Chapter 8 #2
“Well, we’re married, aren’t we?” I ask and she shakes her head. “We gotta get used to this and saying it. But back to my question. I’m attracted to you. Do you find me attractive?”
“Mr. Bako,” she says while still shaking her head.
“Husband,” I correct.
“I’m not as quick as you with this yet. Give me time. Baby steps. But, yes, you are very handsome.”
“Good,” I say, then smile. “Now that we both know there’s an attraction, what’s next for your election?”
“An announcement in The Chronicle so I can speak out before Richardson does. I just need to make sure you’re okay with it.”
“When?” I ask, because although I’m cool with it, I have Niya and my family to consider.
“Tomorrow?” she says in a questioning tone.
“Is there any way it can run Monday morning? I need to tell my family. I have a daughter and my family and I don’t have secr?—”
“A daughter? You have a child?” she says in an elevated tone, clearly surprised.
“Yes. My baby girl, Niya. She’s four,” I say, then pull my cell from my pocket. My baby is my screensaver. “This is her.”
After taking my phone and studying the screen, Mireya looks up at me. “She’s beautiful. Look at all that hair,” she gushes. “And she’s four?”
“Yeah. She just turned four in June.”
“And her mother? Are you two still together?” she asks, almost timidly. “I mean… I… just don’t want any issues with the campaign,” she adds quickly.
“We haven’t been together since she found out she was pregnant,” I say and her entire facial expression changes.
Her eyebrows pinch together and her nose wrinkles, so I explain what only my fam and Aven are privy to.
“When my ex found out she was pregnant, I was happy as hell; she wasn’t, at all.
She unilaterally made the decision to get rid of our child and I found out through a damn voicemail confirming her appointment at a clinic.
I met her there and stopped her. It took some convincing but she had Niya for me and the day my baby was born was the last day I saw her.
” Although her facial expression relaxes a little, her eyebrows are still knitted.
“So she didn’t want her baby? Left her with you and hasn’t been back to see her?” she asks.
“To be fair, we had only been seeing each other for about five months. We hadn’t even talked about kids.
It was too early and we just never discussed it.
We were responsible though, condoms and she was on the pill.
She just wasn’t taking the shit like she should.
Niya wasn’t planned but she was a blessing.
She was mine and I wanted her. Janis, that’s her name, agreed to have Niya for me.
She moved in during her pregnancy and I took care of her.
She was serious about not wanting kids too.
The paperwork was signed and filed before Niya was born, and when they were discharged, I took my little baby home and Janis disappeared. ”
“Wow,” she utters. After shifting her legs and sitting back on the sectional, she repeats herself. “Wow. And you raise your daughter alone. That’s impressive.”
“Not completely alone. Shuga helps a lot, along with my dad, Asali, my brothers, and even my nephews.”
“That’s still impressive, very impressive,” she repeats before leaning forward and standing. She grabs her flute then turns back to me. “I’m intrigued. I want to know more but I also need more of this.” She raises her flute then nods to my empty one. “More?” she asks.
“I’m cool with more,” I admit.
After grabbing my empty flute, she walks out of the living room and I appreciatively watch her sexy ass exit.
Her dress clings to her form, accentuating the sway of her hips and the little shake of her perfect, round ass.
My wife is blessed with a full, beautiful body that many women only dream of, voluptuous in all the right places.
“Your family,” she begins as soon as she returns with our refills. “You’re really close.”
“Very close. Asali’s family is all still in Nigeria and Shuga was an only child. It’s just us, my parents, my four brothers, and our kids.”
“So you’re Nigerian-American?”
“According to Asali I am, but trust me, our Nigerian family says we’re more American,” I admit, then smile. “I’ve only been to Nigeria twice, both times when my grandparents passed. I’m born and raised in Diamond Falls but Asali makes sure we don’t forget our roots.”
“Igbo? Yoruba?” she asks.
“What you know about Nigeria?”
“I know a little something. I took interesting electives in undergrad.”
“Hausa, actually. Northern Nigeria.”
“I’ve always wanted to go. I travel when I can but I’ve never made it to Africa.”
“I can take you,” I say and she chooses this moment to sip from her drink.
Not commenting on my offer, she asks, “Is your mom from Nigeria too?”
“Nah. She’s from Diamond Falls too. They met in New York when Shuga was there trying to be an artist. She left right out of high school and headed for NYC and he was there on a student visa at the time.”
“She doesn’t just like art, she’s an artist herself. I love that.”
“Yeah. She gave up on pursuing it after she married Asali. I think he wanted Shuga to just take care of home and us. Shuga was pregnant with Ace by the time they married. She still paints sometimes, but it’s just for fun.”
“So, you call your parents by their names?”
“Yeah. Always have. Well, almost. Shuga’s not my mother’s real name but that’s all Asali ever called her, and when my brother came, he called her Shuga too. It stuck. We all call her Shuga except my Niya. She’s her nana.”
“I love that. Shuga, that’s so cute.”
“She loves it,” I say before grabbing my plate and getting two more of the little sandwiches.
“Please, eat them all. It’s just me and I only like fresh bread. I won’t want this tomorrow.”
Her mentioning tomorrow gives me an idea. My family definitely needs to know I’m married and tomorrow is perfect and also timely. It’s also the ideal time for her to meet them, especially since we’re about to be announced in The Chronicle. Asali reads it faithfully every damn day.
“How ’bout you let me feed you tomorrow? I’m grilling Suya. Have you tried Nigerian food?”
“No, I haven’t, but I don’t know about that,” she says with a shrug.
“Why? You’re feeding me now.”
“The Deli is, not me,” she counters.
“You ordered it,” I rebut. “If your team is going to put our marriage in the paper, I have to tell my family and they will want to meet you. Tomorrow is perfect. It’s Sunday dinner and me and my brother are grilling.”
“I don’t know. That’s your family and I?—”
“Your family too,” I interject.
“On paper and just until January.”
“I thought we had to make our marriage look real. For me, that has to include my family. Anyone who knows me knows that. Besides, we can’t be looking like strangers at our dinner your team wants us to have. We’re husband and wife and have to look like it,” I say and inch closer.
When my leg touches her, she doesn’t flinch but she leans forward seconds later. She grabs her drink and downs it. After placing her flute on the crystal tray, she exhales then utters, “Okay. What time tomorrow?”