The Lady With Wings
It’s Another Saturday… And I never marry.
I remember when I first read those words. A colleague updated her BBM display picture with a photo of a bridesmaid, staring sadly at a married couple kissing. It had the above caption. When I saw, it I burst out laughing. Ehya, the struggle was real. I pinged my colleague immediately.
-Babe how far wit your DP nau?
-Abeg forget o. The hustle for man don enter voicemail now.
-And you seriously shdn’t be laffing. Ur in the same boat wit me
-It is well
-Imagine Dele tellin me dat if it’s paining me dat I’m not married, I shd kuku quit my job and he’ll propose to me. Imagine
-He luvs u nau
-Shebi I shd starve becos I want a ring on my finger
-Take it easy
-I don blame him sha. Na me dey open leg for am
-So where u dey now?
-New York o. Cold wan kee person for dis hotel room
-I dey house
-Lucky wetin. I dey on standby. I jus dey wait for supervisor to call
-Sorry darling. Abeg make I sleep small
A month later, she quits the job. Three months after that, she moves from the status of leg-opener to Dele’s wife. I am privileged to grace the occasion – as bridesmaid. Three years on, I’m still unmarried, stuck in the same job as flight attendant while she has an adorable kid.
Ladies, don’t let anyone deceive you. The life of an air hostess is shitty. Take it from someone who has been on the job for ten years. The pay is good, I must admit. Especially for us who do international flights; but asides that, it is not a job for those who want to keep relationships or live happily ever after with a man. Forget our smiles or our perfectly-tailored outfits. We’re not having a ball up 30,000 feet in the air.
The general picture of a flight attendant is this happy girl who gets to see the world, meet and date rich men and is living a life that most girls envy. But the reality is we have no lives and do not enjoy touring the world. We are up on our feet all week and when we get the chance to rest, we don’t want to see the Eiffel Tower or Times Square or the Taj freaking Mahal. We just want to fall on that hotel bed and sleep until we’re called up in the air again. We are always grouchy beneath plastic smiles, having learned to put a lid over our frustration and anger issues. Before getting the job ten years ago, I was a positive soul, always looking forward to the best in life, but now all I see are grey clouds and a lonely stretch of years waiting for me.
How about the training? My Lord! I can pull my hairs off when you bring that up. We’re always training for one thing or the other. My colleague calls it Barbie Boot Camp but it hardly is. It’s hell! You want to get promoted, you go for training. They want to move you, say from a Boeing 777-300 to a Boeing 737-800, you train for it. They want to move you from that to an airbus, you also train for it. They want to promote you to business and first class, you have to train for it. Heck, they want to teach you how to look at passengers, you bleeding train for it.
We fall sick all the time. Being on your feet for twenty-two hours in a day, doing all you can to keep your eyes open, you play the role of cleaner, bartender, safety officer, babysitter, toilet cleaner etc. It will make anyone ill. Before passengers board on a plane, we are there several minutes earlier to arrange menu cards, set up newspaper trolleys, do a security sweep, heat up towels, stock up moisturizers and toilet papers in the lavatory, check with the caterer to make sure the meals are all there, organize the galley and so forth. Then let’s not even bring up those passengers that delight in spreading nameless viruses while in the air. They literally take the ‘airborne’ disease part seriously. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been puked on or sneezed and coughed on. And no, it doesn’t disgust me anymore.
Another nightmare is what being up in the air does to a woman’s body. It messes up your reproductive system. At one point I went seven months without a period. I didn’t even have the time to see a doctor and because every girl I work it had experienced it at one time or the other, I let it be. When it finally came, I almost threw a party. Lol! My girls popped champagne and we all drank and one of them rubbed my back to ease the menstrual cramps. But that’s even mild. Ladies who quit, like Dele’s wife, have to wait a while before they can get pregnant. Crazy shiii! I tell you.
Then don’t get me started on the passengers. They can literally make you lose your mind, especially those in economy. Geez! What have I not seen? Just the other day this man flung a menu card in my face just because I wouldn’t give him what he ordered; which, by the way was either on land or somewhere in the sea but not in the air. Some people think flight attendants are genies that are there to carry out their every desire. They will shout on you, insult you, swear for you and even hit you if you’re not careful. Yep! That totally happened to my colleague who refused to allow a woman enter the restroom alongside her husband. Yet in everything, our training forbids us from reacting cheekily. We are to keep smiling and be courteous even though most times we really want to cuss badly and bitchslap people’s parents. And that is why when we meet one or two passengers who are humane and well-mannered, we use their kindness as a shock absorber for the entire flight and treat them as VIPs. We meet such people every once in a while.
