Complicated

Unlike Ada, Ojiugo wasn’t concerned about “singledoom”, as she jokingly called her marital status, and wished her mum would accept that her being unmarried neither embarrassed nor troubled her, that she was as happy as a crab in a hole on the beach. Marriage could wait. Ojiugo wasn’t even sure she wanted to anchor her life to someone else’s or theirs to hers until death did them in. And that one time in her late teens when she voiced her uncertainty, her mum had given her a blistering dressing down.

It troubled Ada that her only child was creeping past the marriageable age, a sentiment her friends echoed during her visits to Nigeria.

“When is your daughter getting married? Don’t you want us to come and eat rice?” teased one. “Let her marry anybody and just have her kids. If the man is useless, she can dump him. But at least, she’d have her children,” advised another.

Ada passed along their concerns to Ojiugo with slices of her own. “When I was your age, I already had you. Don’t you want to be a young mother?” … “I saw your best friend from nursery. She’s married now.”

Ada’s hysteria over her daughter’s marital status was cyclical, intensifying during summer and winter in line with her biannual trips to Nigeria and somewhat tapering off in spring and autumn. Knowing this, Ojiugo devised a strategy to dodge the perennial topic. The minute Ada mentioned “wedding”, Ojiugo would then announce an imaginary rendezvous with colleagues from work or claim that she was running late for a fake tango class in an attempt to cut short their conversation. So far, the ruse had worked.

It was late afternoon when Ojiugo received a text message from Ada asking: “Free to gist tonight?”

For mother and daughter, “gist” meant one thing only: sweet, succulent, home-brewed gossip. The last one had featured a family-friend whose co-pastor wife berated before their congregation for sleeping with the head usher.

Ojiugo replied in the affirmative, then spent the rest of the day willing the office clock to move faster. She would call her mum on WhatsApp the minute she entered her apartment, a full hour ahead of the scheduled time.

Ada was wiping makeup off her face, her hair wrapped in a gold silk scarf that matched her robe.

“You look like Mami Wata,” Ojiugo teased, referring to the water goddess in many of the bedtime stories Ada had told her as a child.

“Ah, don’t let your father’s people hear you before they blame me for his penury,” she joked in a gossipy tone. “Speaking of which, I saw your dad’s brother Obi at a function. You should have seen the look on this face when I went over to say hello. He didn’t recognise me.”

“Was he dazzled by your glamour?” Ojiugo said, laughing.

Ada had an unabashed fetish for Jimmy Choo shoes and a weakness for rich lace attires sewn exclusively by Bola, the only Nigerian tailor who, as far as Ada knew, hadn’t yet mastered the art of disappointing customers with unoriginal designs or late deliveries.

“Dazzled is an understatement. He yelped when I said, “O nwunye Okichie”. His chin almost hit the floor.”

Ojiugo hated that her mum still introduced herself as Okichie’s wife. She believed tagging oneself with the name of one’s abuser was a silly and unnecessary cross to bear. It infuriated her that Ada still wanted to maintain a nominal link to the man who had mistreated her for years. “But Tina Turner still bears Ike’s name,” Ada countered, even though she knew their circumstances were different for she had carved her identity as a renowned lawyer only after separating from her husband and not before.

For her part, Ojiugo chose to legally expunge the surname she once shared with her parents, replacing it with her middle name. The decision displeased Ada, who only shook her head to the news.

“Imagine if Uncle saw your car and apartment in Manchester,” Ojiugo said, with a note of sarcasm. “He’d choke to death from jealousy.”

A riotous laugher ensued.

“It would give him another vile headline to feed your father,” Ada said drily.

Ada’s face, now devoid of makeup, glistened from the coconut oil she’d used as a cleanser. The fact that she could forgo foundation and false lashes and still look dainty made Ojiugo silently begrudge her mother. Still, it thrilled her that people often mistook them for sisters.

“So what gist did you have for me?” Ojiugo moved from the dining table to her couch, propping her elbows on a throw pillow. “I know it’s not about Uncle.”

