagued most teenage girls. She had everything going for her, a face that never held pimples, a skin as light as the shell of an egg, and a voice that sounded like that of a nightingale. Was it any surprise she had an attitude as big as an elephant?

My teenage days and nights were filled with Harlequin romance novels, I would hide the covers to prevent my aunt and grandmother from seeing the sometimes half naked man and woman locked in a steamy embrace spread across the page. I could stay up all night reading a romance novel with the candle light or lamp if we had no electricity. They thought I was so passionate about school work. My grandmother couldn’t read, but my aunt could but never did. I tore the covers of the novels if they were especially scandalous. My novels were often seized as punishment for burning the food while reading or forgetting to do a house chore, but no one in my household ever made an attempt to read them. If they did, I could not imagine what would have happened. But they never did, so I acquired more Vanessa Grant, Diana Palmer, Andrea Kane, Sandra Brown, Luanne Rice, and Danielle Steel. Every little allowance I was given went into buying used romance novels which I often lend to my school friends. All the brilliant girls in my class read romance novels, including the SU ones. We encouraged the not so brilliant ones to do so as well. After all, reading helps with your English. We always hid our novels from our teachers. I had a feeling they would have asked that our parents or guardians come see them if they ever found the books. It would have been extremely embarrassing to see teachers and parents pore over words like, “His hand tangled in her hair and he pulled her even closer, her breasts crushed against his chest, his mouth hungry, plundering, not enough… thirst, her pulse throbbing, breath tearing, fingers weaving through his hair, pulling his mouth closer, arching her body against his. Drowning…”

When Tope and Victor traveled, everyone in the neighborhood knew it was only a matter of time before the sisters followed suit. I lived in a small close knit neighborhood in the city of Lagos. It was an estate and everyone pretty much knew everyone. We all shopped at the same stores in the neighborhood, we often bumped into each other on the street, and we attended the same church, and went to the same school. Everyone knew a few things about the other person. We knew whose husband was cheating, and who he was cheating with. We knew who had a good job and who was jobless, who ate bread and egg for breakfast and who drank garri. So everyone knew I was going to be traveling. We had succeeded in keeping my brothers travel a secret until they actually landed safely in America. Nigerians are a very superstitious group of people. My grandmother believed the plane could be hijacked by jealous witches. But we couldn’t keep mine and that of my sister a secret. It bothered me at first that my neighbors knew, but I later got used to it. Their attitude towards me changed, the number of guys that howled at me increased, the church girls who snubbed me suddenly wanted to be my friend. I could hardly go anywhere in the neighborhood without someone smiling at me, looking at me conspicuously or trying to pull me into a conversation. I became an overnight neighborhood celebrity, and as a celebrity I shined. Life at home was much better as well since Tope traveled. I still had to fetch water every morning and do other chores, but at least I was no longer Tope’s personal maid and there was no one to beat me up. I relished my newly found status in the neighborhood. I began receiving invitations to birthday parties and other events. I was treated deferentially and it all got into my head. I did not realize I had changed. I began behaving more and more like the very girls who used to snub me. I became one of those girls Angela and I used to bad mouth for being haughty.

It was Femi’s elder sister son’s naming ceremony and all the young people from church were asked to help set up, serve and clean. But when we got to the house, some of us began working immediately while others hung around chatting. I was one of those who would have immediately jumped to work, arranging chairs, sweeping the place and cleaning the dishes, but I had become a celebrity and people of my status did not do such things. They do not wait on people, people waited on them. So I joined the chatting crew, while others worked. Angela looked at me disapprovingly but said nothing. Did she really expect me to stoop so low, considering I’ll be traveling to America soon? Didn’t she realize I am a different person now? I thought. I remained with the chatting group till the end of the ceremony, not once lifting or cleaning. A person of my status is not supposed to do such things. On getting home my grandmother and aunt were already waiting for me. Always trust a friend with a razor-sharp mouth like Angela to telltale on you. Angela had reported me to my aunt and grandmother who were waiting for me in the living-room. I knew what was coming even before they opened their mouth. My aunt and grandmother never saw eye to eye on anything except when it comes to disciplining the children, which they both loved to do. But that night I was not to be punished, I was to be given the lecture of my life. They both began by narrating several occasions on which I had misbehaved of late. For instance, when I went to school without sweeping the house, when I refused to run an errand for a neighbor, when I questioned my grandmother (which I have always done by the way), and now this, my refusal to serve at the naming ceremony. They both concluded that I had changed and pinpointed the reason for my change of attitude to my imminent travel. I had an excuse for every allegation they had brought against me but at the end of the exchange the truth was obvious. I had changed, I had become haughty. When did I begin to consider house chores and running errands as something beneath me? Then my grandmother and aunt issued their last warning before going to bed, “before destruction comes pride, so be very careful.” I thought they were going to ask me to kneel, but they let me be. I pondered their words all night. Words were more effective in dealing with me that any form of punishment. Some children were flogged before they listened, not me.