In fact, it was how I met this kind, old lady who has touched my life.
She is aboard my plane, headed for London. She is in economy. Upon getting in, she gives me a warm smile and tells me straightaway that she is a little afraid of flying and is suffering from arthritis. I assure her she is in safe hands and make sure she is comfortable as I bump her up to business class. When we hit the skies, I check up on her every now and then to be certain she is okay. Little by little, her fear eases and when we get into that stretch of time that allows me occasion to do nothing, I take the seat next to hers to keep her company.
“If you’re afraid of flying, ma, why didn’t you do it with a family member?” I ask as I fluff up her travel pillow. “Maybe with one of your children?”
“Hmmm…my dear, my boys are all grown and busy. My last born just got internship at a telecoms company, so there’s no one to travel with.”
“He hates traveling, although he has seen the world. He’s at that age when he just wants to stay at home and watch WWE all day.”
“I’m at that age where I just want to be with my children and grandchildren.”
“In fact, I am flying to see my daughter-in-law and nieces in the UK and then I’m off to the US to see my third son. I’ve missed them all so much.”
“And I guess you miss your family as well?” She is looking into my eyes. Such a gentle soul.
“Yes, I do but I haven’t seen my dad in almost a year.”
“Poor you. And your mom?”
The woman lays a hand on mine and squeezes it. I almost come to tears. It was one thing my mom used to love doing to me whenever I was hurting. She would say nothing but just squeeze my hand.
“And your siblings?”
“All married. I’m the last.”
“You’re not married?”
I shake my head.
“No ma.” I give a short chuckle. “This job doesn’t allow us have relationships. All my relationships in the past turned sour because I was never there. Now, I just don’t bother anymore.”
“Why? Don’t you want to get married and have children?”
“So then quit the job.”
I blow out my breath. “It’s hard to explain… I love it up here. It’s all I have. I’ve been doing it for ten years and I’m afraid to leave it and discover that there’s nothing out there for me. Everyone I know is either married or engaged or no more around. It’s like life moved on without me. How do I catch up?”
She touches my cheek. “You will catch up, my dear. Although time waits for no one, it often rewinds for those who have not yet lived. I’ll tell you something about my dear husband.” She places her hands on her laps and a twinkle lights up her eyes. It is amazing that at her age she would have that sort of twinkle in her eyes when talking about her husband. I envy her. I want that type of love.
“My husband never got to attend secondary school or the university. When we first met, he was an apprentice, learning the spare parts business with his uncle. Total illiterate. But he had flows.”
“I loved him the way he was. We courted for some years and while I got myself educated, he advanced in business until he was an entrepreneur of his own. We got married, had our sons and put them through school before he got any form of education. Right now, he is well-read and more enlightened than the rest of us. So my dear, it’s never too late to start all over again.”
We talk some more. I tell her about my family. She tells me about her sons; Jideofor, especially. It seems he is her favorite, although I see some melancholy in her eyes when she speaks about him.
“I hope he finds happiness soon. He’s such a good boy but he’s going through a rough patch.”
She shows me his photo. I am not impressed; I have seen finer guys. He is just there. The only thing that intrigues me about him is his profession. What would make a man choose to be a midwife?
His mother laughs. “Don’t mind him. He’s always been different. His father almost had a heart attack when he stopped his law course halfway and veered off into nursing and midwifery. He could have disowned him had I not intervened. But he’s doing so well now as Director of Midwifery in a reputable hospital.”
“You must be proud of him.”
“And his wife, what does she think about the whole midwifery thing?”
This is my way of finding out if he is hooked because as much as I am not moved by his looks, I am curious to know if he is available or not.
“Oh, he’s not married. His girlfriend, or should I say fiancée died five years ago.”
“Oh. Sorry about that.”
“But he’s gotten over it now. He’s building his life again.” She looks at me. “And so should you. Do you go to church?”
I have been waiting for this question.
“Yes, ma but it’s been years since I did.” I wince.
“So how do you build up your faith?”
I scratch a brow.
“Oh dear. This job is taking a lot out of you.”
“But it is well. God will sort things out for you. Just pray always. In fact, your prayers will reach heaven faster since you’re all the way up here.”