“Ah, yes. The gist.” Ada’s face brightened with a long sly smile, indicating the story’s saltiness. “I met a fine gentleman from Mbaise at a party last night.”

At fifty-two, Ada still turned heads. But because of her Catholic faith, a second walk down the aisle remained a fleeting possibility as long as her ex was alive. Still, the news that she was making an effort to date, or at least considering doing so after so long, warmed Ojiugo’s heart. Her smile bloomed.

“So, who’s the lucky man who has captured my mama’s heart?”

“Thirty-four year old Gerald Ogbonnaya.”

Ojiugo’s brows furrowed. “What are you doing with a thirty-four year old?”

“What do you mean?” Ada’s voice was serious, almost indignant. “Isn’t he an adult?”

“Mum, please. If you’re looking for a date, I can hook you up pronto when you return. Just leave the thirty-somethings for me.”

Ada burst out laughing, tears and all, at Ojiugo’s dismayed expression. When she sobered, she conceded, “You’re right. I should leave him for you, which is why I gave him your number.”

Now it was Ojiugo’s turn to laugh, but hers was devoid of mirth. A wry snigger. “You’re joking, right?”

Ojiugo had a market, and that market largely excluded African men not because she didn’t want them but because they preferred dating white women for fun or Africans with plans of returning home to the continent at some point. It also hadn’t helped that they deemed Ojiugo’s hobbies “too white”. A date from Ghana once called her white chocolate for mentioning System of a Down as her favourite band. She laughed off the inane comment and other similar ones he made in the course of their meal until he called her a devil worshipper. That’s when she knew it was time to ask for the bill. Months later, a Ugandan dismissed her lifelong dream of climbing Kilimanjaro as the preoccupation of bored Caucasians, as if melanin determined one’s interests. And when he asked “Are you sure you’re black?” the fourth time, it had taken everything in her not to clunk him with her handbag.

Swallowing the hard truth was as painful as it was liberating. The solution to her dilemma, Ojiugo thought, was to expand her dating pool, and with the help of a high-end matchmaking service she could easily skim off undesirables. Her criteria were pretty straightforward: Employed. Intelligent. Current Affairs Junkie. Outdoorsy. Broadminded. Lib Dem. But in the end, the matchmakers came up blank. No one was interested in dating a black British woman with a penchant for spicy foods, smart debates and bungee jumping — at least not seriously. Hearing those words sliced her deep to the bone, but by evening she’d rallied enough to open an account with OK Cupid. If casual dating was what they wanted, then she was going to be as flippant as they came. But even then, she was deliberate in her search, choosing men with similar lifestyles and pursuits. She wanted men who could stimulate her beyond the bedroom.

And then she met Zac.

“Mum, I told you I have a type,” Ojiugo protested, half joking.

Her reply piqued Ada. She felt Ojiugo was using her own past experience with her ex-husband as an excuse to eschew black men, Nigerian men precisely. She also couldn’t understand why Ojiugo wasn’t in a hurry to settle down despite having a successful career in accounting.

Ada reached for the lighter and pack of cigarette on her dressing table while her mind stitched together the right combination of words to make Ojiugo see reason. Each move was slow and deliberate, and after emitting two puffs of smoke through her nostrils, she spoke with a calm conviction.

“Give this guy a chance, at least talk to him… You never know,” Ada said, then took a long a drag.

“What does he do?” Ojiugo’s fingers worked her phone, typing his name into the Facebook search bar.

“He’s an engineer. Works for Chevron, I think.”

She found him. There was a vague familiarity about him. Then it clicked. They had both run in the same social circles during their university days. He came from stupendous wealth that, like the British royal family, eternally insulated him from the ghost of privation and presented itself a cloying optimism that defied logic. Ojiugo disliked and avoided his kind like Marmite.

“His mother is the Speaker of the House and his father is a judge. He’s a good catch, no?” she said, feeling proud of her selection.