The following day I woke up a repentant person. Yes America was a big deal, but my ability to handle the situation without changing my character will define me as a person. I wanted to be known as a good girl for the last few months I had to spend in Nigeria before I traveled. I wanted to be known as the girl who did not allow America to get into her head, who still behaved well in spite of her status. Who showed respect to adults and ran errands for people. I apologized to my aunt and grandmother and later Angela for not helping her at the ceremony. All things returned to normal, but the attention I received only grew and grew as the day got closer. I became the topic of the pastor’s sermon about how God is a miracle worker who is able to sit lowly people in high places and how God who is taking me to America can also take others to America if they have faith. At school, I instantly became the teachers’ favorite. A former teacher at my school even came to my house to ask me to take down his number so I could call him when I got to America, who knows, I may be able to help him travel to America too someday.

My mother traveled down from America to take my sister and me. How much she had changed! She had grown fatter, that was the first thing I noticed. My mother was a lepa when she left Nigeria, but she had transformed into an orobo. She was wearing trousers! In all my years growing up in Nigeria, I never saw my mother wear a trouser. She used to be an SU. But there my mother was wearing trousers and using phrases like “what’s wrong with you?” “How are you?” “I’m good,” with an American accent nothing less. If this was what America did to people, my desire for the country grew all the more. The weeks following my mother’s arrival flew by like a whirlwind. It was filled with receiving visitors, mostly relatives who have been absent since she traveled, but now wanted to receive gifts from America. And neighbors and well-wishers and people who came in the hopes that my mother may be able to help them travel to America. Some even made the joke about fitting themselves into the traveling luggage, just so they could leave the country. If formerly I was treated like royalty when my brothers traveled, when my mother arrived from America, I was treated like the Queen of England herself. Maybe partly because I gave all my friends gifts my mum brought from America, candy and bubble gums and I gave my neighbors, teas and powdered milk. I love so much those last few weeks. It was amusing to watch my mother struggle to survive in Nigeria again. She complained about the heat and lack of electricity every minute. She bathed with boiled water and drank only Eva water. It was all funny to me because in just a few years in America, the life she had known since she was born had suddenly become alien to her. This just proved how vastly different the life I led then would be from the life I will lead in America. I will be able wear all sorts of earrings and trousers, I won’t ever have to fetch water, I would have vacuums to clean the house, dishwashing machines to do the dishes and I could eat burgers, pizzas, and hot dogs as much as I wanted to. What excited me the most was the unrestricted access to Harlequin and Silhouette romance novels I would find in America. Not only that, I get to live in the same world as the characters in the novels. I alone out of my group of friends who read American romance novels get to experience that world first hand. It was a privilege I did not take for granted.

Three weeks after my mum arrived in Nigeria, my sister and I were set to travel with her. My church threw me a little farewell party, where I was admonished to know who I am, where I’m from and to not misbehave when I get to America. Because a lot of folks when they get to America forget the child of whom they are and begin to emulate the bad lifestyles of Americans, disrespecting adults, clubbing, smoking and drinking. But I should keep focus on my education, remember the kind of place I came from, and plan to come back to make Nigeria a better place. I had already grown accustomed to this kind of lecture because I have received it for the umpteenth time already since it became news that I was travelling. I thanked them all with misty eyes, knowing it was out of love that they sort to advise me. I could see the tears in some of their faces too, I have known most of them since I was born. I was going to miss them all. I said my farewells, collecting phone numbers and emails, promising to write and call when I get to America. I did not know such a thing as Facebook existed then and neither did my circle of association because it was never mentioned. Even though it was the year 2009.