I crack and so does she. It’s so easy to be with her. I feel like I’ve known her all my life.
“Mommy, my time is up,” I announce. “But I’ll be back to check on you. It was nice talking to you, ma’am.”
“Same here, Honey. Erm…can I have your number? If you’re ever in town and have free time, you can come visit.”
“Okay, ma’am. Thanks.”
I get my phone and we exchange digits.
“So, you’re real name, please?” she requests.
“It’s Honey.” I laugh. She pulls back. I am quite used to the reaction.
“Your parents named you Honey?”
“Yes, my dad. For the funniest reason, you won’t believe.”
“When my mom was pregnant with me, honey was all she wanted to take. My dad said he spent a fortune and stressed himself looking for unadulterated honey everywhere. When I was born, they said I had this natural glow on my skin…”
“Which you still have.”
“Thank you, ma.”
“And that my hair was sort of golden-brown. So my dad named me Honey.”
The dear old lady has this thoughtful smile on her face for a while and then she tells me I have rare beauty. I blush. I have heard this so many times but to hear a gorgeous woman tell it to me makes my head swell in proportions. I don’t know when I bend forward and hug her. The act takes her by surprise. She rubs my back.
“God bless you, girl.”
I turn away feeling floaty. Mommy will make not just my day but my entire week. I enter the galley, away from the attention of my colleagues, and fight with the tears that burn my eyes. I haven’t felt such warmth since my mother was alive.
Mommy and I communicate over the phone a few times. Work overwhelms me as usual and for a while I don’t hear from her, until I come across her and her son on one of our flights back to Nigeria. I shriek in excitement, forgetting my manners, as I hug her.
“Mommy! It’s so good to see you!”
“Shhh!” She hushes me.
“I’m sorry. I’m just so happy to see you.”
“Me too. How are you?”
“Fine. We thank God.”
“Good to hear.”
My eyes shift to her son. He certainly isn’t Jideofor. He has a curious look on his face.
“Meet my son, Emeka. Emmy, meet Honey. I told you about her and how she helped me.”
“Hi.” He gives a short wave but spares no smiles. He turns his face away.
“He’s in a mood,” Mommy whispers. I nod in understanding.
“So, you’re coming back home. I thought you were staying for a month. This is just three weeks.”
“My dear, my arthritis got worse. I can hardly walk as it is.”
“Then you shouldn’t be sitting in economy. Give me a minute.”
I leave the cabin and speak to one of the stewards about upgrading Mommy and Emeka to first class. I am the in-flight supervisor and can do as I well wish. The steward helps them move to first class and I take it from there. Mommy and I can’t chat much this time because I am very busy on this flight and she is in pains from her arthritis. When the flight arrives in Nigeria, a wheelchair is waiting as per my request. Mommy has refused my offer to have a doctor check her at the airport. Jideofor is going to be there, she tells me. Never mind that he is only a midwife. Emeka isn’t bothered about her decision, so I don’t pressure.
While Emeka handles their luggage, I wait with her. I also wheel her out to Arrivals. As expected, there are so many people waiting for their loved ones. I can’t pick out who Jideofor is from the crowd. I slow in my steps and wait for either Mommy or Emeka to identify him. I have no idea he is the guy walking towards us with the checked shirt and pair of safari shorts until his mother calls out his name.
He breaks into a smile that steals my heart on instant and has my tummy in knots. I can’t believe I’m having collywobbles. Seriously, no jokes, I am struck! Which is new for me, because it is always the other way round. Guys are usually smitten by me without a second glance. But this… this is different. I have never felt this way before.
I immediately put myself in check and shake it off. As much as I’m willing to meet someone new, I can’t let myself get carried away on impulse. I keep a straight face and watch mother and son reunite after a long time away from each other. Following a warm hug that has Mommy in tears, Jideofor goes on his knees and they converse in Igbo. I see that he’s asking her forgiveness over something; I decide to give them some privacy. People are staring but neither of them is unmindful. She has a hand on his cheek and the other on his shoulder. It’s an emotional scene. However, Emeka stands close by, simply watching them with no expression on his face.
Jideofor rises up and looks his way. They say nothing to each other for some seconds. The air gets tight around us until Jideofor steps forward and Emeka closes the gap to hug him. It is not the quick type of hug guys normally share. This is between brothers that mean a lot to each other.
