34. Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Four
Jollof, Jet-Lag + the Judgemental Aunties
Luca
Something is off.
The sound of the rental car’s engine is the only thing filling the silence as we wind through the manicured streets of Upper Marlboro.
Beside me, Aspen is staring out the window, her hand resting idly in her lap.
Last night, she seemed genuinely excited to meet my family, but the light in her eyes has been dimmed since the moment we touched down at BWI.
I can feel the shift, and it scares the hell out of me. The only thought looping through my mind is that she’s changed hers. That she’s finally having second thoughts about wanting me now that I’ve finally found my footing in all of this.
We were fine last night. More than fine. We were tangled together in a way that felt like a permanent grounding. But the moment the television clicked off, a wall went up. It isn’t a cold wall. She still answers my questions and offers me those small, polite smiles. But it’s a wall nonetheless.
“You're quiet, my love,” I say, reaching over to cover her hand with mine. “Is the jet lag hitting you, or are the nerves finally winning?”
She doesn't look at me, her gaze fixed on the passing colonial-style mansions. “Neither. I’m just taking it all in. It’s beautiful out here.”
“Aspen.” I squeeze her hand gently. “Talk to me.”
She squeezes my hand. “I’m fine.”
The lie tastes like ash, but I don't push. Not yet. I know my wife well enough to know that when she retreats this far into herself, she’s bracing for something.
And the last thing I need to be is an additional burden.
I need her to know that she can depend on me.
Even if that means being with her when she’s quiet.
Sitting with her while she takes up silent space.
The atmosphere shifts as we pull into my parents’ neighborhood.
This isn’t just any upscale community. It’s a high-end village paying homage to the Nigerian diaspora.
Where everyone is family. The houses are grand, sprawling estates with circular driveways, but the life between them is what truly defines the territory.
You can smell it before you see it—the smoky, spicy aroma of jollof rice and grilled goat meat wafting through the air, completely overriding the scent of freshly cut grass and privilege.
I pull into the gates of my father’s house, and before I can even put the car in park, the front doors swing open.
“Uncle Uzo! Uncle Uzo is here!”
A swarm of children, aged four to six, spills out onto the driveway. They are an army of miniature traditional tunics and dresses, their laughter echoing off the stone facade.
Beside me, Aspen’s lips quirk into a surprised smile. “Uncle... Uzo?”
I shrug, unable to hide my own grin. “Chidi’s little ones. I happen to be the favorite.”
I help her out of the car, and she’s immediately descended upon. My nieces and nephews don't give her a chance to be shy. They swarm her, looking up with wide, curious eyes that take in every detail of the new face in their driveway.
“Are you Uncle Uzo’s girlfriend?” my youngest niece, Amaka, asks, tugging insistently on Aspen’s hand.
Aspen looks at me, her expression a mix of shock and a softening warmth I haven't seen all morning. “I... I guess so?”
I clear my throat, my voice ringing out with stern confidence. “Actually, this is Uncle Uzo’s wife.”
“You’re pretty!” my oldest nephew, Nnamdi, pipes up.
“Thank you,” Aspen says, but I can tell she’s starting to feel the weight of it. She has that same wide-eyed, overwhelmed look she wore the day the reporters swarmed her at the park.
“Okay, kids. Let’s get her into the house so she can get settled, shall we?”
Nnamdi helps with the bags while I lead Aspen toward the front door, stepping into the controlled chaos of a Chidubem celebration.
The foyer is already a sea of vibrant colors and high-pitched greetings.
The house smells like a sea of flavors. And the “Aunties” are out in full force, their their gele headwraps or, ichafu as my grandmother used to call them, rising like colorful crowns toward the ceiling.
“Uzo! My son!”
I am pulled into a succession of fragrant, bone-crushing hugs. Within the first ten minutes, I’ve introduced Aspen a dozen times.
“This is Aspen, my wife.”
“The one from the television?” I hear just as many times.
The reactions vary. Some Aunties eye her with a keen, discerning sharpness, cataloging her posture and her presence with the scrutiny only a judgemental auntie can muster. Others wrap her in silk-clad arms, whispering blessings in Igbo that she doesn't understand but clearly feels.
I take her through the Great Room toward the back terrace, where the catering has been set up. The long tables are buckling under the weight of the feast.
“This is the heart of the operation,” I tell her, guiding her toward the long tables where the caterers are still working. I point out the polished stainless steel chafing dishes. “That is Jollof—don’t let anyone tell you the Ghanaian version is better. It’s a lie.”
Aspen laughs, the sound a little breathless. “I’ve actually had both, but I can’t say which is better. I happen to like both.”
“Don’t let my mother hear you say that,” I warn, only half-joking.
“Over here is Moin Moin. It’s a savory bean pudding.
My mother prefers hers made with black-eyed peas.
And that,” I point to a rich, textured stew, “is Egusi. It’s her specialty.
It’s bold, spicy, and a little stubborn. Just like her.”
Aspen leans in to catch the aroma. “It smells like... fish?” she observes. Then she coughs, a sharp, involuntary sound. She nearly gags, her hand flying to her mouth as the potent scent of ground crayfish hits her. “Oh my God it’s really fishy.”
A voice cuts through the air, cool and sharp. “You do not like fish where you are from?”
We both turn to find my mother standing there. She is a vision of sapphire silk and gold, her gele tilted at an angle that suggests she’s looking down on the world from a great height. Beautiful. Regal. Lethal.
“Mummy,” I say, stepping forward. “This is Aspen.”
My mother doesn't speak. She just stares, her gaze performing a slow, clinical scan of the woman beside me.
Aspen recovers quickly, stepping forward with her hand extended. “Mrs. Chidubem. It’s lovely to meet you.”
Aspen hasn’t changed into her traditional dress yet.
She's still in her travel clothes she wore for the flight, and the look my mother gives her as she eyes her up and down is nothing short of an indictment. She lingers on Aspen’s jeans for a second too long before offering her hand with a tight, plastic smile.
“Pleasure,” she says, her tone clipped.
The air between them is suddenly static, charged with a judgment that makes the hair on my arms stand up. I can see the flicker of hurt in Aspen’s expression, the way her shoulders start to hunch.
“Mummy,” I interject, sliding my arm firmly around Aspen’s waist. “We’ve only just landed. We need to go upstairs to wash and change into our Aso Ebi.”
I don’t wait for a rebuttal. I begin ushering Aspen away, my heart hammering against my ribs.
I need to get her out of the line of fire, to get her into the fabric that marks her as one of us before the silence becomes a permanent scar.
But as I catch one last glimpse of my mother’s stony face, I fear it’s already too late. The first impression has been made.