Facebook would later become a common phenomenon in Nigeria after I travel, whereby every Tom, Dick and Harry used Facebook. How much things have changed since then. My friends now tell me there is pizza in Nigeria. There was no pizza when I left Nigeria, I only read about them in books. There are now Uber services too, and you can even shop for groceries online and have them delivered to your house! Nigeria is now becoming advanced with the rest of the world, but the political corruption that existed in most African countries keeping people in poverty is still very much in vogue. Which is why many Nigerians are constantly finding ways to flee the country, in hopes that they could change their lot in life with a different environment, India, France, UK, Dubai, and even Ghana. But America most of all held the fulfilment they seek, “the American dream”. Therefore, many scam and are scammed just to come to America. They faked marriages, made up stories for asylum, and migrated illegally, just so they could get a shot at the American dream. A dream that was dropped on my laps at a platter of gold, as I am often reminded. I did not work for it. I was fortunate enough to have parents to bring me to the country many struggle to get to. I am a citizen of that country. Therefore, I must not waste the opportunity that have been given to me. I must work hard to achieve the American dream. This is what we are constantly told by families, and relatives back in Africa. Is it any surprise that Africans are considered the most hardworking set of immigrants? Working two to three jobs and going to school at the same time just to be successful in life. On top of that, they are grouped together with the “unfavored” race of the American society, Blacks. And are treated with the same set of prejudices and discriminations. Still, Africans find ways to prosper, send their children to schools, get higher education, and most of all help their relatives and families back in those countries where a three square meal is a miracle for most.

My mother, I and my sister arrived at the Murtala Muhammed Airport in Lagos on my last day in Nigeria. Our teary goodbyes have been said to grandma, aunt, relatives and neighbors. I have overcome many hurdles to get to this moment, from being initially rejected at the embassy, to getting sick, to learning a big lesson about pride, humility, and human behavior and gaining appreciation for my newly found status. Now finally America awaits just 11 hours away by plane. But first we must get through the security officers at the airport who thought my mother was a child trafficker and therefore took us to a special office for interrogation. “Is this your mother?” They asked me and Kemi. Were they really expecting us to say no even if she wasn’t our mother? The woman was taking us to America for crying out loud. My siblings and I share a different last name from our parents. My father decided that he wanted our last name to be his own first name because his last name belonged to many extended family members he did not want us to have any association with because they were “bad people”, bad in the sense that they practiced idol worshiping, while we practiced Christianity. We were in the interrogation room for about 10 minutes going back and forth about how our mum was really our mother but there were no documents to prove it. Those were the longest minutes of my life. I was just at the peak, only the plane stood between me and America. And now this?

All sorts of unpleasant possibilities ran through my mind. What if just like that these people prevented us from boarding the plane. What if we had to go back home that night? What if my mother is never able to produce the proper documents? Then my bible knowledge kicked in and I began muttering bible verses under my breath. This was what I was taught to do in unpleasant situations. But in all my 15 years, I have never faced a situation as terrible, even the rejection at the embassy was not as worst as this. America was just so close now! So I began my bible recitation, quoting and mixing scriptures, “The expectations of the righteous shall not be cut short“, “If you have faith as small as the mustard seed you shall say to this mountain be thou removed and be thou cast into the sea“, “the Lord is my Shephard I shall not want“, “The LORD is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer; my God, my strength, in whom I will trust; my buckler, and the horn of my salvation, and my high tower.” Just when it looked like we weren’t getting anywhere, my mother remembered she had an ID, a Nigerian national ID she had acquired several years back that bore the name Adeayo. Halleluyah! God answers prayers. My mother presented the ID to the officers and just like that we were allowed to proceed. We still had an hour before the plane was set to take off. If she had not produced the ID within that hour, only God knows what would have happened. But whatever it was, I am glad that it did not. I said my last goodbye to Nigeria with joy and gladness and boarded the plane. What a year.