They break contact. Jide says something in Igbo and gives Emeka a harmless smack on his neck and pulls him in for another hug that lasts barely two seconds. They break contact again.
“Mom,” Jide calls, “right now we have to get you to a doctor.”
“And I will not go home and rest first? It’s almost 11pm.”
“Mommy, you’re in a wheelchair. I can’t tell you how much I’m freaking out here.”
“Relax. I’ll be fine, Jide.” She turns in my direction. “Honey?”
Jide gives me a casual glance.
I reclaim my position behind her, aware of Jideofor’s eyes on me. I don’t look at him.
“Jideofor, I want you to meet this wonderful lady who took care of me on the flight and is responsible for making me comfortable in this chair. She is such an angel. Honey, meet my second son, Jideofor.”
Jideofor eyes sweep my entire frame from top to bottom. I try to read him but see nothing in his stare.
“Thanks for taking care of her.”
“Oh, it’s nothing. Mommy’s the angel here.”
“Thanks, all the same.”
The fuzzy, warm feeling returns and I wonder why. There is nothing striking in this guy that would affect me this way. I think I should blame it on my long stretch of not having a man in my life. What I’m experiencing is probably some form of low grade crush. It will fizzle off once I hit the skies again.
“Honey, my invitation is still open. Visit whenever you can. In fact, if you’re free this Saturday, we’ll be having a family dinner. You are invited. Just call and Jideofor will come get you wherever you are.”
I see that Jide disapproves when his brows squeeze together. Emeka has a roguish smile on his face.
“Okay, ma,” I respond. “Thank you. Um… I’ll escort you to your car so I can get the chair.”
“That’s fine. I even want you to meet my lastborn, Obasi. He’s a carbon copy of Jide.”
Jideofor takes over from me behind the wheelchair and I follow them, trying to decipher what it is they are speaking about in Igbo that has them both laughing like old friends. Emeka, pushing the luggage trolley with their cases, falls in step with me.
“Welcome to the family,” he tells me. “The old lady just gave you license to screw her favorite son.”
I look at him and he smiles and walks ahead of me. I shift my stare to Jideofor, who for some reason has turned slightly to look at me. He turns back instantly and I try to still another wave of mushiness his stare has injected in me.
I can’t wait to bid them goodnight so I can go somewhere and banish this intrusive sentiment coursing through me.
Yes, I want love. Yes, I’m tired of being lonely. But can this man turn my life around or will he be just like the rest?
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
“What were you trying to do back there?”
Loud laughter rings from Emeka who is sitting in front of the car with Oba. He is not responding to my question but to something Oba has just told him.
The one whom I threw the question to has kept a blank face in an attempt to act like she didn’t hear me.
“Why were you trying to pimp me to that Honey chick back there?”
“Pimp? Me?” My mom places her small hand on her chest. I shake a reprimanding head at her.
“Don’t even think about it. I don’t like her.”
“You don’t like her?”
“Why? She’s your type.”
“I just don’t like her.”
And that’s the plain truth. Honey or whatever her weird name is, is beautiful. In fact, blindingly. But she strikes nothing in me. Usually, I can’t help myself when I meet girls like her. I hit on them on default. However, this one blows past me like a transient wind. I didn’t even lust for one second. I’m sure to forget her face by morning.
“Honey is a good girl,” my mom presses on.
“And you know that, how?”
“Has my intuition ever been amiss?”
“Nne, I don’t like her.”
“Okay.” She smiles. “Let’s forget her. How are you?”
“And your first day at work?”
“Great. Although there was that buzz about me being a midwife. They are used to male nurses and they even have a couple of them there but I’m the first male midwife they’ve seen.”
“They’ll get used to you. Erm…do you know that the hospital partly belongs to Emeka’s fiancée’s family? The Adeniyis.”
I put up a surprised face.
“Tola’s her name. Lovely girl. Beautiful, well-mannered and God-fearing.”
“Yes. She’s quite the talkative, though. But you’ll love her once you get to know her.”
I try not the think of the different positions in which I’ve known Tola.
“She’ll be around on Saturday. Won’t she, sweetheart?” my mom asks Emeka.
“Tola. She’ll be coming on Saturday, won’t she?”
“You already invited her. Why are you asking me?”
“Well… just confirming.”
Emeka turns away. I notice he’s not exactly pleased with the decision to have Tola over. I’m curious as to why.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
I wake up on my old bed in my old bedroom in the family house. Apart from the sheets and curtains, nothing has changed in the room. The air-conditioner still snores like an old fart and the windows retain their eerie habit of rattling for no reason.
