THE SISTER WHO STOLE MY HUSBAND

CHAPTER 3: THE PRICE OF COMING HOME

“Does the house in Lagos have a bigger roof than our house?” Mira asked.

“We live in Lagos, Mira.”

“No, the other house. The big one you don't like.”

I stopped folding the clothes.

“Who said I don't like it?”

“Didn’t you say you don't want to go there? She was sitting cross-legged on the bed, with her toy animals lined up.

“A house is a house, even if you don't like it.”

“That is true baby.” I continued.

“But why not go then?”

It was because I had been looked at by some of their people, who judged me as guilty, before I had even finished what I had to say. As my father had asked me to leave if I was not able to respect him. My mother had gripped my wrist so tightly that little crescents had formed in my skin, and she whispered, “Just apologise, for the sake of peace.” I was quite alone in my wedding dress in a room, while Teni wept into Kola's shoulder, still wearing the earrings he'd given me that morning.

I folded Mira's yellow shirt into a nice square. “There are some houses that are complicated.”

She looked scornfully at the animals. “Like the hospital?”

“Much more complicated than the hospital.”

After that explanation, little Mira became unenthusiastic about going either.

“I don't want to go too.”

“Good. We agree.”

I called Ifeoma.

She responded with a mouthful of something.

“I already told the man I'll pay him on friday if this is regarding the printer.”

“It's not the printer.” I responded.

“If you call before eight, then it's usually serious, you never call, unless a client is dead, or someone else is...” she joked.

“Well thankfully, no one is...”

“Good. I already got a hot black dress this week, I don't intend to mourn anyone just moan….” she chuckled.

Ignoring her jokes, I sent her the document. As she opened it, there was silence.

I heard cars driving in the background and someone asking if the jollof was ready.

Finally she asked, “Where did you get this?

“Email.”

“From whom?”

“An address that I don’t know.”

“Have you done anything else yet?”

“No.”

“Good. Send me the original email, not only the attachment, but don't bother to reply, and don't call your dad yet.”

“I have already called mum.”

“Nadia.”

“I know.”

“You know what, but you still did that.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. Look, I'm not saying your family did this, but they know how to make you feel like you have to say what they say; before you understand what you're holding.”

I leaned back. “You're so legalistic.”

“It's like I'm not talking to the woman who's been apologizing for a year for something she's not responsible for.”

That one hit harder than expected.

“I no longer do that.”

“Fine. Okay oooo...”

I laughed, but it wasn't my laugh. It felt like opening a window in a stuffy room.

“Would you like to read the document?” I asked.

“Can I ask someone who knows all this, but I need you to tell me what happened around the time that it was supposed to be signed.”

“This was put on three days after I left Lagos 5 years ago.”

“Were there any documents signed prior to your departure?”

“A release form for the wedding venue. A supplier authorisation perhaps.”

My father was dealing with some payments. I was too busy trying to get through the week without crying in public.

“What about the possibility of copying the signature from one of those?”

“Possibly.”

“Then we don’t guess - we find the originals.”

“But I don't want to do this,” I said.

“Then don’t.” Ifeoma’s voice softened. “It's not your obligation to go on crusade for anybody, but if it's going to have an impact on your contract, it's going to have an impact on your business and it's going to have an impact on your daughter, then you should know what it means.”

The problem with Ifeoma was that no courage was glamorous to her. It seemed like another task on a list of to-dos.

I reviewed the client's e-mail following the call.

The project by the property group was connected with a redevelopment on the mainland.

Kola's company was included in the list of partners. The document might just be a regular report. It could be an attempt to frighten me. It might be a test to see if I would run when my past came into the room.

I sent a quick e-mail saying that I was still in there for the subsequent stage of the pitch. I then created a new folder on my Laptop computer and called it

DOCUMENTS—DO NOT DELETE.

Mira got into my lap and started reading me a picture book. “Can you read this letter?”

“You have heard this story 6 times.”

“Seven.”

“Of course. How dreadful to forget…?”

She was looking at a sketch of a small girl with a tall man. “Is that her daddy?”

“Yes.”

“Where is mine?”

My throat tightened. I had some ideas ready for this question. I had seen a counsellor and had simple answers to give myself and I had sworn to not let my pain be her burden. Nonetheless, it was like a door opening under my feet.

“Your daddy lives in Lagos,” I said carefully. “Before you were born we knew each other and we don't live together anymore.”

“Does he know me?”

“No, sweetheart.”

“Why not?”

“I'm sorry you've had to wait for answers, a grown-up's choices were not fair.”

She looked at the picture again. “Can I meet him?”

I took her by the shoulders a bit more.

“If we think it is safe and right we will discuss it together, you will not be hurried.”

She appeared to take it in, and then asked, "Did the little girl in the book have a bike? I replied, thankful for the little bit of blessing in the change of a child's eyes.

But my cellphone rang again that evening as I was trying to put the printed pages into a folder. This time it was Kola's number.

I played a double beep and listened before replying. “What do you want?”

“I must see you.”

“Please make an appointment.”

“Nadia, please.” His voice was not as loud as I recall. “I saw the child.”

“You noticed that a child was in a hotel.”

“She wasn't just any child. Your child asked if I was some man in your picture.”

“Children ask a lot of questions.”

“How old is she?”

A pause.

“Nadia.” His breath caught. What is the age of your daughter?”

Five years ago he was sent a story about me and had never requested mine. He was now asking questions because he had just become aware that suddenly there was a question that ought to have been asked long ago.

I said “Not over the phone.”

“So, when?”

“I’ll let you know.”

I ended the call. My hands trembled after but not my voice.

The signature sat on the table as a challenge.