The post The Year I Came To America: An Experiment in Memoirs appeared first on Rachael Sade's Blog.

There had been so much more laughter the previous night as Funke, Chika and the other bridesmaids teased Bimpe. They had gathered in Bimpe’s bedroom to prepare the trousseau for the honeymoon in Calabar. None of them were married except for Amarachi, but they had all had something to pitch in on how a bride should look and behave on the night of her honeymoon. More than once, Bimpe had pointed at her two best friends and said, “I am pretty sure I know more than these two here, especially you Funke.” But Chika and Funke were too busy enjoying their roles as honeymoon teachers they had ignored her. “So this is the one you wear on the D night,” said Funke, assuming a sexy pose in the middle of the bed. She lifted what could be best described as a flimsy triangular net in hot pink, held together by four single ropes. “Whooo!” the ladies shouted. It was part of a collection Amarachi had bought as gifts for the bride from Dubai. Chika brought out a tight transparent negligee she had bought when she went for her own bridal shopping in UK. “But first you wear this!” she said, prompting another set of “whooo!” from the women. Funke was pretty sure the men whose rooms were across the hall could hear them and were curious as to what was going on.

The women had all had mischievous glints in their eyes as they said their goodbyes to the men that evening and Funke saw the curiosity in the men’s eyes. Knowing how curious they were had made the women giggle childishly as they all made their way to Bimpe’s bedroom. But unknown to them, the men had followed shortly after and were all quietly eaves dropping on the conversation from outside Bimpe’s room. “A lady must have a sense of mystery, give him something to unravel” said Amarachi. “Which was why I bought this robe,” added Nikki producing a sexy satin robe in dark blue, the other ladies clapped and cheered. “Don’t you think he’ll get tired with all this layering?” asked Bimpe. “So do you just want to lie there naked the moment he enters into the room?” Funke countered. All the men nodded in silent agreement to her question. “You can’t do that.” said Amarachi, which made the men shake their head disgruntledly. “Why not?” asked Bimpe, prompting another set of nods from the eaves dropping men. “That wouldn’t be fun,” said Amarachi. She assumed a whispering voice, “let me tell you girls a secret”. The men in their haste to hear what she was about to say, mistakenly pushed on the door. “Who is there!” all the ladies shouted at once and marched to the door, the men realizing they have been caught made haste to scramble, but it was too late, the ladies opened the door and the men all smiled sheepishly like monkeys caught with stolen bananas. “Naughty boys!” said Amarachi as Bimpe and Nikki helped her march the men back to their rooms by their ears, while the other ladies laughed as the men cried out in feigned pain. A night like this would be remembered for as long as she lived, Funke thought.

The joining of two witty characters could be nothing less than the production of a theatrical performance. The traditional wedding of Bimpe and Shola was fun from start to finish. The bride friends looked gorgeous in their pink lace iro and buba and their gold gele. But the bride was even more beautiful. Funke felt as if it was her first time seeing Shola looking anything but playful. She was especially struck by the look in his face as his bride danced forward. It was so solemn she wanted to laugh, but it was too sweet a moment to do anything but observe. Funke wished a camera could capture that expression so they could show it to him later and he could see how evident his love had been for Bimpe on their wedding day. It should serve as a reminder to them for the rest of their lives how much they had loved each other in the beginning of their journey.

Chidi winked at Funke from where he was standing with the groom’s friends as she danced behind the bride with the other bride’s friends, she returned his winked. “They all look handsome” Funke whispered to Chika, “I know right” replied Chika “especially Chidi and my fiancé in their Aso oke and cap, it’s interesting to see Igbo men in a Yoruba attire.”

“I’ll make sure they take pictures,” said Funke before they were ushered to a stop by the two mistresses of the ceremony, one slight looking woman and her partner a plump woman with mouth like razor, she could talk the richest man in Nigeria out of all his money. “Let’s the torture begin”, Chika said and Funke burst into giggles, “I think it began a few minutes back”.  They were referring to marriage rites the groom and his friends had to go through to be granted the bride, including several prostrations and spending. It was the most fun part of a traditional wedding especially for the women. Funke has seen the MC at work before, she was hired from Lagos, the woman was not going to let the men off easily and they would empty all of their pockets before the end of the ceremony.