“Two weeks in Nigeria and you’re already sounding like those materialistic society women you love to criticise.” Ojiugo’s tone was dry like the harmattan winds that swept across West Africa in December. “Please come back soon before they completely distort your outlook on life.”

Her remark was intended to aggravate, but rather than react Ada remained poker faced with her gaze trained on her only child, the one thing that had kept her going as a young single mother and law student in Manchester, struggling to make ends meet. Like most parents, Ada considered herself a sculptor whose job it was to mould and shape Ojiugo to reflect her world view. On the whole, she was proud of her creation. But some days, like today, she wondered where she’d gone wrong, why Ojiugo’s opinions, the way she moved through the world with a heady disposition, troubled her. Stubborn. Independent. Those were the words Ojiugo’s teachers’ had used to describe her.

Ada let out a long sigh. Sounding tired, she asked, “When are you going to settle down? When? Your mates in Nigeria are all getting married and having — ”

“Mum, I have a well-paying job and my own apartment, so I’m as settled as can be. Whenever and wherever I find love, I’ll take it. That said, I have no plans of rushing into something just to fulfil yours or anyone else’s vision, especially if that vision requires my moving to Africa. I know you don’t want to hear this, but I’m more British than I am Nigerian. My home is Manchester. It’s where I feel most alive.”

Ada’s lips clenched into a tight purse, her eyes narrowed into slits like they did when she was upset. She squished her half-smoked cigarette into an ash tray for a long time.

“The biggest mistake I made was raising you in the UK.” Ada’s voice was low and foreboding. “It’s confused you. All these white men and foreigners you’ve been dating are only interested in getting black women in their beds, nothing more. Your last boyfriend proved that point.”

At those words, Ojiugo felt her jaws tighten and her hackles rise.

“By thirty-three, I had already had you — ”

“And was divorced,” Ojiugo shot back. “Does that mean I should tread the same path?”

A thick fog of silence fell between the women, ultimately rent by the older one.

“Kam gwa gi, i bu onye Mbaise. That place is the only land that won’t spit out your corpse. And this attitude of yours is no longer a joke… No, no, let me finish,” Ada continued Ojiugo when made to interrupt her. “If the groom isn’t Nigerian, I won’t be a part of your wedding. Kam gwa gi.” Then for good measure, she said, “And don’t think about presenting anyone who isn’t Igbo either.”

“You mean Igbo like the man who hit and emotionally tormented you?” Ojiugo sneered. “You mean an Igbo man like the one who almost burnt your law degree to punish you?” Ada winced, but Ojiugo was determined to have the last word. “Tell me, because I would love to know what kind of Igbo man you want.” There was rage in her bones and fire in her eyes.

“Good night, Ojiugo,” Ada said with a quiet resignation that surprised Ojiugo, then ended the phone call.

It wasn’t the response she’d expected. Ojiugo expected a fight, a protracted argument. She buried her face in the pillows, aware she had stuck the knife deeper than she intended. Still, the truth, barbed and wicked as it was, needed be told, she reasoned. And insisting that she marry an Igbo man? Her mum had crossed the line, too.

Ojiugo was jittery with hunger and anger, a condition that would be cured with sugar and a short walk. Grabbing her wallet, she set off to the Sainsbury’s around the corner. She was in the fruit section, inspecting peaches for the ice cream she’d picked, when she looked up and saw him at the self-service counter watching her. There, the man who had elevated and humiliated her, healed and poisoned her, soothed then tore her heart open, stood not as a distant, abstract thought but as a full-bodied presence. It had been four years since she got a call from his wife. Four years since she was forced to unwrap their romance lies after lies, scale after scale, exposing it for the rotten sham it was. Five years since she offered to convert to his faith, and six since he convinced her to abort their baby.

Ojiugo stood frozen, numb, unable to speak, barely able to breathe. Save for the five o’ clock shadow he now sported, he hadn’t changed. His expression was one of contrition, of a million sorrys and forgive mes. A red-haired woman, his wife, approached him. She said something to him and ruffled his hair in the way Ojiugo had done many years ago. He grinned, his eyes stealing glances at Ojiugo before settling on the extra items his wife had placed on the counter.

