Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Kelechi
The cold was icy and biting, cutting into my exposed face like shards of glass and making me question every life decision that had led me to this frozen wasteland.
I had never been a fan of the cold anyway, even back in Nigeria, where air conditioning and fans were my sworn enemies.
Anyone who knew me could testify, with stories of me shutting off ACs in the middle of scorching afternoons.
And now Kelechi, the destroyer of ACs and fans, had willingly boarded a plane and relocated to what felt like the headquarters of winter itself because, apparently, I enjoyed torturing myself.
Lord help me.
It had been one whole week since I arrived here, and ever since then, I had been busy with orientation week, registrations, and all the tiny bureaucratic steps required to settle down properly and legally in a country that still felt like a dream.
At this rate, it was almost safe to call me a Canadian, which made me chuckle as I tucked my gloved hands deeper into the pockets of my oversized jacket that felt more like a sleeping bag than what it actually was—a jacket.
I felt a bit of relief because another hurdle had been crossed.
Today was Monday and my first day of class, and I couldn’t help wondering how different things would be from university life in Nigeria. I just hoped that I wouldn’t be too clumsy, say the wrong thing, or embarrass myself in front of people who probably thought Africa was one big country.
I stood outside the classroom—or hall, peering through the small glass window in the door.
This was the Ethics in Global Perspective class.
It had stated boldly on my schedule that the class, headed by a Dr Chen, would start at 8:15am, which explained why I had woken up at 5, showered, layered myself into this heavy coat that made me look like a walking marshmallow, and dragged myself to the faculty building by 7:45.
Way to go, Kelechi, punctual girl.
If there was one thing I could count on, it was my ability to arrive early to everything, even my own stress-induced breakdowns.
When I pushed open the door, I discovered I was the only one there, which honestly didn’t surprise me because I had learnt that being Nigerian-early and Canadian-early were apparently two completely different time zones.
This was fine by me. It gave me enough time to settle down and bring out my learning materials— laptop, notebook, pens— all of which had travelled halfway across the world with me.
I chose a seat in the middle row near the window and sat down. After arranging everything neatly on the desk, I rubbed my hands together for warmth and stared outside at this new world that still felt unreal, like I had accidentally stepped into someone else’s life.
It had started snowing a bit now, and the weather looked gloomy in a way that matched my internal state perfectly.
Small clusters of people moved around campus, and they all seemed perfectly alright with this frozen hellscape like it was normal.
Meanwhile, I felt like an imposter in a borrowed life.
I had video-called Chukwuma two days after I arrived.
He seemed excited to hear from me, asking questions about everything: the weather, the food, the people, and I told him about how everyone said sorry for absolutely nothing.
He told me he missed me, and I told him I missed him too while I fidgeted with my sweater because saying it out loud had felt weird.
We ended the call after thirty minutes, and I had gone back to scrolling Instagram with no one else to reach out to because, Jesus, my life felt like the most boring script ever written with no supporting characters, no dramatic plot twists, nothing. Just me.
I had no close friends, only classmates, family friends, and people with labels attached. I had never had time to build anything deeper. My life had always been school, church, and repeat.
Instead, I existed quietly online, on Pinterest, Instagram, and TikTok, even though I had accounts there with no videos or history, just a profile picture of my lips zoomed in and three followers, whom I didn’t even know.
I didn’t know how long I stayed like that, lost in thoughts about home and loneliness and whether I had made a terrible mistake, until I heard the door creak open and turned my neck to see who it was.
My heart jumped so fast I thought it might launch out of my throat.
I blinked once, because there was no way. Absolutely no way.
What were the actual odds that the universe could be this cruel or this kind, depending on how you looked at it?
Because tell me why the person I had bumped into outside the airport on the day I arrived—I mean, the vulgar white lady with eyes bright and piercing as shattered emeralds in sunlight—was walking towards me now.
Her hands were tucked into the pockets of her brown leather jacket, a white T-shirt tucked into black jeans with a black belt, a backpack slung over her shoulders, and black boots that resembled the ones construction workers wore on site.
I was staring until she cleared her throat.
My head snapped up to find she was already looking at me, a faint frown creasing her forehead, and our eyes locked for half a second.
Pinpricks of goosebumps prickled down my back.
I turned away immediately, heat rushing to my face, internally panicking for reasons I couldn’t even explain, which was funny and crazy at the same time.
Why was I freaking out?
She passed my row, and her scent hit me. I could tell from the sound of her footsteps that she was heading to the back seats.
Great idea. I loved the distance.
We remained alone, clearly pretending the other didn’t exist, until more students started trickling in and the room slowly filled.
A petite Asian-looking woman with greying hair pulled into a neat bun walked in soon after, carrying a stack of papers and a red thermos.
“Welcome to Ethics in Global Perspective,” she said briskly. “I’m Dr Chen, and for those of you just joining the programme, prepare yourselves. We don’t do gentle introductions here.”
She set her papers down and turned to us, her eyes scanning the room.
“Today we’re starting with cultural relativism, and I want to see where you all stand before I corrupt your minds with too much of my theory.”
My stomach clenched. On the first day of class, she was already expecting participation.
I glanced around at my new classmates, trying to gauge their comfort levels, and my eyes drifted, accidentally, to the back row.
My breath caught.
The airport lady was sitting with her arms crossed, completely unbothered.