The ceremony progressed with the groom’s family stating their mission for the day. This never failed to amuse Funke, they all knew why they were gathered there, but the whole performance was part of the fun of the traditional wedding. The skinny MC who was representing the groom’s family stated that they were there to pluck a beautiful flower they had noticed in the garden of Bimpe’s father. Prompting the plump MC to ask what the flower looked like, so they could know which one they were referring to. “She is young, she is beautiful, she’s dark and lovely, she has a smile like a baby, she’s meek, she is gentle….” Chika and Funke from their sitting position exchanged a look and tried not to laugh, no one who knew Bimpe would refer to her as meek and gentle. “…In short if you bring one thousand women I’ll be able to point out the flower from them all,” finished the slight woman.

“Ok this is what we will do,” replied her plump partner. “We’ll bring out all the flowers in our garden, and then you can point to the one you are referring to.”

“Please do that,” nodded the slight woman.

“No wait a minute, it can’t be hastily done like that.” said the plump woman.

“What do you mean?” the slight woman asked innocently, she knew very well what was coming. They had both rehearsed it.

“Thank you for asking my friend,” her partner began, “you see, the flowers in our garden never come out of the garden. The only reason why they will come out is if you beg them.”

“We are willing to beg,” said the slight woman, turning to the groom and his friends “Abi, you guys don’t want to beg?”

“Yes o we will beg, we are ready to beg.” They all said simultaneously, the bride and her friends laughed.

“You see we are ready to beg,” said the slight woman turning back to her partner.

“Ok,” said the plump MC, “but the thing is our flowers only listen to the sound of music. They won’t come out otherwise.” The musicians and drummers were beckoned on to start the music and the bride’s friends were ushered to their feet. The bride was told to remain sited. “If they don’t start dropping money into that basket you people should stop dancing” the plump woman whispered to them. And after 20 seconds of dancing when no cash was visible, the bridesmaids stopped their dance and the music came to a halt.

“ah ah what happened,”  asked  the slight woman “we saw the flowers dancing forward but they stopped all of a sudden.”

“Of course they had to stop,” replied the plump woman, “I told you our flowers don’t come out, but they are coming out for the first time, the sun is too bright for them out here, they need to buy umbrellas and sunglasses to cover their head and eyes.”

“That’s no problem, we can provide that.” she turned back to the groom and his friends, “can’t we provide that?” she asked again. And they all nodded eagerly. This time around when the music started and the women began to dance, nobody prompted the men before they began putting money into the basket.

A few minutes later the music stopped and the slight woman was asked to point out to the flower out of all the ladies standing. “I don’t think our flower is amongst these ladies,” she said surveying all the brides’ friends, “but let me ask the groom, I am sure he knows best.” she beckoned to Shola “which one of these beautiful flowers is the one you said you wanted?”

“None,” Shola responded, shaking his head “she is not here.”

“Do you hear that?” said the slight woman, “he said she is not here. We have come from very far to pluck this flower here in Ogun state, we came all the way from Ile Ife. And we are not leaving here today without our flowers.”

“Yes o” the groom and his family echoed.

“Do you have any other flower in your garden we have not seen?” asked the slight woman.

The plump woman pretended to think about it for a second before replying, “yes yes, I almost forgot, we have one more flower in our garden.”

“Please bring her out so we can see her”, said the slight woman.

“But this flower is very shy o”, the plump woman said, and the time around Chika and Funke could not resist the laughter that erupted from their belly, even the groom  was trying hard not to laugh from where he was standing. All the while Bimpe was shaking her head and looking skyward.

“Before we can bring out this flower, these other flowers have to go back first so our garden is not empty.” said the plump woman “but they have been out for a while now, they are thirsty and they need water to go back, but they don’t drink tap water, they don’t even drink pure water, they only drink bottled water and you know that’s expensive.” More money was placed in the basket as the bride’s friends danced out of the floor. It was time for the bride to come out.