The time is 7am. I press my feet to the floor and mentally organize my day. I have a client who wants a homebirth in the hospital. I have not met the woman but I’m told she is the wife of a man I greatly admire. I am to see her later in the evening but first I’ll sign in at work and complete my psych evaluation which was cut short yesterday due to an emergency I had to attend to.
I hear a shy knock on my door and I invite the person in. It’s the housemaid. She curtsies and hands me toiletries and leaves. I clean up and find my way downstairs. My mom is in the kitchen with Oba. I can see she’s up on her feet and unaffected by her arthritis or jetlag. I come up behind her and hug her small frame. She pats my cheek and asks me if I want pancakes.
“No.” I frown. “That’s poor man’s food abeg. I didn’t spend the night here to be told I can’t have swallow.”
She sighs. “Nnam, I’ve not made any soup yet. You’ll eat to your heart’s content on Saturday. But now, manage the pancakes, biko.”
“Can you, at least send Oba with soup tomorrow? Saturday is light years away.”
“Do I look like a driver to you?” Oba sneers at me. I ignore him.
“Don’t talk to your elder brother like that, Obasi,” my mom scolds. “Jide, I’ll send your father’s driver with something tomorrow.” She hands me a tray of pancakes and jam. “Make yourself some tea. I’ll come join you.”
I walk out to the dining area and sit. I haven’t seen my dad yet. I’m not excited to. The old man can like to stay in his room right now. No one needs his scathing tongue around.
My mom joins me and upon sitting, asks if I said my prayers before eating.
I drop my fork and with a mouthful, mumble the “some have food but cannot eat” prayer. I open my eyes and see her watching me.
“You can’t say a normal prayer, Jidenna?”
I hate the name she just called me. She has a habit of adding suffixes to Jide just for fun. The worst is when she calls me Jidechi.
“That was a normal prayer, Nne. I don’t hear God complaining.”
“Na wa for you.”
I change the course of discussion. “When are you going to have the doctor check you?”
“We’ll see him together today.”
“Don’t you have an office to go to?”
“We will see your doctor,” I insist.
“So, tell me what you think of Honey.”
I stop chewing what’s in my mouth. Why do mothers have this innate amnesia? I thought I told her I didn’t like Honey.
“I don’t know her, mom.”
She takes out her phone and shows me a picture of her. I roll my eyes.
“Look at her. This is her without makeup. Isn’t she beautiful?”
I’m forced to take another look. Still, nothing strikes me. I’ve seen many girls like her.
“Jide, I’m not even going to hide what’s on my mind, so let me go straight to the point. I think Honey will make a good wife.”
I throw open my mouth.
“You. Who else?”
This woman is cute and a sweetheart but she is so annoying. She hasn’t changed after all these years.
“Mom, I don’t know her. I don’t like her. I am not interested.”
“When will you ever be interested, Jide? It’s been five years since Ezinne died.”
My fork hits my plate with a loud clang. I lose my appetite.
“I know you’re still hurting but you have to move on. Ezinne would want you to.”
“That’s the thing. She doesn’t want me to move on like everyone else has because she is not dead.”
“No, mom. Ezinne is alive. I can still feel her. She is alive. And I won’t stop looking for her, so find someone else to become milk for your Honey.”
“Very funny, son.”
“I’m serious, ma.”
My mom has stopped eating too. She looks at me through weak eyes.
“Jide, I am sorry if it seems like I’m pushing you…”
“You are…pushing me.”
“I apologize but son, I only want to see you happy. You’re not happy.”
“And a woman is what I need?”
“I didn’t say that. I just want…”
“The best for me. I know.”
I calm down when I see sincerity in her eyes. I never want to do anything to hurt this woman again.
“I have no issues with Honey or any other girl, Nne. I just…” I sigh. “Please just give me time. A little more time.”
“As if you’re not turning into an old jester already,” my father’s voice cuts in. I cock my head in his direction.
“Ndewo,” I greet. He will never respond to greetings from us if we utter them in English.
“Why are you here?” he asks.
“What sort of question is that?” My mom jumps in to rescue me. I find my appetite again. “Welcome your son, Lawrence. You haven’t seen him in five years.”
“Oh, he’s expecting a hug. Maybe I should give him breast to suck too.”
I want to laugh but I bite my tongue in and pretend not to hear him.
