THE SISTER WHO STOLE MY HUSBAND

CHAPTER 2: MY SISTER’S WEDDING RING

“The man looked as though he swallowed a stone, why mummy?”

“Because he wasn’t expecting to see me.” I replied, half concentrated.

“Did you catch him off-guard?”

“Something like that.”

While kicking her legs in the back seat of the ride-hailing car, Mira was thinking about this.

“Surprises are not my favorite thing, they make my tummy jump.”

“I know, baby.”

“Were you his friend?”

I observed the traffic, slowly passing through the window in Lagos. A danfo conductor shouted on the bus for its passengers to get on when they were heading to CMS. The woman who carried a tray of water bottles between cars, with such assurance as someone who had come to terms with risk. A horn sounded, blaring to the tune that could literally shove traffic out of the way for a bit of distance.

“He was just a guy that I've known for a long time.”

“Like Aunty Ifeoma?”

“Nope, I still know Aunty Ifeoma, I can tell you that.”

“Like the man in the picture?”

I turned to her. Now she was serious, her samosa eaten, her little fingers closed over the belt of her backpack.

“When we get home we'll talk about him.”

“Every time you don't know the answer, you say that.”

I almost laughed. “You don't need to be this aware, you are only four.”

“4 and half” she corrected.

“Right, my bad.”

My phone buzzed before I could even get another word out of my mouth. A message from an unknown number was displayed on the screen.

‘We need to talk. Don't go out of Lagos again without hearing me.’

Kola always used to write as if a request was reasonable after he wrote please.

I deleted the message and then I wished that I hadn't deleted the message. Not because I wanted to answer him but because in five years I had learned that evidence was important.

A message may be refused. A dialogue might be reshaped. If more people told a different version of the story, a memory could be made to seem an untrue one.

“Mummy, that's the straight mouth once more!

“I’m thinking.”

“When we get home, can you think then? I want noodles.”

“Negotiation is an art.”

“What is meant by negotiation?”

“It implies you want noodles, I refuse and you ask for rice instead.” I laughed.

“I want some noodles and rice.”

“I'm afraid of you because of your ambition.”

She laughed and a few moments passed where I didn't feel the pull of the past.

Above a chemist and a phone charger shop and provision store, our apartment was located on the second floor of a small building in Yaba. It was not the house I'd pictured at the age of 24 when I was planning my wedding, but it was ours. When I pointed out the leaking tap to the landlord, he had it repaired. Sometimes Mira was watched for an hour by the neighbour downstairs when a client meeting was late. No one in the building knew the story my family told of me, and I would never have been so stupid as to tell it to anyone.

I made Mira into a casual dress, boiled water for noodles and went and looked at my email. Three new messages. One was one from Mr Daramola's office assuring me of the receipt of my proposal. Another was a bill from a printer. The third didn't contain any subject line, only an attachment.

I opened it.

The first page was a photocopy of a document that had the name of Kola's company at the top. Under it were clauses related to a development project, a property guarantee and a financial obligation. The print was very light but I could read the names.

Chief Bamidele Afolayan.

My father.

Also, my name was at the bottom of the second page.

Nadia Afolayan.

I looked at the signature. At first sight, it was similar to mine, both in length of the N and rising line at the end. However, the date next to it was three days after I had departed Lagos. I did recall those three days. I slept in a room in Ilorin that had no fan and borrowed one from another person, and I had not signed any document for anybody.

“Mummy?” It was a call from Mira from the kitchen. “The noodles are going bubbles!”

“Please turn off the cooker.”

“I can’t reach it.”

“Don't touch it, I'm coming.”

There was an attachment saved to my laptop I had printed.

My fingers became cold, despite the warmth in the kitchen.

I checked its signature against the one on my passport application and then the signature on the contract that I signed this morning.

Similar, yes. Identical, no. The disputed one was too calculated, too measured.

The person who was there had obviously been practicing being me.

The phone rang. My mother's name came up.

I thought maybe I could let it ring out until she gave up.

For months after I left I ignored her telephone calls, a year later I had to call back, and after that I didn't call again when all our communications were quiet, asking me to forgive Teni and not blame the family.

She didn't ask me what I had done to them. She asked me when I would be coming home.

I answered. “Good evening, Mummy.”

“Nadia.” Her voice went on hold before coming back. “I saw you today.”

“Where?”

I’ve heard from your sister that you are in Lagos.

“So, why did you say that you saw me?”

A pause.

“It’s good to feel you close again.”

“Don't know if I'm back permanently, I came for work.”

“Work can wait. Family—”

“Family, really?” I said and chuckled.

I reached out for the paper on the table.

“I sent you a file,” I said.

“What file?”

“A document bearing my name, it has to do with a property guarantee.”

The other end was silent for just a moment, but it was a telling one. In the background, there was a clattering of a spoon. Then my mom replied,

“I don't know anything about that.”

“What question did you have?” I asked, getting impatient.

“Come for your father's sake, Nadia. We can't continue to live like this.” she pleaded.

“Neither can I. I've moved on.”

I hung up quickly before she began to use her emotions.

The unknown number came back and displayed a message. But this time there was a picture attached—Teni's hand, the ring in it catching the light, Kola's fingers visible beside Teni's.

The text in the caption was: Know that I wasn't trying to hurt you.

I put the telephone down flat.

In the kitchen Mira was singing to the noodles. Outside, a generator roared into life. I had traveled to Lagos to make money, not to pull up my past that had cost me everything.

However, someone had signed my name to a piece of paper that I didn't sign.

And someone knew just where to find me.