The BADDIE in the family

THE BADDIE IN THE FAMILY - CHAPTER 1: THE BLACK SHEEP --- THE BADDIE IN THE FAMILY CHAPTER 1: THE BLACK SHEEP The smell of jollof rice and fried plantain filled the compound in Port Harcourt, but the tension at table 4 was thicker than the stew. It was Sunday family meeting. Again. Every first and third Sunday, the Obis of Owerri gathered in their father's house in D-line. Same plastic chairs. Same gossip. Same prayers that somehow always ended with someone being disgraced. “Zaya, sit down properly,” Aunt Ngozi hissed, eyes scanning her niece’s ripped jeans and gold belly chain. Her wrapper was tied so tight it looked like it was strangling her. Zaya Obi leaned back in the plastic chair, phone in one hand, glass of Chapman in the other. Crop top. Hoop earrings. Tattoo of a lion on her collarbone that peeked out every time she laughed too loud. “Na church we dey?” she asked, popping gum. “Relax aunty.” The aunties exchanged looks. The ones that said: _That one. That baddie._ At 24, Zaya was the family’s favorite topic. The cautionary tale. The prayer point. Dropped out of UNIPORT at 20. “To pursue business.” Moves out at 21. “To be independent.” Comes home at 2am sometimes. “To live her life.” Posts bikini pictures on i********:. “To catch cruise.” Her older sister Amara sat across from her in a knee-length Ankara dress, wedding ring shining, two kids on her lap. Perfect. Amara taught at a government school and her husband worked at NNPC. Perfect. Her younger brother Tunde was beside Amara, Bible app open, nodding at everything Daddy said. Final year Law at UNICAL. Perfect. And then there was Zaya. The glitch in the system. Papa Obi cleared his throat from the head of the table. He was 58, with a stomach that spoke of too many bottles of Star and a voice that used to make Zaya cry when she was small. “We thank God for bringing us together again,” he started. “Family is everything. But some of us are bringing shame to this family name.” His eyes did not land on Zaya. They didn’t have to. Everyone at the table turned to her. Zaya took another sip of Chapman. The ice clinked against the glass. She could feel her mother’s stare burning the side of her face. Mama Obi had not said anything yet. That was worse. When Mama was quiet, it meant she was praying, and when Mama was praying, it meant God was about to scatter someone’s destiny. “Zaya,” Mama Obi finally said. Her voice was soft. Too soft. “Stand up.” Zaya obeyed. Slowly. She was 5’7 in heels and she knew it. She let the lion tattoo show on purpose. “Yes, Mama?” “Are you still doing that... hair business?” Mama asked, like the words tasted bitter. “Yes.” “On i********:?” Aunt Ngozi cut in. “Where you will be showing your stomach and shaking your body? Is that what you went to school for?” Zaya smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “No aunty. I went to school for 2 years to learn that people will always talk. So I might as well give them content.” Tunde choked on his Fanta. Amara shot her a warning look. _Don’t start._ “Mom, I’m not a child,” Zaya said, turning back to Mama. “I know what I’m doing.” “I know,” Mama Obi replied. “That’s why I’m talking to you like an adult. When will you settle down? When will you go back to school? When will you stop embarrassing us at church? Sister Grace asked me last week if you are into ‘runs.’” The word landed like a slap. Runs. p**********n. The table went silent except for the generator humming outside. Zaya wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. She wanted to stand on this table and scream. She wanted to say: _I paid for Tunde’s hostel last semester when his school fees delayed. 450k._ She wanted to say: _My hair brand, ZAYA LUXE, made 8.2 million last quarter. I have 3 girls working for me._ She wanted to say: _I send Mama 50k every month for drugs and you all eat the rice I buy._ She wanted to say: _I’m tired of being the villain in a story you never asked me about._ Instead she took a long sip of her drink. The Chapman was too sweet. Everything here was too sweet and too bitter at the same time. “Maybe next Sunday, Mama,” she said. Her voice came out steady. Sharp and bright, like the gold in her ears. “Today I’m just here to eat.” She stood. Her ripped jeans had a tear at the thigh and she knew Aunt Ngozi saw it. Good. As she walked to the kitchen to get more rice, the whispers started. They always did once her back was turned. “That baddie will end up pregnant and alone.” “Her father’s blood is in her. Stubborn.” “I heard she lives with men in that her flat at GRA.” “Thank God my own children are not like that.” Zaya didn’t flinch. She learned at 18: if they’re going to talk, give them something to talk about. Let them say you’re loud. Let them say you’re rude. Let them say you’re too much. But as she reached for the serving spoon, her hand shook just a little. Because underneath the belly chain and the i********: brand and the "I don’t care" energy... The baddie was tired. Tired of paying bills in silence. Tired of being the ATM and the embarrassment. Tired of shrinking so her family could feel big. She piled rice on her plate. Added extra plantain. Added chicken. If they wanted a story, she would write it herself. And it wouldn’t end with her pregnant and alone. It would end with her owning the whole street. Zaya walked back to the table, sat down, and ate like her life depended on it. Because maybe it did. [End of Chapter 1]