Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Kelechi
“I’m so glad you could make it today. Omoh, the snow’s been getting heavier every day,” Funmi said as she settled across from me. She peeled off her winter gloves and set them aside, flexing her fingers like they were stiff from the cold.
“Oh, likewise. I’m sorry for bailing last time, but school has been absolutely hectic these past few weeks,” I replied, shrugging out of my coat and hanging it on the back of my chair.
“Abeg ee, no need to apologise. Trust me when I say I totally understand. I blame it on this oyibo man’s weather,” she said, and we both dissolved into laughter.
It was past three in the afternoon, and Mama Toyin’s restaurant was a warm sanctuary against the bitter Vancouver cold.
The familiar scent of palm oil and scotch bonnet peppers filled the air around us, making my chest tight with homesickness.
Jollof rice sizzled on plates being carried past our table.
Voices drifted from the kitchen, Yoruba and broken English and bursts of laughter, mixing with the gentle clink of cutlery against ceramic bowls.
Funmi had been talking up this place in our chat for weeks, swearing it was the only spot a few minutes from Maple Ridge that had proper Nigerian street food. Looking at her now, I could see why she needed it.
Her light skin looked almost pale under the fluorescent lights, and there were dark circles under her eyes that make-up couldn’t quite hide.
The freckles scattered across her cheeks and nose made her look younger than I knew she was, but something in her posture, the slight slump of her shoulders, made it too obvious that she was carrying more weight than she let on.
We placed our orders, and soon after, we were served two bowls of goat meat pepper soup with agidi.
I scooped a generous amount of broth into my mouth, and my tongue buzzed with that perfect burn, that perfect peppery burn that made your tongue buzz and your eyes water just a little.
The goat meat was tender, falling apart at the touch of my spoon.
God, I’d missed this. I’d missed the way Nigerian food made every part of your mouth wake up at once.
“So, tell me, how’s Canada treating you?” Funmi asked, tearing into her meat.
A bit of pepper caught between her front teeth, and she ran her tongue over it absent-mindedly.
“It’s… different,” I said carefully as I diverted my attention to my food, watching steam curl up from my bowl. “The cold is something else. But I’m managing, sha.”
She paused mid-spoonful and squinted at me. “When you say you’re managing, are you surviving and not actually living?” she asked, her Yoruba accent thickening slightly. “What’s really going on?”
I stirred my soup, the metal spoon clinking against the ceramic.
Around us, the restaurant buzzed with the comfortable noise of other Nigerians finding comfort in familiar flavours.
An older woman at the next table was arguing loudly with someone on her phone about money transfers, while a group of young men near the window were debating football in rapid Pidgin.
“School’s been overwhelming,” I started, then hesitated. “And I guess… adjusting to life here is harder than I thought.”
“What kind of adjustment?” She leaned forward slightly, her curvy frame filling out the oversized sweater she wore. “Academic stuff or personal stuff?”
“Both.” I picked at my meat, not quite ready to meet her eyes. But there was something about the way she asked that felt genuine, not like the polite interest most people showed.
“The academics I can imagine. What programme are you in again?”
“Masters in Philosophy at MRU. You?”
“Early Childhood Education diploma at MRC, completely different worlds.” She laughed, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Though I bet we both know what it’s like to have parents asking when we’re coming home with degrees and husbands.”
There it was, the opening I both wanted and dreaded. I took another spoonful to buy time and studied her expression, and honestly, it was open. She was waiting but not pushing, not prying, not trying to pull anything out of me. She was just genuinely there. So I gathered myself together.
“Sometimes I think I’m living two different lives,” I admitted quietly. “The me here… and the me my parents expect me to be back home.”
She nodded slowly, understanding flickering across her features. “That’s heavy, babe. What kind of expectations are we talking about?”
I hesitated. We had only hung out once before this, at that club Roxies, where I’d been too shy to even utter a word. But sitting here with her, something in me wanted to trust her anyway. Still, how much could I really share?
“You know how Nigerian parents can be about… relationships and marriages, and about the right kind of person too…” I ventured, testing the waters.
“Ah.” The corner of her mouth pulled up in a way that made me know that she knew exactly what I was talking about. “The ‘when are you bringing home a nice boy’ lecture, abi?”
