TEARS IN A G-WAGON
1000 Words
The drive back to Ikoyi feels like a journey through a nightmare. I'm gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles are white, and the tears are blurring the expensive dashboard of my Range Rover. Every time I blink, I see Gozie’s panicked face, the way he shoved my shoes at me like I was some kind of disease he needed to get rid of before his real life walked through the door. The word wife is screaming in my ears, louder than the Lagos traffic, louder than the radio, louder than my own thoughts.
I turn into our street, and the sight of our massive black gate makes me want to throw up. The security guards see my car and immediately spring to attention. They salute, they smile, they swing the heavy gates open for the "Billionaire’s Daughter." They think I am returning from a day of luxury and fun. They think I am the luckiest girl in Nigeria. They don’t see the mascara running down my cheeks or the way my chest is heaving as I try to catch my breath.
I park the car carelessly, not even bothering to align it in the garage. I jump out, clutching my bag and my pride, which is currently in tatters. I don't want to see anyone. I don't want to see the cook in the kitchen or the house helps polishing the marble floors. I just want to disappear.
"Halima? Is that you?" My mother’s voice rings out from the formal living room. I can hear the clinking of teacups. She probably has her friends over, the Alhajas who spend their afternoons discussing whose daughter is getting married next and which lace is trending in Dubai.
I don't answer. I can't. If I open my mouth, a scream will come out instead of a greeting. I put my head down, let my long hair fall over my face like a curtain, and I bolt for the stairs. I am running up the marble steps, my heels clicking loudly, sounding like a frantic heartbeat against the stone.
"Halima! What is wrong with this girl?" I hear her shout behind me, but I don't stop.
I reach my floor and slam my bedroom door shut. I turn the lock with a sharp click and lean my back against the wood. I am safe. I am alone. But the safety feels like a cage.
I look around my room. It is huge, bigger than most people’s entire apartments. I have a walk-in closet filled with red-bottom heels and bags that cost millions. I have a bed with a velvet headboard and silk sheets that feel like butter. I have a vanity table covered in perfumes that were flown in from Paris. I have everything. I have every single thing a girl in this city is supposed to want.
And yet, I am standing here, shaking and broken.
I drop my bag on the floor and sink to my knees. I start to cry, and this time, I don't try to be quiet. I let out a low, guttural moan that turns into a full-blown sob. I am Halima Adebiyi. I am the girl people envy on i********:. I am the girl whose father can buy and sell half of this street. But in this moment, I feel like the poorest person in Lagos.
What is the point of all this gold if it can’t buy me a man who isn’t a liar? What is the use of this mansion if I have to hide in it like a criminal?
I crawl over to my bed and pull a pillow to my chest, burying my face in it to muffle the sound of my heartbreak. I think about Femi and the five million naira he took. I think about Gozie and the wife he hid. I think about the men who see me and only see a bank account or a secret to be kept in a dark corner. I'm tired. I am so, so tired of being a "Big Girl" in a city that only wants to smallify me.
The room is silent except for my heavy breathing. I look at the jewelry box on my dresser, overflowing with gold and diamonds. I want to throw it against the wall. I want to tear down the expensive curtains and break the mirrors. I want to scream at my father for making me a target and scream at my mother for making me feel like a failure because I don't have a ring on my finger.
"Halima! Open this door!" My mother is outside now, banging on the wood.
"Why are you acting like a child? Your brother is downstairs! What is all this drama?" She adds immediately.
"Leave me alone!" I scream back, my voice cracking.
The banging stops, followed by a long silence. I know she is standing there, probably shaking her head, thinking I’m just being difficult again. She does not know. She does not want to know. In this house, as long as the cars are clean and the name is untarnished, everything is supposed to be fine.
I roll over onto my back and stare at the ceiling. The chandelier above me is sparkling, reflecting the light into a thousand little pieces. I feel like those pieces. Scattered. Sharp. Impossible to put back together.
I have everything. I have the money, the fame, the beauty, and the family name. But as I lie here on my expensive rug, surrounded by luxury, the only thing I truly feel is the cold, hard weight of being alone. I am Halima, and I am realized that in Lagos, wealth is just a prettier way to suffer.
I reach for my phone, the screen still cracked from the last time I was angry. I do not look for Gozie’s name. I do not look for Femi’s. I just open a random app and start scrolling.
Maybe funny videos will make me laugh.
- Writer