“If you like take another ten years sabbatical, na you sabi. I will not grow scales overnight because you choose to prodigalize yourself.”
This time I snort. What is prodigalize?
He faces my mom. “I want my breakfast in bed. And why are you even here with this overgrown baby? I haven’t seen you in three weeks and the first thing you do is come down here to pet him? Bia, mind yourself.”
I roll my eyes, understanding perfectly well that this is some sort of mating call. I pick my tray and stand.
“Don’t worry, guys. You don’t have to go all the way upstairs. I’m going.”
I leave them and head to Emeka’s room. He’s awake when I walk in. He’s in a bad mood.
“I swear I’ll strangle popsi.”
“He just walked in here, woke me up and started telling me that I’ve disgraced him by knocking up a Yoruba girl, that if it wasn’t for momsi he’ll disown me bla-bla-bla! That the best thing I can do for myself and to save the family name is to marry Tola.”
“And you don’t want to?”
“Tell me about this Tola chick.”
“What’s there to tell, Jide? I just don’t want to get married yet. Tola got pregnant from nowhere, didn’t tell me but came home to tell momsi. Now momsi is talking marriage and shit.”
“She’s trapped you.”
“Na her papa generations she wan trap.”
“So what do you want to do about it?”
Emeka sits and exhales loudly.
“Do you love her?”
It’s a question he leaves unanswered as he goes into the details of how he met Tola. It’s a touching love story from the start but halfway it gets muddy and in the end I see that it’s Emeka who is to blame.
“You could have told her you stopped having feelings, Mex. You don’t do that to a woman.”
“I tried telling her but she wouldn’t listen. She kept insisting that we could work out our differences and then suggested an open relationship. I was like, cool, that totally works for me.”
“Until you slept with her cousin. You screwed up.”
“I know.” He sits on his bed. “I don’t want that baby and I don’t want Tola but nobody will listen.”
“The baby is non-negotiable, Mex. You have to take responsibility.”
“But I can’t marry Tola. There’s… someone else.”
“Someone else? I hope it’s not the cousin sha?”
“No. She’s not even Nigerian. She’s Mexican.”
I almost choke on my coffee. “You’re joking.”
“No. And it gets worse.”
I look into his eyes. He’s my closest brother. He doesn’t need to tell me what ‘worse’ means. I read his thoughts.
“She’s pregnant too,” I say.
He nods. “Seven months.”
I don’t speak further; I just sip my coffee. Emeka has changed. He used to be responsible and focused. What happened? I’m profoundly disappointed but I can’t utter a word because I haven’t exactly been a role model to him. It’s sad. Our mother will be heartbroken.
“Jide, I really need your help, man. How do I handle her matter?”
“The Mexican chick.”
“Don’t involve me abeg.”
“It’s the least you can do for me.” Emeka’s eyes accuse. “Yaz is coming to Nigeria next month. She’s the girl I have to marry. I can’t even joke with her. Her popsi is a Mexian warlord. He’ll shoot me dead if I don’t marry her.”
I’m annoyed. “You know what condoms are? Have you ever used one before?”
“Let’s not cry over spilled…”
“Don’t even say it.”
He cackles. I stare at him; beneath the surface, he doesn’t seem fazed. What has yankee done to my brother?
“So what do you want me to do now?” I question.
“JD, you always stood by me and supported me right from when we were small. I need you now. Popsi will kill me on Saturday. He’ll get that his double-barrel and shoot me. But you can stop him. You’re the only one he fears.”
“Wait, you want me to support your decision to marry the white chick…”
“She’s not white.”
“Whatever. I should just support you.”
“Yes, cos no one else will.”
I push my tray away and think of Tola’s demands and put it side by side with Emeka’s, and realize how trapped in the middle I am. The picture is not good. But I try not to think about it yet or I’ll spoil my day.
“Whatever you do, don’t bring Yazmin up on Saturday.”
“Am I mad?”
He picks my last slice of pancake, a habit he carried over from childhood.
“Do you have my back?” he asks.
I nod. “Sure.”
He wants a handshake. I stare at him in distraction, wondering why on earth my mom didn’t neuter me when I was a baby and dedicate me to God’s service because despite Emeka being the one impregnating chicks up and down, it is my penis that will take the blame on Saturday for poking his chick.
Somebody shoot me in the head already.
Image Credits: beyondblackandwhite.com, lipstickalley.com