The Ethics Of Desire (MapleRidge #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Kelechi

The first thing that hit me when I finally cleared the CBSA checkpoint and walked out through YVR’s arrival doors into the cool September air wasn’t the bliss I had expected from finally landing in my dream country.

It wasn’t awe either, but a raging migraine that felt like it had crawled out of hell.

My jaw throbbed, a dull ache radiating from somewhere deep in my back tooth, and my head pounded hard enough to blur my vision.

I had been on a nineteen-hour journey in total.

The first stop was in Frankfurt, then Montreal’s Pierre Elliott Trudeau International Airport, and finally, we landed in Vancouver.

At this point, all I wanted were my favourite gummy bears, but they were buried somewhere in the farthest corner of my luggage, which I had over-wrapped with both prayers and recyclable plastic film.

So that wasn’t happening.

I had to endure it, get a ride to campus, take a bath, eat a proper meal, and take my medication before rummaging through my luggage.

That would happen in at least five hours.

I switched on my phone.

I remembered the Japa* Telegram group I had joined before travelling, where we shared ideas and tips about surviving the first few days in Canada.

One user had mentioned that we should make sure to tap into the airport’s free Wi-Fi, which I hurriedly did.

A sigh of relief left my lungs when the Wi-Fi bars connected.

It wasn’t like I didn’t want to get a SIM card. I had passed several mobile carrier kiosks advertising plans starting at 30 Canadian dollars. That was too expensive, so I instantly moved past them. The airport Wi-Fi would have to do for now.

I opened the Uber app and typed in my destination. Within seconds, my phone buzzed with a notification.

“Nawa… six whole minutes,” I mumbled about the wait time.

My arm already hurt from dragging my luggage cart, and the cold wasn’t helping.

The light jacket I wore wasn’t even helping matters at all.

I had completely underestimated Vancouver’s September weather.

Even though it wasn’t snowing heavily as I had initially feared, the nippy air cut through my inadequate layers like a blade.

I maneuvered the trolley containing three of my massive suitcases towards a designated ride-share pickup zone and gripped my crossbody bag tightly as I waited.

My throat felt dry and my stomach rumbled with hunger.

All I wanted to do at this point was to collapse onto a soft king-sized bed for eight hours, but first, I had to let my family know that I had landed safely.

That their daughter had actually made it to Canada.

I was checking my phone again when I felt a push on my left arm. Whipping around, my already frayed nerves snapped like a rubber band.

“Excuse me!”— I barked, only to wince at the heavy, irritated sound of my own voice.

The person behind me was tall, much taller than my five-foot-five frame, with broad shoulders under a dark leather jacket. Short dark hair, a sharp jawline, and an androgynous build that made me squint through my migraine haze. For a second, I couldn’t tell if this was a man or a woman.

“Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” the voice said. It was distinctly female, low, with an accent.

Definitely a woman. A rude one at that.

“I should watch where I’m going?” I shot back, my voice pitched higher. The exhaustion of the flight and the pounding headache made me more confrontational than usual. “You literally just bumped into me!”

Instead of arguing, she looked at me properly, her pale green eyes moving over me in an assessing sweep that seemed to catalogue everything about me in seconds.

I could swear she took in every wrinkle in my travel clothes, the death grip on my purse strap, and my thin jacket that was practically useless against the Vancouver chill; all of it punctuated by the trolley stacked so high I could barely see the walkway.

Her gaze lingered on my overstuffed trolley for a beat too long before she let out a heavy, pointed sigh.

“Maybe if you weren’t blocking the entire walkway,” she said, gesturing at my suitcases.

Heat flooded my cheeks despite the cold air. “I am waiting for my ride, plus I have every right to stand here.”

“Yeah, but not in the middle of traffic,” she replied, shoving her hands deeper into her jacket pockets. “Look, princess, this isn’t a luggage storage facility. People here actually move fast instead of camping out wherever they feel like it. You’ll get run over if you stay planted like this.”

Princess?

My mouth fell open. Her bluntness and tone stung more than if she had raised her voice—the assumptions, the sheer audacity wrapped up in that husky voice and pretty face.

Before I could form a coherent response, before I could tell her exactly what I thought about her and her rudeness, she stepped around me. Then she paused, as if she had reconsidered something.

“And your phone,” she nodded towards my hand. “You’re about to drop it.”

Then she walked towards the taxi line, her leather jacket swaying with each step.

I stood there stunned, my hands shaking now from anger rather than the cold.

The unearned audacity of her.

She had dismissed me with a look so cold I felt like an inanimate object; just an obstacle in her path, something to be shoved aside for the crime of taking up space.

I felt another bump, but this time the lady apologised.

I exhaled and moved out of the way.

It made me wonder if green eyes was actually being rude. Or was she, in her own cold way, just trying to help?

