Chapter 1

ily more | Christian Romance

If people were as easy as colors on canvas, I would have added a good dollop of sunshine yellow to Tomi’s darkening aura since two days ago.

The mere thought of controlling another’s emotions felt like a violation; people had the right to be as gray and as sullen as they wanted. But what was I to do? Our jokes had gotten as stale as the bread I had left in my apartment before coming over to hers, and she had stopped pretending my jokes were doing anything but a nonchalant moonwalk on her tender nerves.

Nothing informs you that a person no longer enjoys your company better than the pitying, polite smiles they give you to at least spare you shame when you attempt to make them jolly. But Tomi had moved from polite smiles to growls this morning when the pap I had made for our breakfast was landscaped with mountainous lumps.

“What is this?” She asked, to which I thought that yes, the pap looked bad, but it hadn’t morphed into a completely unrecognizable genre of food na¹ so, normal - normal, my answer would have been, “As an artist, it is a crime for these hands to create anything as plain and boring as ordinary pap, so I decided to spec it out for us—a little mountain here, a little valley there, now it’s a work of art. I can put this in a gallery and proudly put my name on it and have people admire my genius.”

I would even ask her what she thinks—if she would be my loyal fan and go bid her writer’s income on it—but even Jesus would not have tried to rescue me if I had said that.

“I tried to save it, but it kept getting worse and worse,” A little self-deprecation might work, I thought, and said, “You think I’m a great cook, but it’s quite clear I’m not as magnificent as you think. Sorry.”

But the continued silence and straight-face expression on her salted and sweet caramel face informed me she hadn’t taken the bait. A tough crowd indeed.

The Thursday morning had dragged into the afternoon, with the two of us marinating in inverted emotions but faking ease.

I, thoroughly uncomfortable with walking on eggshells, and she, offended by something she wouldn’t name despite my Olympian attempts to cajole it out of her.

Now, we sat at her large-enough-to-accommodate-two-laptops reading table and tried to get work done. We made a unique cinematic picture with my here and there interjections and her growling responses.

Tomi, who would interpret me to rattle on like a podcast, had been silent for two days. Wonder, they say, never ceases, and they were not wrong in their assessment. I would have taken the opportunity to record us if I hadn’t feared for the safety of my camera.

“Look at what this person said,” I shifted my laptop so she could peer at my screen. “Your commenters are so witty.” I chuckled a bit and awaited the growl.

“You can stop doing that,” came the reply instead.

“I thought you needed it done before the end of the day,” I said, hoping she was becoming verbal once more, and leaned over to read from her laptop to see how far she had gone with the article she needed to upload that evening.

“Stop!” My eyes travelled as fast as a rogue crayon attempting to make a grand escape on a sloped surface from the written words on her laptop to her face. Her voice had come down like a knife on bone.

“What?”

“Stop reading what I’m writing.”

My mind went straight to that sticker of a much younger Genevieve Nnaji used to express confusion in my church youth group chat, and for a second, I forgot to be confused about the drama coming to life in front of me.

The configuration of my face must have prompted her to explain herself because she went on, “Stop reading my stuff. I don’t like you reading my stuff.”

Okay. That’s not really an explanation, I thought, but said, “Since when?” Whatever brief amusement I had felt before read the room (whose quaint furniture we had scoured the depths of Oja-Oba together for in sunshine and rain) and vanished.

“We’ve written all the articles you’ve had to write in the last three weeks together, so…”

I could sense someone in the High Court expedite the process of changing my middle name from Sophia to Confusion. Those people never moved hastily for anyone; I must truly be an Odogwu². The image of the busy government worker swam around in my mind as I realized I shouldn’t have drunk so much coffee and even needed to pee.

But she was finally using words, and who gets up to pee in the middle of an argument, for goodness’ sake?

“I know, but I don’t want you replying to the comments anymore,” she paused, then added, “And I don’t appreciate you reading what I have written before I edit it.”

Her words didn’t echo, and the silence I’d been filling incessantly with random musings mocked me—asking me why I had tried at all. Even the analog alarm clock that had helped previously in lending its voice quietly told me it had acted out of compulsion and demanded to know what my excuse was. I ignored them both.

