Christina, unlike me, was born in Canada. I became a citizen at twelve, shortly after immigrating.
Canadian. It’s a title that is both empowering and demanding as it requires me to give up portions of my Nigerian culture so I can fit into my Western setting. And I’ve been doing that for years—compromising, losing bits and pieces of my original identity in an attempt to reinvent myself. However, the one thing I can’t compromise on is the ethnicity of my future husband.
“So,” Christina says, “should I give Leo a call and tell him someone special wants to meet him?”
“Absolutely not.”
“What?” Her thin lips shrink then turn downward. “Why not?”
“Chris, you’ve known me for years. You know what I want.”
“Yeah. You want to marry an Edo man and have his babies. Sounds good. But what makes you think life is gonna turn out just as you expect?” She scoffs. “It hardly ever does, Azere. Maybe it’s time you become a little flexible, open up to new possibilities— let go of the life you’ve planned and accept the life that’s waiting for you. I’m just saying.” She shrugs and struts out of the kitchen, her heels clicking and clacking against the ceramic floor.
Let go of the life you’ve planned and accept the life that’s waiting for you.
For a moment, I wonder what that would be like. If I hypothetically let go of the life I have always envisioned, the life I have meticulously planned, what else would there be? What else would be waiting for me?
Chapter 3
Rafael Castellano
Sweat gathers at the root of my hair and drips down my forehead. According to the watch on my wrist, I ran six miles—six miles that did nothing to relieve the stress of being newly employed at a company where my one-night stand coincidentally works. The shock and disbelief of seeing Azere quickly turned to elation and relief. Though, she didn’t share the sentiments.
The private elevator slides open, revealing my spacious, two-story penthouse. I step out, walk to the kitchen, and grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator. I guzzle down the chilled drink, knowing I’ll soon be interrupted by the quick pitter-patter of small feet. Right on cue, the interruption arrives. The toy fox terrier hastens toward me, his tongue hanging out of his open mouth and his tail wagging at an incredible speed. He stops at my feet and barks, demanding my attention.
“Hey, Milo,” I say, crouching down to pet him. “Did you miss me?”
He licks my hand, his way of answering.
“Missed you too, buddy. Did you enjoy your walk with Jenny? Were you a good boy?” He usually is. As I rub a spot under his chin, I recall getting him two years ago. He was exactly what I needed, someone other than myself to take care of. Unfortunately, we haven’t spent much time together lately. I’ve been occupied with moving back to Toronto. Now, with my new role at Xander, I’ll be occupied with trying to prove myself and impress higher-ranking colleagues who already expect so much from me. The pressure to succeed is higher than ever. To make matters worse, I haven’t been able to focus entirely on my new tasks. I’ve been thinking about her a lot.
Azere.
Today, while sending emails and taking phone calls, I found myself periodically looking straight ahead at where she sat in the office directly across mine, holding her gaze in the brief moments our eyes connected. The image of her in my arms—naked and spent—came to mind throughout the day.
It comes to mind now.
I still recall the details of that night—not just the pleasure derived from touching her and being touched by her, but the hint of emotion that sprouted out of my guarded heart like a plant through the ground. Being with her—laughing, talking, touching—was the first time in three years I felt something other than utter bleakness. It’s still a mystery how she managed to do that—reacquaint me with my old self, a man who was unburdened and easygoing. Azere did all that in one night, and then she was gone. The only evidence of our encounter was in my mind, and sometimes, I found myself questioning if I had imagined it all. And then today, I saw her—flesh and blood, muffin crumbs dusted on the corner of her lips, and eyes wide with surprise. It was as if our meeting again was the contrivance of some unseen immensity—God, angels, something. Now, she wants me to stay away from her. Fulfilling that request will require mustering a colossal amount of willpower.
“Come on, Milo.” I stand and walk through the open-concept space, stopping at a shelf in the living room. “How about some music?” I sort through the collection of records, choose one, and place it on a vintage record player. Seconds after dropping the tonearm, traditional Spanish folk music projects through the copper horn.