My phone buzzed again with another Uber notification.

Your driver will arrive in two minutes.

I glared in the direction the rude woman had disappeared, her words echoing in my head.

Princess, this isn’t a luggage storage facility. People here actually move fast instead of camping out wherever they feel like it.

I pulled my jacket tighter around myself and tried to focus on steadying my breathing, but my blood was still boiling at how she had spoken to me—and the confident way she moved—when a black sedan pulled up with the Uber sticker glowing in the windshield.

“Kelechi?” the driver called out, struggling over the pronunciation of my name.

If this were any other day, I would have smiled and corrected him gently, but I was too tired and angry to care about anything except getting away from this airport and that woman’s lingering presence.

“Yes, that’s me,” I said, forcing politeness back into my voice as I loaded my luggage into the trunk with more force than necessary.

As we pulled away from YVR and the airport disappeared behind us, I couldn’t shake the entire encounter out of my mind. I had worked too hard and come too far to let one blunt stranger with pretty eyes get under my skin.

But underneath the anger, underneath the indignation at her dismissive attitude, something else simmered too. Something uncomfortable.

Because even while she was being rude, even while every word out of her mouth made me want to scream, something about her stuck in my mind longer than I wanted to admit.

Welcome to Canada, I thought bitterly, watching the unfamiliar city blur past the window.

“Have you settled in properly?” My father’s voice boomed through my AirPods as I adjusted myself on my narrow residence bed. It was surprisingly comfortable, and I had already made it feel like home with the colourful ankara blankets and wrappers I had brought from Nigeria.

“Yes, Daddy. I have, sir. It wasn’t any hassle getting here at all.

We had a layover in Germany and one in Montreal before flying into Vancouver, but other than that, everything went smoothly by God’s grace,” I replied, chewing on my fingernail.

It was a habit I had developed when I was three years old, according to Mum.

“That’s good. It’s morning here anyway, and I’m on my way to the shop. Some goods are coming in this morning.”

I almost reminded him it was Sunday morning, for Christ’s sake, but my dad wasn’t the type to pause business even on a Sunday. That was the authentic Igbo entrepreneur spirit in him.

“Okay, sir, be safe out there. And since I can’t hear Mummy’s voice, let me guess... early morning mass with Chuka and Esther?” I added playfully.

It was the norm back home for us to attend early mass. Whether we liked it or not, we didn’t have a choice in the matter.

“You know your mother,” he said, clearing his throat. “You have always made us proud, eh, Ada’m?” He used the pet name he had called me since I was little, his voice softening with affection.

“Yes, sir,” I replied, sinking back against my pillow. I was the only one in this room, and I was grateful for it. Graduate students at Canadian universities usually get single rooms in residence, and Mapleridge University was no exception.

“Good. I want you to keep your head down, read your books very well, and don’t follow those Western ways o. You know your husband is waiting for you back home.”

I shuddered at the reminder.

“Yes, sir, I will be of good behaviour,” I assured him. I could never disobey my parents or stray from the teachings they had instilled in me since childhood, and my dad knew that.

“Good. I’m off now. Take care and be a good girl.”

“Daddy, I’m twenty-four,” I said with a chuckle.

“Eh, but you’re still my little baby,” he replied, and we both laughed before ending the call.

The silence that followed hit me like a wave.

I missed home already. Missed my family. Missed the chaos of Lagos traffic. Missed Mummy’s egusi soup on Sunday afternoons. There was this clog in my chest, like I wanted to cry, but I pushed it down where it belonged.

I had prayed for this opportunity, wished for it, saved hundreds of videos of Canada on my phone because I had fallen in love with the country from a young age.

When I first saw pictures of Vancouver on Google at fifteen, it looked exactly like where I was meant to be.

And when I applied for the graduate philosophy scholarship at Mapleridge University, I emerged as one of the top ten candidates.

That’s what happens when you’re firm about what you want.

For the next eighteen months, all I needed to do was keep my head down and study hard to make my parents proud. After all, they had always wanted the best for me, and I was finally living the dream we had talked about for years.

My mind drifted to Chukwuma back in Lagos. My soon-to-be fiancé. He was the son of my father’s close friend. Daddy had chosen Chukwuma for me, and saying no had never felt like an option, even though Chukwuma didn’t stir any feelings in me.

I had confided in my mom once, and she had told me that once we were married, love would come naturally.

I had believed her.

I would text him later to update him on my journey, but right now, I needed sleep. I was super exhausted.

But as I closed my eyes, I couldn’t shake the image of myself on that plane. The way I had pressed my face to the window during take-off, watching Nigeria shrink below me, my heart hammering not with fear, but with what felt dangerously close to freedom.

Though, I couldn’t bring myself to call it that.

* Relocation