Chapter 15
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Solomon could hear his mother shouting from where he stood outside his parents’ front door.
“What’s going on now?” He turned the handle.
No matter how many times he or his siblings complained, or even if it was five minutes to dinner starting, his parents were going to have the door locked.
Never could be too safe, they said. He knocked on the door and waited, shoving his hands into his pockets.
Thankfully, the weather was starting to ease a little, the sun not as insistent on frying every skin molecule and dampening every article of clothing with sweat.
His eyes drifted around the yard while he waited.
His mother probably hadn’t heard him, she was talking so loudly.
They sure had come a long way. Gone were the cement blocks of the housing project they lived in during his youth.
Finding safe places to live that were affordable as immigrants wasn’t always the easiest, but his parents were resilient, survivors.
And so was he. To see what they had built in just twenty years was a miracle.
He owed them more than he could say, but he wasn’t sure if he would go back to those years away at boarding school.
They hoped it was worth it. And it was, just not in the ways they wanted.
“Ah-ah, why are you standing out there looking at the sky?” His mother had her lips poked out and a hand on her hip, a patterned wrapper tied around her waist. No one would guess she helped run a multimillion-dollar business by the way she dressed when she was in her Alabama home.
But this was her type of holiday, getting to be at ease in a place where she could slow down.
She found the most comfort in a T-shirt and in her traditional wear.
He guessed it made sense considering most of the time, she had to look the part of a distributor of West African–inspired couture.
And, of course, if this was a special occasion type of meal, she would be decked out and dinner would be two hours late.
“Come inside before the flies get in.”
He stepped through the door and shook his head when he heard the click behind him. Locked inside now.
“So how is my businessman?” Another thing that never changed.
Along with the tantalizing scents wafting from the kitchen, a greeting related to his profession would come.
Too bad he wasn’t interested in rejoining their profession.
His parents were proud of his supposed efforts.
He was thankful for that, but it did set off a twinge in him that they still didn’t want to acknowledge that he was establishing himself in something different.
“I am good. Just busy as usual.”
“Of course, and why not? That is the way things should be. Because of hard work, you see how God has blessed us.”
He followed his mother to the kitchen.
“Since you are here early, come and help me fry this plantain.”
Solomon stepped toward the sink to wash his hands. He shook off the water and grabbed a paper towel to dry them. “Technically, I am right on time, which of course is early for a Nigerian.”
His mother made a sound with her throat.
“But you will eat, right?” Which sounded equivalent to “I don’t want to hear it.
” He chuckled and sliced the plantain on the side to open it up.
After peeling the thick skin from the banana-like fruit, he poured oil into a shallow pan and started preheating it.
“I don’t want a fire in my kitchen.” His mother, still with hand on hip, eyed the pan warily.
“Mommy, it is all about efficiency. By the time I finish slicing the plantain, the oil will be hot and ready to use. If I start heating it when I’m done, we will be waiting another fifteen minutes for this oil to heat up.”
“I guess that is why you are the doctor and not me.”
Solomon almost pumped his fist at that small validation. But he refrained lest his mother somehow pull the words back into her mouth.
“Who were you talking to?” he asked, grabbing a cutting board to start slicing.
His mother leaned over to taste the rice she had been stirring, which was simmering in a pot older than him.
“When I came to the door, I heard you talking loud, as usual.”
“I was talking to Thea about our business plan, but that was earlier today . . .” She turned to him in confusion, but then her eyes widened, in danger of bugging out of her head. “Chineke, I forgot! My brother is still on the phone.”
She rushed over to the breakfast table, where the phone lay. “Are you still there?” she shouted. “Yes, I am. Sorry, I answered the door to greet Solomon. Yes . . . yes, he is here. Do you want to say hello?” Before either he or the caller had a choice, his mother shoved the phone to his ear.
“Hello? Hi, Uncle. Yes, I am doing well. I’m doing fine. Yes, I am almost finished. Yes, I am a doctor. Thank you. I am grateful that all of you are proud of me.” At least his relatives recognized him as a doctor. “Whose birthday?”