That’s a reasonable request, I thought instead, even as I felt blood start to heat up in my veins over how long it had taken her to tell me what had been offending her. Nobody’s nonchalant straight face had ever infuriated me so much in my life before. I recognized my failing patience and sent up a silent SOS.

“Oluwa³, your daughter is annoying me. Help me tell her that if something is bothering her, she should talk to me about it instead of refusing help she has been more than happy to receive and actually needs. And please grant me more patience, in Jesus’ name, amen.”

Cold water was being poured over my heated senses when I heard, “I think you should go.”

“Wow,” I exclaimed, and thought to Abba, “This is not the type of quick work I asked you to do, Sir.”

Even though my note of surprise was only half directed at her, she took a shot at stating her reasons.

“My space smells like you. No offense, but I just… I need my space.” She didn’t say it like it was the worst crime in the world, but that was what I heard. My dozens of perfume oils heard the same too.

“I don’t smell.”

“You do.”

Another sticker entered my mind, and this time, I started to laugh out loud. Looking demented was far better than leaving in the middle of an argument to pee.

“You don’t smell bad. You smell… okay, I guess.” Had she just avoided giving me a compliment? Had she just smiled a little too while biting into me? What was going on?

I was spiraling and knew I needed to focus on the crux of our non-communication for the past two days, but I couldn’t move past how my friend who constantly sniffed at me, used my oils, and complimented how good I smelled could turn around and insinuate the opposite.

“I don’t smell,” There was no way this scene would not be played over and over again to torture me in future nightmares.

“I just need my space,” she said, as the exhaustion she had been hiding made her usually straight posture droop.

It was the first ounce of feeling she had shown in two days, and I became compelled to give her whatever she needed, even as I wondered why voicing her needs was difficult to articulate in the first place—and if I could expect the same behavior from whoever would give me his last name to bear.

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I don’t remember most of the Bolt ride home. I had spent it steering my mind away from anything that concerned Tomi and I’s relationship. The struggle was identical to bringing every stray thought under the government of Scripture. Only this time, I couldn’t find a verse to anchor myself to, so I kept searching for things to distract myself with.

Watching the sky did not have its usual appeal, neither did the conversation with Samuel, the Bolt driver. But I did seem like a sad girl staring out the window in a sad movie, with the buildings floating along in the soft breeze. All that was missing was the melancholy soundtrack to fully capture the mood.

There was no traffic. Akure rarely had traffic, but it was an early Thursday afternoon. People were in their offices, and only small business owners and remote workers had the luxury of mobility at the time. I wasn’t winning the battle in my mind, but I was grateful enough about being a creative remote worker to feel some of the emotional weight lift.

Soon, I didn’t have to fight to restrain my thoughts anymore. They turned of their own accord towards what to expect at home when the car stopped in front of a tired-looking apartment building in Awule, reminding me why I never included the exterior of the building in my YouTube videos. I had to keep my location secure, of course, but the apartment building was simply too ugly to be featured. If it were up to me, the entire building would have received a facelift like my apartment had.

Climbing each step toward home was symbolic of each grueling step I had taken to be established as an artist in Nigeria—the rural and international competitions that brought in a bit of money and connections in the art world, the small freelance jobs that paid too little but demanded the most, the free jobs that paid in infinitesimally minute exposure, the extensive starving artist period.

I wasn’t entirely wealthy either at the moment, but I did have a sizable investment portfolio, a robust community of artists following my YouTube channel, as well as a reputation in the industry that guaranteed a steady influx of jobs every week, all at the ripe age of twenty-seven. These days, I even had pick-of-the-litter positions that I turned down. God is good, huh.

My keys rattled in the keyhole, but the door was already unlocked, so I stepped in. Four sets of eyes belonging to my precious housemates landed on me. Unfortunately, only three in the set were happy to see me.

“You shouldn’t have come na,” were the first words to reach my ears. “I’m back,” I thought, “Let the shouting begin.”

“All the people in the church think I don’t have a daughter anymore. They think I chased you away. I told them you ran away o. I don’t know what kind of child does not stay at home with her parents.” The intended effect of the words would have landed more if I weren’t distracted by the animals trying to greet me.

“Welcome,” came my dad’s warm voice and I realized I had missed seeing him.

“Daddy hi-iiii. How are you?” Before Mummy could launch into her rehearsed speech about how she was always an afterthought to me, I added, “Mummy, good afternoon.”