The music reminds me of the many summers my family spent with my grandmother in Spain. If I listen closely enough—beyond the combination of the guitar, the bandurria, and the castanets—I can hear my feisty grandmother singing along, her voice rising and falling with the same theatrical flair as the singer on the record. I can hear my siblings chuckling as we link hands and attempt to perform the sardana. My parents’ voices are also audible—my father passionately negotiating with business associates and my mother talking and laughing with her sisters. The effervescent music and the familiar chaos fills the empty, quiet spaces in the penthouse; with it, the constant ache of loneliness lessens.
On the balcony, I lounge on a chair and Milo hops on my lap. Lake Ontario expands beyond the terrace, city lights and the auburn and indigo hues of dusk reflecting over its swaying, glistening form. The view is serene; it’s the reason I bought the lakefront property. This close to the water, the air is cooler, which I prefer. I enjoy the breeze, the music, and the company of Milo, who is receiving some much-deserved love and attention. When I close my eyes, my mind wanders off to her again.
Azere.
I think about her—how she walks purposefully, gracefully in stilettos. I think about how her long lashes brush against the thin crease of skin beneath her brown eyes. I think of all her small gestures that seem as seamless and fluid as a dance. Like the way her fingers twirl a lock of her patterned hair—around and around, pulling and smoothening.
Each memory makes my heart race.
My eyes flash open, and as I look over the vast, tranquil lake, I can’t help but wonder if the memory of our night together is etched in her mind as it is in mine.
Chapter 4
My suspicion has been confirmed.
Denial is pointless now, and yet, it’s the one thing capable of getting me through this night.
I pull into my mom’s driveway and park the black Toyota. Tears burn my eyes, and I fan them away. I cried in my apartment immediately after learning the truth, a truth that will surely upend my world. It’s best I keep this information to myself. My family can’t know—no one can.
Just pretend like everything is okay. You can do this, Azere.
I twist a lock of braid between two fingers. Feeling the intertwining pattern of the neat plait relaxes me. I continue the motion for seconds before stepping out of the car.
I’ve got this.
The pavement is wet from rain that only just stopped. Along with the petrichor drifting in the warm May air, there is a trace of my mother’s cooking. The aroma of the signature ingredients— ground crayfish and red palm oil—reminds me of life in the Nigerian village I was born and grew up in.
It was nothing like this charming suburban neighborhood. As I admire the trimmed lawns, some with For Sale signs wedged in them, I remember that houses in my village weren’t sold and bought. Generations of my family lived, thrived, multiplied, and died in one house, our single history just as important as every building block keeping the structure standing year after year. I remember how we all shared a lifestyle and an identity that was crafted by those who came before us. My father, like his father, was a farmer. My mother sold foodstuff in the market. When she was young, she would balance a tray of smoked fish on her head and hawk on the streets. At nine, I did the same. With one hand supporting the tray on my head and the other braced on my hip, I strolled down the streets laden with red sand and dust, the same streets my mother had walked and her mother before her.
I remember at home, in our immense compound, I plucked guavas and cashews from the trees my grandfather had planted as a child. In the mornings, I walked two miles through narrow, crooked roads to attend the school my great-grandfather had helped construct. In the evenings, as the scorching heat of day waned and termites fluttered toward lit kerosene lanterns, my father told my sister and me greatly exaggerated tales of our ancestors—the fighters and the cowards, the dreamers and the unbelievers, the vengeful and the justified.
In Nigeria, my entire life was an extension of my lineage. There—in a close-knit community, tucked away from the rest of the world—nothing existed but the paths my ancestors had paved, the buildings they had molded with sand and concrete and sweat, the lands they had cultivated and bled to defend, the traditions they had created and nurtured, the myths they had fabricated and adopted as truths.
In that village, life was simpler, more familiar. I miss it.
The faint sound of a dribbling ball redirects my attention to the suburban neighborhood, to Jason Carter who is approaching me and bouncing a basketball against the pavement with weary disinterest.