He gave his mother a look. She shrugged and waved him off. “Okay, yes, good to talk to you too.” He handed his mother the phone and stepped back to the stove to attend to the pan.
“Okay, okay, yes.” Her voice rose in pitch, just about to the level that he heard when he first walked up.
“Yes, see you. Okay, bye-bye.”
“What was that call about?”
“Oh, nothing, just usual village things. But they are all waiting for when you will come and build a house there.”
Solomon shook his head. “Do I need to build a house there when I don’t even have one here?”
“You have a nice apartment. That counts. This is also your house.”
“Is the house in Hawaii mine too?”
“Of course not. That is ours.”
He grinned at that response, but it didn’t keep his shoulders from tightening.
His relatives were proud that he was some kind of doctor, but it wouldn’t bring in the same income that working with his parents would.
Instinctively, he rolled his shoulders up and back.
He finished slicing the plantain, sprinkled a little salt, and tossed the pieces around in the bowl.
He shifted it toward the pan that was giving off a steady hum as the oil continued to heat.
Now this was the type of fried food he would never say no to.
Give him all the vegetables and lean meats so that he could indulge in this.
“What has been keeping you busy?” His mother’s voice broke through his thoughts.
“Not too much besides my clients and studying and . . .”
“And also what?” His mother looked at him over her glasses. He avoided her gaze and gently placed plantain slices with a fork into the hot oil. The sizzle soothed. So much nostalgia was wrapped up in the simple act, in this native food. Too bad answering his mother never felt that simple.
“Trying to find time just to relax a little. I went bowling with some friends last night.”
“Some friends. Do you mean your girlfriend? A girlfriend I have yet to meet?”
“You don’t need to worry about meeting anyone right now, Mommy.”
“We’ll see about that. I also want an update on your plan after your test, but I won’t ask you now so that you can focus on the plantain that you are about to burn.”
Sizzles and bubbling drowned out their words. They stirred and flipped in silence for a few moments.
“Speaking of women—”
“Mommy.”
She ignored his wary glance and adjusted her skirt. “Your cousin’s wedding is coming soon.”
He remained silent.
“The date is only a few weeks from now . . .”
He placed golden slices of plantain on the waiting plate.
“And there will be room at our table . . .”
Solomon lifted his bowl to slide more raw slices into the oil.
“And since there are only five of us . . .”
He spread the slices evenly before turning toward her. “What are you trying to say?”
She smiled, her eyes flashing behind her glasses. “Maybe it is a good time to bring that girlfriend with you.”
“Ahh, I don’t know about that.”
“Why are you trying to hide her? If this is someone who is important to you, why would I not want to meet her?”
“Mommy.” He popped a slice of cooked plantain into his mouth. Yes! He chose one that wasn’t lava hot. “How many of our significant others have you met over the years?”
“I’ve met”—his mother paused, looking up at the ceiling—“all of them. Yes, I think I have met all of them, including the one that you let get away.”
He groaned. “Not again. It wasn’t about her. It was about another business acquisition.”
“Why should it not be the same thing? We need to expand, we need to grow in more ways than just profit.” His father’s voice entered the room before he did.
“Hello, Father. Simon.” Solomon stepped away from the large island to give his father a hug. He did the same with his brother, though he felt Simon’s stiffness.
“How are things?”
His father sat down on the love seat in the seating area off the kitchen. “Fine, son, just all-day meetings with our eastern warehouses.”
Simon grunted. “That’s the way it is when you work a business and not run from it.” Before Solomon could respond, Simon pulled his cell out of his pocket and left the room with purposeful steps.
“Don’t mind him. He will have less to stress over in a few months.”
“Oh.” Solomon dared not ask more lest he start a conversation that would point to the outcome they expected, which he wasn’t ready for.
His father tossed a few cashews from the side table into his mouth. “Now”—he swallowed—“continue.”
Solomon turned back to the pan. “What I was saying is that Mommy, both you and Pops have met all of our potential dates and every time you meet one, they get scared away.”
“That is not true. We’ve enjoyed meeting all of the ones you’ve been dating.” His mother carried a platter of warm fufu to the table.