“Something like that, o.” I took another spoonful in a bid to conceal the fact that my nerves were getting jittery, but the way she said it, like she understood from personal experience, made me bolder.
She set down her spoon and looked at me, like she was weighing something important in her head. The fluorescent light caught the gold undertones in her skin, and I noticed how her hands moved restlessly, like she was nervous about something.
“Can I be honest with you about something?” she asked finally. “Something I don’t really talk about much?”
My heart sped up. “Of course.”
She inhaled deeply. “I have a son.”
“A son?”
“Yes, his name is Dami, and he’s four years old.”
“And where is he?”
“Back home with my mum in Lagos.” Her fingers traced the rim of her bowl, and I could see the slight tremor in her hand. “I’m working two jobs here, saving every dollar to bring him over. And you know the immigration process for dependents is… expensive. Really expensive.”
“Oh, Funmi…” I reached across the small table, covering her restless hand with mine. Her skin was warm and soft, callused at the fingertips in a way that spoke of constant work.
“When I got pregnant in my early twenties, I couldn’t tell my parents who the father was because…” She laughed, but I didn’t sense any humour in it. “Because sometimes love doesn’t actually fit into the neat little boxes our families build for us.”
I squeezed her hand gently, not trusting myself to speak yet.
“It caused… problems, really big ones. My parents had so many questions I couldn’t answer without making things worse, so when I got the opportunity to study here in Canada…
” Her voice cracked slightly. “I had to leave him with my mum and come build something here first, something stable enough for both of us.”
“Do you regret it?” I asked quietly. “The choice that caused all the problems?”
Funmi was quiet for a long moment, staring into her bowl like it held the answers to my questions. Then she shook her head firmly.
“I regret the timing. I regret not being stronger when I was younger. But Dami? Never. He’s the best thing I’ve ever done.”
She looked up at me then, and I could see tears threatening to fall at the corners of her eyes.
“Listen, Kelechi, our parents love us the way they know how. But sometimes their love comes with conditions that aren’t fair to who we really are. I mean, you can’t spend your whole life performing a version of yourself that makes other people comfortable.”
My throat tightened.
“But what if I disappoint them? What if they can’t accept…”
“What if they surprise you?” she interrupted gently. “What if they love you more than what they expect from you? And if they don’t…” She squeezed my hand. “Then you’ll find your real family, the people who choose to love all of you.”
I felt tears prick my eyes, thinking of Marley’s easy acceptance, her parents who apparently loved her unconditionally.
“What if the person you care about isn’t exactly what they have in mind?” I asked before I could stop myself.
“Then you love them anyway, and you hope your family learns to love your happiness more than their own plans.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then at least you’ll know you chose love over fear. And trust me, honey, that’s a choice you can live with. The other way around…” She shook her head and scoffed. “That’s the choice that kills you slowly.”
“It’s scary,” I whispered.
“Terrifying,” Funmi agreed with a watery smile. “But you know what’s scarier to me? Looking back at your life and realising you never really lived it, that you spent all your time being what other people wanted instead of discovering who you actually are.”
She lifted her glass with her free hand, ice cubes clinking softly against the sides.
“Besides, if you’re already questioning everything they taught you about love and life, you might as well question it for something that makes you genuinely happy.”
And despite everything, the weight of secrets, the fear of family judgment, the complexity of having feelings for someone from a completely different world, I found myself smiling.
A huge wide grin spreading across my face, and the warmth spread through my entire body until I felt lighter.
“I told you to sit back and relax,” I said as Marley hovered behind me in the kitchen, her arms sliding around my waist. “I don’t know how you can stand here behind me inhaling these onions without your eyes peppering you.”
“You’ve started again with your foreign lingos. Peppering?” She laughed against my shoulder. “Is that even a thing?”
“It’s a thing where I’m from. Your eyes will start peppering you soon, just wait.”
“My eyes will start… burning, you mean?”
“Same thing.”
“It’s not the same thing.” She squeezed me tighter. “But fine. Maybe my belle is sweet for you, so the onions can’t touch me.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “Your belle is what now?”
“Sweet. For you. You know, like how you say it. My stomach is happy because of you.”
“Marley, that’s not—”