“Our most precious flower will come out now”, said the plump woman. “But she unlike her sisters wants her umbrella, sunglasses and water provided for ahead of time.” The men placed more money in the basket but still the bride will not dance forward.

“We have done as you asked, but we still can’t see the flower,” said the slight woman.

“Remember I told you she was shy,” responded her partner, “she needs a little bit of coaxing.”

“What can we do?” the slight woman asked

“coax her with good things. But since I only know what she likes, I will help you get it but you must give me transportation fare and money to buy the things then I will bring the flower out to you.”  Funke smiled at the impatient look in the groom’s face as more money was placed in the basket. Finally the bride was allowed to dance forward and the ceremony progressed. Afterwards the couples exchanged greetings, swapped love letters written by the two MCs, and fed each other wine and cake.

The ceremony ended on the dance floor as the couples and their friends and family danced and sprayed naira bills like no man’s business.

The post The Joining of Witty Characters appeared first on Rachael Sade's Blog.

The contrast between the little restaurant back home and this one reminded me of a conversation I once had with a stout man on the train as I was returning home from lectures one evening. The man said to me, as I was reading the Metro New York paper I had picked up from the subway exit that morning, “You’re from Africa?” Not waiting for a reply he added “Me too I’m from Africa, we are all from Africa” then he laughed as if he’s said something very clever. Disregarding my lack of response, he continued in his finely accented English, “I am a professor of archeology,” I nodded and turned back to my paper, but then he asked, “What part of Africa are you from?” I replied, “Nigeria.” He slowly nodded  as if in comprehension of something profound. When I was just about to turn back to the paper, he said “Good place, good people, but bad government.” I agreed, like a patient in the doctor’s office, who has just received the diagnosis he has been expecting. “running nose, sore throat, coughing, you’ve got the flu.” Spot on was his diagnosis on the disease facing my country and most African countries in the world, lack of good leadership. “Do you want to go back?” to this question I said nothing, not sure what answer would be pleasing to the man; I had a sudden unexplainable urge to say the right thing to him. To my silence, he added, “I understand why young people would not want to go back to the home they left in Africa or wherever they are from, but then I often ask, isn’t there something more? Like a great mission to accomplish or a task to fulfill that goes beyond waking up every morning, going to work, and coming back to the apartment to see the bills waiting in the mailbox.” I had no answer to his question, for it’s a question I myself have often asked the sky. His next words were, “I’m an immigrant too you know, I came to this country at the age of 16,” politely I asked “where did you come from?”  He replied “I am from Mali.” Seeing his words have shocked me, he smiled and said, “I sometimes think of going back, but to what? My life here is much better than it would have been back home, I am a professor, I receive a fairly good salary why would I want to go back?”  The words were said like the question is one he has asked himself several times over.

I understood his nostalgia, I’ve often felt that way myself in the past 10 years since I’ve been in America, the longing for something almost intangible, something warm and welcoming, the longing for home. As I pondered this feeling, his last words before the train reached his stop, cheered me up, “This is now home, it cloths you, it welcomes you, it feeds you, it houses you, this is home.” I looked at the man, no longer a stranger but a brother from the same mother Africa, a smile curving around his lips, the clouds of missing home now slowly receding in his eyes, I smiled back at him. This is home indeed, new home. Those words I remember as I chewed my last French fry. I looked at my wrist watch, it was 8 o’clock, time to go back home, the waiter stopped at my table, “did you enjoy your dinner?” “Yes, very much, thank you.” I replied. “Oh I love your accent!” she exclaimed, as I left her a 2 dollar tip and walked out of the restaurant.  Those words never fail to bring a quick polite smile to my lips, the words my parents back in Niger have never heard.

I shook my head as I walked into the cold New York city air, pulling my scarf tighter around my neck. The life of an immigrant I mused again, caught between two worlds, I am American, but I am also a part of something different, a different place, a different culture, a different food, a different weather, and a different home. Those thoughts gave me a special kind of feeling. The words of the man on the train came to me again, “we are all from Africa.” I smiled and called out aloud to the darkened sky, “We are all Africans!”

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