I haven’t seen a place like Ighodaro street before. Although it boasts of housing all educated families, not one is normal. Not even mine.
We moved here when I was nine. I remember perfectly the day we did. Once our tomato-red Toyota Camry drove into the bumpy road of the street and I had my first look at our new neighbourhood, my spirits sank. It did not look like the home I’d imagined. With overflowing garbage cans, old rainwater puddles on the road, and houses that still had their Christmas lights outside when it was June, it was a depressing sight.
To give the street some credit, it’s not as bad as you think as regards how it looks. In fact, it’s actually one of the best streets in the area, with better houses, a better road — the road was tarred some years down the line — and less noise from small businesses. The problem is the inhabitants. Not mincing words, they are the most unorganised, dramatic, and altogether unusual and crazy set of people to live in a place. All middle class, the competition to outshine the other is real.
One would expect my family to be different, but no, we’re not. Like the other mothers, my Mum keeps telling lies about the whole family; the academic prowess of Tommy and I and all the wonderful things we can do, and the impossible feats that Dad accomplishes at work — he’s a civil engineer by the way. And my dad, he’s so weird he shies away from the other men in the neighbourhoood. Whenever they have a meeting, there’s always a reason he can’t attend. Like tonight.
“Daddy Isabella,” When my mum starts this way, calling my dad by that name, you know she’s frustrated. “ All the men are meant to be present. Who’ll represent us there if you don’t go?” She’s been at it all evening. Anyone who knows her well can clearly tell that she’s trying to keep her tone even. Sticking my head out of the kitchen and seeing the way Dad’s face is all set, I know it’ll yield nothing.
“Monica, I’m not going. I have work from the office to do. They should have had this meeting online, but they chose not to. Anyhow, they should put it on the WhatsApp group and I’ll give my opinions there.”
Mum stomps off to the kitchen in a huff, mumbling all the way. Well, I’d already rushed back to the pot of edikang-ikong soup simmering on the gas cooker and lifted the cover in a flash. I peer into the pot trying to act all put together, but fearing I actually look stupid when my mum takes up the cooking spoon, plunges it into the soup and begins to stir.
“Ah!” she exclaims. “Isabella!”
Fear grips me. What have I done? What did I do wrong?
“So you let the vegetable turn yellow?” She turns off the cooker at once.
I look into the pot wondering how the vegetables look yellow because they don’t to me. Then, I look back at her, my hands hanging limp at my sides. She just shakes her head and walks out of the kitchen. This is proof that at seventeen, living in a house where edikang-ikong is a major soup and having watched it being prepared a gazillion times, I still don’t know how to cook it properly.
Being a horrible cook is only one of the imperfect things about me. Being clumsy is a second and not acting my age (as my mum says) — playing pranks on my fourteen-year-old brother and not showing responsibility (also as my mum says it) is a third.
When we moved here, the first person my mum made friends with was Aunty Muna, a single mum of two boys, twins — Colin and Clinton. They were just a year older than I was, so we clicked. But, she moved to the UK a year after and I lost my only friends in the neighbourhood.
Well, two weeks later, Aunty Muna calls my mum. She’d be returning to the country. Mum’s excited and I’m nervous that I’ll be seeing Colin and Clinton again after all these years. Also, with the lies my mum has fed her friend over the years of all the wonderful things I can do, especially my outstanding academic record, I hope my clumsy self won’t blow mum’s cover.
When Aunty Muna shows up at the house, I don’t expect it. It’s a hot afternoon and the generator isn’t on. I’m clad in a white tube top and brown cotton shorts and dozing in the settee on the backyard verandah when my mum lets her in. It’s Tommy who comes to wake me up with a silly grin on his face.
“Aunty Muna is here,” he tells me.
My eyes widen at the news. I sit up at once and set about trying to put myself in order. Jeez! I don’t want the twins to see me like this. I smooth down my cornrows and when I stand, I smooth down my shorts as well.
“Isabella!” That’s my mum.
“I’m coming mum!” At that moment, all the lies mum has told Aunty Muna about me begin to float in my head. She told her I scored 315 in my JAMB exams and I cook like a born chef. My Jamb score was 249!
I stumble at the doorway after opening the screen door, but steady myself before I can fall. Then, I go in.
When Aunty Muna sees me, she exclaims. “Oh, my!” Then, she gets up to look at me properly and hug me.
I smile shyly. I can feel the twins’ eyes on me too.
“Monica, see how this girl has blossomed into a pretty young woman,” she says. “So mature.”
I think to myself, “If only she knew.”