Chapter 7 Moyo
Moyo
“MOYO, TURN ON YOUR CAMERA. ABI, ARE YOU HIDING OR what?” my mom calls out.
I turn towards the other participant on the group call, my dad, and stifle a laugh.
“Ah Moyosore, is everything okay? I can hear you, but I can’t see you,” my mom says, her voice switching from concern to mild annoyance.
Technological difficulties happen semi-frequently during our weekly calls because my mom is often busy with her latest hobby and doesn’t have the luxury of hopping on the phone with my dad.
“Darling, shey, your phone camera is not covered?” my dad asks, his normally gruff voice sweet and low.
I can’t see my mom, but the change in her demeanor is apparent.
“?k? mi, mi o m?. Mi o ri nkankan,” she says softly. Dad’s sweetness transforms her annoyance from a bitter black coffee to a caramel macchiato. They are adorable, but currently, too much for my taste. I’ll stick with efficient, stable, and dependable, like my daily plain matcha lattes.
My parents met in their early twenties during their National Youth Service Corps days.
How they fell in love in the wilderness while marching in the hot sun, without great food or usable bathrooms, I’ll never understand.
But I guess that’s what love is. Something so potent, so mind-boggling, that it only makes sense to you and your lover.
Growing up around so much love made me think it would be easy to find, but after being chewed up and spat out twice by the jaws of infidelity, I’m done with it.
“Moyo!”
My mother’s cheery voice brings me back. Her honey-brown skin is still radiant, and her pothos plants appear healthy despite the poor video quality. She needs to wipe her camera.
“Mommy…” My enthusiasm tapers. It’s been over two weeks since the incident with Cole and the Wife. And not to give Anjie any credit, but the feelings eventually came and were indeed fully felt.
The first Sunday post-incident, I couldn’t stop crying. Once the seal broke, the water came on with a vengeance. Before ten o’clock, I had bloodshot eyes and no energy to interact, so I canceled Sunday brunch with the girls and made up an excuse to get out of my weekly phone call with my parents.
After a week of forcing myself to smile at the hospital, including meeting someone from Cupid’s Bow, I was exhausted.
I made another excuse to my parents, told the girls I wanted more alone time, and spent the day binging all the Scream movies with a pint of ice cream and a shit-ton of Chinese food.
“My darling, what’s wrong?” my mom asks softly, and the tears I thought were long gone threaten to return.
This is the reason I’ve avoided my parents these past two weeks. They see right through me, even when we’re separated by three screens and a vast ocean.
Mom’s eyebrows furrow and my dad leans in, as if getting right up to the camera will bring him closer to me. I wish it would.
“Oh, Mommy, I’m just tired.” I yawn a little for effect. It’s not a complete lie, and I can’t have them worrying.
“Moyosore, you know you can tell us anything,” Dad chimes in.
I want to take him up on it, but can I really tell my completely-in-love parents how messed up my love life is? How I don’t think I’ll ever have what they have? How, despite doing everything right, I can’t hack this one thing?
I can’t share any of that.
My lungs expand with the weight of the lie I’m about to tell.
I scan my brain for the most appropriate one.
Work has been the reason for my recent cancellations, so that’s off the table.
Maybe Anjie and the restaurant? Or how Sewa’s getting on in her program?
My parents love both those girls like they love me, their only daughter.
I settle on talking about Sewa when my dad breaks my train of thought.
“Ehen, Moyo. How is Cole? Abi, that’s his name, right?”
The dark eyes, which I inherited, are full of genuine wonder, his smile small and hopeful.
He’s probably mentioning Cole to put me in a good mood.
I love that he wants to make me happy. Mr. Adegbite has always been the sweetest man I know.
I told him about Cole before I told my mom because I knew he’d give me less flack for being with a white man.
When I did tell her, she laughed and said I’d make a great comedian before realizing I was serious.
My dad just asked if I was happy and said that was good enough for him.
He routinely asks about Cole on our group and biweekly individual calls, which Mom doesn’t know about because she’ll get insanely jealous.
Despite his good intentions, hearing Cole’s name opens the floodgates once more.
“Kola?” My mom calls for my dad, her voice delicate like she’s traversing a minefield.
“Bisi, hold on,” he responds in an equally hushed tone while I wail, the tears unstoppable.