I dropped my travel and camera bags to pick up Muse and stroke her head. She must have missed me enough to let me stroke her once… twice… and out she leapt off my arms. Two strokes; a world record.

“How can you hug your cat before hugging me, Amara?” Daddy lifted himself from our newly refurbished two-seater sofa and approached me as if to attack.

“Ehn, this child?" I was in his arms and the center table, the four sofas, my mother, the TV, the various photos of our family in front of our much bigger former house, and the photo of Jesus on the cross cramped together in the small, freshly painted sitting room started to blur together.

“I’m in this house thinking how I can’t live without you, and you’re out there forgetting about your old man.” This was our routine. He’d confess how much he had missed me by detailing the emotionally torture my absence had caused him, and I would say, “Daddy, we spoke every day. I did not forget you. How can I forget my only Daddy.” My feet were placed back on the ground right on time for me to stomp them, shake my head like a cockroach had landed on it, and say, “Impossible!”

My mum, who never joins us in our dramatic display, commented, “Please, try not to break any of my furniture. I don’t know why you’re hugging her like she did a great thing.” I was peering into Daddy’s face while he watched my smile lose its vibrancy when she added, “Go and drop your bag and make dinner,” and to him, “You always applaud her for no reason. She left home for a month…”

“You knew where I was the whole time. Daddy came to see me once and I called you,” I interrupted to say in my defense. But she went on like I hadn’t spoken, “Left home like she was homeless or like there was fire in her house and was disgracing us all over town.”

“Go,” Daddy instructed and picked up my bags. “I’ll join you in the kitchen. The “don’t worry” he mouthed was silent and intended for my ears alone, but Mummy still heard it.

“Don’t spoil this girl. Is it not the same thing I’ve been saying this entire time? But you don’t listen to me. You say I’m always shouting. Ehn!” She said all that with her voice climbing several octaves.

Self-awareness was only ever profitable when combined with the desire to course-correct, not when you blamed others for your inability to control yourself. I wanted to say something to that effect, but didn’t. The day would have taken a radical turn and I wasn’t daring enough to attempt it.

Koko, my three-year-old dog, got excited and began to bark. He wasn’t a breed anyone could name confidently, but he did have the kind of loyalty that made labels feel unnecessary. On the other hand, Muse had retreated from the room. I followed her lead and found her sitting on my usually tidy queen sized bed. Between that and my large study/work table, the room had little room for much else, so everything hung on the walls: photos of loud colorful graffiti I had done, camera bags, canvas, paint brush sets, clothes, more colors, the moon, stars, the entire sky, and anything that could fit. They were organized neatly in different categories only I could navigate easily, but no one would ever mistake the owner of the room for a minimalist.

“Let me go speak to your mother. Welcome ko⁴.” Daddy had found some space in front of my bed to drop my bags, right beside my nightstand where the stale bread sat. He patted my head and made to leave the room. He only used the limited Hausa he knew when attempting to make light of a situation.

“Daddy,” That stopped him, but I didn’t get the rest of it out.

“It’s okay. I’ll talk to her, and we’ll cook.” A straight, decisive line could be drawn to illustrate the differences between my parents’ relationship with me. Most people assume that parents with only one child were affectionately clingy. Not in my home, though. We were constantly putting out fires that left no real room for much else.

“Ehn, Ada?” Daddy had been waiting for an answer, but my phone beat me to it.

“Okay,” I said as I grabbed my handbag and started to empty its content onto the bed, disturbing Muse’s lazy stretch.

“Sorry, ma’am,” I apologized to the babe, and in the same breath, “Hello,”

I had accepted the call without fully taking into account who had called, but when I heard the voice, it felt like I had accidentally gotten something right on the first stroke and now didn’t know where to put my hands.

“I’m coming to Lagos?” Daddy, who hadn’t made it out my room, turned to give me a theatrically engineered look of exasperation, like he was going to have to miss me all over again, and that made me start chuckling before I had even heard the good news.

But thankfully, the voice on the phone joined in on my laughter and answered, “Yes, you won the pitch, Amara. You’re coming to Lagos.”

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Only the full chapter one and snippets from other chapters will be posted here. Everything after this—every step, every choice, every moment—continues inside the inner circle.

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