The past sticks with us forever, even when we change names or give up our brains to be wiped out. I have successfully tip-toed around the past, hushing those voices that remind me what I was. But salt on open wounds stirred fresh pains, like the voice in the other room when my mother starts to wail.
The rooms in our bungalow have always been empty, yet crowded with the memories my childhood managed to capture. I was a toddler when Tobenna dragged his books and wooden table under the trees in our yard to study. I remember he was serious because he demanded quietness from my chattering, and joined forces with Mother to hush me. I vaguely recall when he was nicknamed “Faraday” after his classmates carried him home on their shoulders, after he won the scholarship that sent him to Europe. But what stays vivid in my memory is how my mother’s eyes glistened for an entire week after she saw the award letter.
From that day, I’ve always wanted to be like my brother, but in a different way. The intelligence without the insensitivity. The decisiveness without the thoughtlessness. The autonomy without people staring awkwardly. I wanted to be a man, but mother wouldn’t have it. She said I was beautiful, and that was the best way to live in the world.
Of course, she was lying.
The day Camila came back home with my brother marked the first strain in my relationship with my mother. It wasn’t Camila’s fault though, I was just envious of her long legs, which she never got tired of brandishing on the streets. All her conversations revolved around her mixed heritage, telling us how she was African, Latin American, and Asian at once. “I am from everywhere,” she always added gleefully to every story.
My brother even glowed with pride whenever she spoke. He prided in her several scholarships; kept referring to the research she was doing, and even smiled when she interrupted to complete his long sentences. He saw Camila as equivalent to a Cambridge scholarship, or a Science Foundation grant that he’d been chasing for years.
But Mother’s nose sniffed at faults in Camila’s wigs, nose rings, and colored tattoos. When my mother asked me what I thought about Camila, I told her what she wanted to hear. Camila was not Christian enough, but at least she cooked and cleaned and had a Catholic background. She was educated and self-sufficient, so she would not bother herself with fighting over the virgin lands we owned at Ugwuoba. She didn’t seem like the woman who wanted housemaids, and would do everything to keep her home. She was a white woman in our Igbo household, and my mother should be proud.
What I didn’t tell her is that Camila cornered me one night and we had a long chat. If anyone had audacity, it was this woman.
She gave me an IUD when I awkwardly revealed I was sexually active. In Camila’s words, “You shouldn’t have children unless you’re ready to care for them”. She equated human carelessness to the challenge of overpopulation and continued to dish out research data on how scientists were ending the menace soon. But I always imagined children were a product of lovemaking. When she asked if I was in love, I didn’t have the courage to ask her the same. I wanted the best for my brother, but it would be disappointing if she wasn’t. And to be fair, my relationship was complicated at the time. It was a discreet relationship that shouldn’t have been happening, because I didn’t love him. That’s why I always spent hours post-intercourse wondering if he pulled out in time.
When we sat down to eat the pot of roast chicken, plantains, and vegetables— lots of funny-looking vegetables–which Camila christened, she asked everyone to state what they were grateful for. I didn’t say anything, because I was grateful to have met Camila. Mother scoffed at the suggestion of this ‘okuko bekee’ usurping her matriarchal duties. But a furtive glance from Tobenna calmed her down as she reluctantly said a short thanksgiving prayer for our family and safe travels.
They had an early flight back to England the following day. At the airport, I held Camila for longer and struggled not to cry. I finally let go after reminding her about her promise to send me lady clothes for my barren wardrobe. When my eyes met my brother’s, I thanked him for promising me higher education abroad. He had become Uncle Tobenna, those fifteen years of distance towering over our siblinghood. Whenever we Skyped, he spent more time scanning my school report card, avoiding eye contact, asking academic questions he already knew the answers to; adding finishing touches to my life. I had thought my life was decided, up until Camila washed up on the shores of our bungalow. When the plane left, my mother grabbed my hand. It was cold and unfamiliar, just like when I first met Camila.
In the weeks that followed, our bungalow became a consultation room. Many uncles I hadn’t seen before flocked in and out, discussing with my mother in low tones. I didn’t understand the details until a young woman started living in our house.
Camila and I kept in touch through Facebook, and that was how I discovered she was Puerto Rican. That my brother and Camila had performed a secret wedding ceremony on the beach months before he brought her home. They were ‘partners’ not husband and wife. I gathered the courage to tell her I was leaving my boyfriend. She sent me a thumbs-up. But I couldn’t tell her there was a woman in the house my mother introduced to the neighbors as “Nwunye Tobenna.”
The months dragged longer, till another Christmas when my brother was meant to return. I spent them sending university applications, changing my wardrobe, and secretly piercing my nipples. I set up a private Facebook account and changed my name to Chinedu. I started writing poetry that implied I came from everywhere.
That Christmas, Uncle Tobenna came back to Enugu alone. The young woman moved into his room, and they spent their nights together. My brother kept a cordial relationship with the woman and never mentioned Camila around the house. I even noticed he liked his Nigerian wife. This brilliant well-traveled man sprouted a polygamous nature, without argument. The Igbo accent he worked so hard to chase from his tongue, melted into his taste in women. My mother became her usual triumphant self again, and I felt sorry for Camila.
The first scholarship I got, I left the house for the States. It was easier to stay off Camila’s radar, or my mother’s; to find myself in the midst of books. To chase my own mini-dreams, in the grand scheme of Uncle Tobenna’s plans for my life. I couldn’t marry an oyibo husband and keep a Nigerian man at home, or could I?
Every good thing finally ends, like my scholarship and the PhD degree that followed, or the long detachment from a man. I had lost my relationship with Camila because she found out about the Nigerian woman and was pissed. My mother organized a big party to welcome me home, and I heard a good number of Enugu’s finest bachelors would be attending. Mother was in shock when I arrived home, seeing my bald head and lots of skin. My legs were unsteady when I was introduced to guests at our house for sampling. I was not sure which part of my body piqued their interest—my long legs, my nose rings, or my shaved head. Perhaps, they were muttering to themselves what a bad wife and mother I would become.
I found a husband. Even though I didn’t love him, my mother said a woman is nothing without a head over her. I bit my lips because it was true, at least in my context. My mother and I were nothing without Uncle Tobenna. Camila, with all her shining audacity, became a forgotten topic when my brother moved back to Nigeria to be with his family. My professorship was not a badge that I could wear on my forehead, but my wedding ring earned me respect in public. My citation was incomplete, until the anchor added, “She is married to Dr. Fumitope and blessed with two children.”
Things might be twisted, but I must wiggle to the tunes, or fade out. People like Camila suffer unnecessarily, and I was too ashamed to live like that. So when Uncle Tobenna died from third-degree burns in a fire accident, my head ached for several days. I didn’t know his Nigerian wife’s middle name, so I didn’t write a tribute to her even though I had been writing pages of research for years. I moved back home to live with my mother, oblivious to what it meant for my marriage.
When she starts to wail again tonight, I’ll join her.
************
Are you a writer? We’re looking for short stories and personal essays to feature on our digital and print platforms. Click HERE to find out how to submit.