She hadn’t noticed me yet, too busy examining whatever was on the screen of her laptop with the same detached attention she had given me outside the terminal.
“Let’s start with a scenario,” Dr. Chen continued, pulling my attention back to the front.
“A culture practices female genital cutting as a rite of passage. Defenders argue it’s their tradition, their way of honouring womanhood, their cultural heritage.
Critics call it mutilation and human rights abuse. Who’s right?”
The room fell silent.
I could hear my own heartbeat and feel sweat starting to form on my palms. This was exactly the kind of question that tied my stomach in knots because there was no safe answer, no way to respond without potentially offending someone or revealing too much of your own beliefs.
“Come on,” Dr. Chen pressed. “Someone must have an opinion. This is philosophy, not a random tea party.”
Before I could talk myself out of it, my hand went up. Years of my Nigerian upbringing had hardwired the reflex into me, demanding that I show respect to the teacher by participating, which was a common thing back home.
“Yes, Ms…?”
“Kelechi Obi.”
“Ms. Obi, what’s your take?”
I cleared my throat, acutely aware that every eye in the room was now fixed on me.
“I think we have to be very careful about imposing our own cultural standards on practices we don’t fully understand. What looks wrong to us might carry deep spiritual or social meaning in another context. We can’t just dismiss thousands of years of tradition because it makes us uncomfortable.”
“So you’re defending the practice?” Dr. Chen asked, her tone neutral but probing.
“I’m defending the right of cultures to self-determination,” I said. “I think it’s arrogant to assume that Western perspectives on bodily autonomy or women’s rights are automatically superior or more enlightened than traditional practices that have sustained communities for generations.”
As soon as the last word left my mouth, I heard a sharp intake of breath from the back of the room, followed by what sounded like a muttered, “Unbelievable.”
I turned, and sure enough, the airport woman was staring directly at me, her face tight with barely controlled irritation.
“Ms…?” Dr Chen prompted.
“Hoffmann,” she completed in that voice of hers.
“You seem to have strong feelings about Ms. Obi’s opinion.”
The woman—Hoffmann—didn’t hesitate. She leaned slightly in her chair, those green eyes boring into mine.
“I think hiding behind cultural relativism can become a convenient way to avoid taking a moral stand when it matters most,” she said.
Her tone wasn’t loud, but it carried easily across the room.
“Some practices are objectively harmful, regardless of their cultural significance. When we say ‘who are we to judge,’ what we’re really saying is that the suffering of women and girls is acceptable as long as it’s wrapped up in tradition. ”
The room temperature seemed to drop several degrees.
Heat crept up my neck, and the familiar anger and irritation returned.
Now, who the hell did she think she was?
“That’s overly simplistic,” I said, turning in my seat to face her fully. “You’re reducing complex cultural systems to neat categories of good and evil. Morality is not some equation we can solve from a position of Western privilege.”
“Western privilege?” Her eyebrows shot up. “So now caring about human rights is Western privilege?”
“Imposing your definition of human rights on cultures you clearly don’t understand definitely is,” I shot back, my usual politeness slipping.
“That same mindset has justified colonization and cultural erasure for centuries. When you dismiss traditional practices outright, you’re basically saying entire civilizations were too backward to know what’s good for them. ”
Even I heard the words coming out of my mouth, and I couldn’t believe them. I was having a fight in my first class over something I didn’t really believe in.
If it were anyone else in this class, I wouldn’t be doing this.
Hoffmann’s jaw tightened.
“And when you hide behind relativism,” she replied, “you’re saying women’s pain doesn’t matter as long as it serves culture. Sounds to me like fear dressed up as tolerance.”
“Fear?” I stood before I realised what I was doing, my chair scraping loudly against the floor. “How dare you—”
“Ladies.” Dr Chen’s voice cut through our exchange. “While I appreciate the passion, let’s remember we’re in a classroom, not a boxing ring.”
I realised the entire room was staring at us, some faces shocked, others intrigued, a few clearly entertained by the drama.
My cheeks burned with embarrassment as I slowly sat back down, but I couldn’t bring myself to look away from Hoffmann’s challenging gaze.
She wasn’t backing down either. If anything, she looked more determined than before.
“This is exactly the kind of discussion I was hoping for,” Dr. Chen said, seemingly unfazed by the tension.
“Ms. Obi raises important questions about cultural sovereignty and the dangers of moral imperialism. Ms. Hoffmann challenges us to consider whether there are limits to cultural tolerance. Both perspectives have merit, and both have serious flaws.”
I barely heard the rest. All I could feel was Ms. Hoffmann’s gaze still resting on me.
When class ended forty minutes later, I packed up quickly and bolted for the door, my heart still racing from the confrontation.
But as I stepped into the hallway, I heard her voice behind me.
“Running away, princess?”
I spun around, my bag nearly sliding off my shoulder.
She was standing there with her hands in her jacket pockets like earlier, an infuriating smirk playing at the corners of her mouth.
“I’m not running,” I said, lifting my chin. “Unlike some people, I don’t enjoy arguing with strangers.”
“Strangers?” She took a step closer, and I caught that same scent from earlier. “We’re not strangers anymore, are we? We’re classmates now. Guess we’re stuck with each other.”
There was the faintest hint of something on her face that might have been amusement.
Before I could respond, she walked past me down the hallway, her boots clicking against the floor.
I watched her go, my hands shaking slightly from leftover adrenaline, wondering what exactly I had just walked into.