I can’t make out their features through the tears, but their concern is evident. Pity and worry are carved into the contours of their faces, the indentations so deep I don’t need clear vision to know I’m scaring my parents.
Instead of acting normal, I cry harder.
“Moyo, please talk to us,” Mom whispers.
I cry.
“Please,” she tries again.
I sob.
“Do you want to talk to your dad alone?”
The sob catches in my throat.
I look up at her, tear-stained and hideous. I don’t know how she can look at me with so much adoration. Tears have my vocal cords in a vice grip, so I just nod and wipe my cheek with the back of my hand.
“Okay,” she says, smiling, but I recognize disappointment in her eyes. “Kolawole, over to you.”
She hops off the call, and it’s just my dad and me. We stare into each other’s eyes, waiting for the other to begin.
He takes the leap. “Moyo, my only daughter. What’s wrong?”
Still teary, I recount the story, the abridged version, of course. Dad is quiet all through except with the appropriate nods and hmm’s. When I’m done, he takes a deep breath, clasps his hands, and rests his chin on his knuckles. It’s a simple act but a sign he’s taking things seriously.
“Do you want me to come there?” he asks, and there’s a sharp, unforgiving edge to his voice I haven’t heard in years.
“And do what?”
“Talk to that irresponsible, useless boy,” he spits, and the venom makes me smile. “You don’t do that to a woman.”
The increased tension in my dad’s voice implores me to sit back. Many years of strict scoldings let me know exactly what’s coming up: a rant.
“These new young boys are a disgrace and were not brought up properly. Haba! Is it not wickedness? It shall not be well with him,” he says, looking to the heavens, and I shriek.
“Ah, Moyo, don’t shout. It is true, not a curse.
Somebody like that cannot do well in life, especially in that marriage.
Watch and see. Anyway, I’m happy you didn’t marry him.
If not, I would’ve booked my flight while you were talking.
I will not stand for someone treating my angel like this.
You are my wonderful girl who deserves someone even more wonderful, who will treat you better than I treat your mother. ”
“Oh, that’s not happening, but it’s all right,” I mumble.
His anger is swift. “Moyosore, speak up. What do you mean that’s not happening?”
“I know you see me as your little girl, but Dad, I’m thirty-four. Everything I do ends in ruin. I haven’t experienced the love you and Mom have, and if I’m realistic, I never will.” The words tumble out.
“Momo,” he soothes, using his nickname for me and thus, melting my heart a little. “Never say that again.”
“But Dad,” I whine, transforming into his little girl.
“But nothing. Ah, ah, Moyo,” he draws out my name in exasperation. “You want to give up because of this useless oyinbo? There is someone out there for you. I know it.”
I wish I had his trust in the world. I did once, but look where that got me. I planned hard, loved hard, and still, here I am.
“Not everyone is lucky like you and Mom. Some people never marry, and they’re fine.”
“If it’s that you don’t want to marry, then we can talk about that one later—”
A chuckle escapes me involuntarily. As supportive as my dad is, he’s still a Nigerian man who would love to walk his only kid down the aisle.
“But if you’re saying this because of some ingrate, and now you think you’ll never find someone, I won’t have it,” he says, shaking his head and his cheeks move in tow, similar to a chipmunk.
I have to let him down easy. “Daddy—”
He cuts me off. “Momo, before you start. I know your mother and I met early, and we knew immediately, but it was unexpected to find my soulmate at twenty-three—”
“And I’m thirty-four,” I interject.
“I know. Now let me finish,” he says with a laugh, and I signal for him to continue. “Some of our friends met their people at thirty-five. Even my close friend, Dayo. You know your Uncle Dayo, abi?”
He pauses to give me time to remember. It’s laughable he thinks I would forget his best friend, who was a fixture at Christmas parties and held the best (and my only) sleepovers.
“Of course I remember Uncle Dayo.”
“Ehen, see Dayo met Halima when he was forty and she was thirty-five. That’s even older than you.”
My eyes widen, but the more I think about it, the more sense it makes. My parents might’ve met early, but they didn’t get married or have me till their mid-thirties. And Uncle D is older than them.
“See, I shocked you.” He cackles, and I join in. “It wasn’t too late for Dayo, and it’s not too late for you, ?m? mi. Just be brave.”
His ear-to-ear smile is infectious. I smile back at him. My tears have dried up and the lump in my throat has dissolved. Talking to my wonderful dad always does the trick.