Blinking back tears, Ojiugo dropped her shopping basket and rushed out of the supermarket, setting off in the opposite direction from home. She felt a sudden urge to scream until her vocal cords bled or exhaustion forced her to stop.

He had always known the right things to say and do. He spoilt her with poetry, patient words and smouldering touches. And when her dog Daisy passed on, he had daisies delivered to her home every other day for a month. She thought him a guardian angel until the day his halo cracked and his white, saintly robe slipped off, exposing him for the manipulative demon that he was. “It’s complicated” was his response to her whys. The worst part was having to pretend she was over him, over his web of deception, over her own willingness to ignore the glaring clues. Her blind acceptance of their rosy world had aided his duplicity, and acknowledging that fact pained and irked her in equal proportion.

Ojiugo wanted — no, needed to skim off the myriad memories frothing to the surface before they choked her. She straggled into a random pub and was on her third scotch when a familiar voice called out from behind.

“Never expected to hear see you here today.” It was Adrien, her co-worker.

“It’s your lucky day,” she replied, wearing a silly grin.

They occasionally engaged in clean, harmless flirting, and though he didn’t meet all of Ojiugo’s criteria for a date, she found him charming.

Adrien settled on the stool next to her, ordering himself a beer.

“Light weight,” Ojiugo teased. “Why don’t you join me? Have yourself a real drink.” She motioned to the bartender. “A shot of whisky for him. Thanks.”

“It’s Thursday. I’m not about to get hammered.”

“More for me then.” Ojiugo downed the liquor and belched, surprising Adrien. “What? A lady isn’t allowed to act human?” she deadpanned.

He laughed, shaking his head. “It’s just so… uncharacteristic of you.”

She sniggered, belching again. “Uncharacteristic of me?” It sounded more like a statement than a question.

“Why, don’t you think so?”

Ojiugo’s brows crinkled. “Don’t you find going along with people’s expectations tasking? I do,” she added, pre-empting his answer. “Anyway, enough with the philosophical talk. Do you find me attractive?”

“Anyone who doesn’t deserves a good flogging.”

A wicked smile crept up her lips. “I want a foot rub. A nice, long, foot massage,” she cooed, stretching each word for effect as she ran her hand up his thigh.

Adrien took another swig of his drink. “That’s going to cost you.”

Twenty minutes later, they were in front of his apartment afflicted with a case of the giggles.

“Sshh. The neighbours. Keep it down a notch,” Adrien whispered, unlocking the front door.

Both of them stepped into a blackness that dissipated when the lights came on. Adrien began taking off Ojiugo’s clothes then his, leaving them strewn across the living room floor and corridor like clues to a treasure hunt. They were sweaty and greedy. His kisses wet and sloppy, her hands rough and heedless. He led her to the bedroom. She made a joke about the lights killing the mood, but Adrien, engrossed in the moment, didn’t hear her.

They were in bed. He was over her on his knees, erect. “If my penis and your vagina met on Facebook, it would be complicated.”

First a giggle, then a fit of hysterical laughter rocked Ojiugo’s body, bouncing off the bedroom walls. Adrien’s expression went from surprise to confusion.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, leaning back on his haunches.

Ojiugo shook head, struggling to gain her composure. When she did, she slid from the bed, chuckling a little bit. “You’re so cliché, it’s pathetic.”

Bemused, Adrien demanded an explanation but she ignored him. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“What do you mean by “where are you going?” Can’t you see I’m leaving?” Her tone was cold, bearing no shades of the levity she’d displayed seconds before.

By the time Adrien located his boxers, Ojiugo was in the living room, buckling her sandals in a fevered rush.

“What’s wrong?”

“You,” Ojiugo yelled, pointing ten fingers at him. “You are what is wrong. You.”

With that, she scrambled out of the apartment, running faster and farther into the moonless night, the only witness to her angry, bitter tears.

This story originally appeared on Kalahari Review and was longlisted for the 2018 Writivism short story prize.

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