15 #2
She exhaled. “Ever since I was a kid, even before my brothers were born, my life has been spent in the kitchen. I’m not—I’m not saying this to paint my mother as a bad person, but she’s basically been raising me to be a good little housewife.
I cleaned, I cooked, I washed, I ironed.
Which, fine. I was the first born, so I thought it was my due.
But as my brothers had gotten older”—she and her triplet siblings were five years apart—“I’d naively thought the same rules would apply to them.
It did not. I kept on cleaning the house, by myself—their rooms included—washing their clothes, making breakfast, lunch, dinner and fucking snacks when they demanded it that one day, I just snapped.
“Why were they allowed to sleep in and do basically nothing to keep the house functioning, but when it came to me, it was suddenly my duty? That was the moment the feminist in me was born, by the way.” I laughed a little, knowing she’d meant me to.
“It was only after we came abroad that I started to love cooking; before then, it has only ever felt like a chore. And I really don’t want to taint that by turning it into a career.
Besides, my mother and I had a whole fight about this; I can’t let her think she was right when she said homemaking was every woman’s true calling. ”
I snorted. Then I dramatically closed the tab. “Okay. Nothing homemaking related, then. What about a business degree?” That was what Dayo was doing. With a business degree, she’d at least have the option of becoming an entrepreneur at anything of her choosing when we go back home.
Ofure wrinkled her nose. She made an indecisive noise. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Right. We’ll put a pin in that.” I decided to bring out the big guns. “What about art in general?”
Only the fact that I knew her so well made me notice the minute change in her expression; her eyes widened slightly, her lower lip pursing. I immediately dug my claws in.
“Yes?” I pushed. “You look like you might want that.”
Her eyes dropped to our joined hands. “I ... I mean ...” Her voice was so thick with longing it made my own heart ache.
“The entire reason you’re in this predicament is because of your love for art. And your general creativity, of course. So, why not just remove the technical aspect and just do that?”
“I ... I’m afraid.” That told me she’d at least considered it already.
“Of what?” I asked softly.
It took a moment before she spoke again. “Remember the comic I was writing in Foundation year?”
“Ah. Don’t you mean comics—plural?” She used to upload short comics—that she’d written, boarded, illustrated and coloured—on the regular back then; her work had been so good she’d amassed an impressive following online.
She laughed. “Yes. Fine. Comics. You know I’d planned to start monetising it, maybe—to build a community, get my name out there or whatever. Well, at the time, I kind of ... told my dad about it.”
“Oh.” I had noticed once we started Uni, she didn’t upload as much anymore.
And when she did draw something not architecture related, it was only little doodles she pretended meant nothing.
Fuck, her father must’ve said something to discourage her.
And I claimed to be her best friend? How the fuck hadn’t I noticed?
“He was ... not a fan,” Ofure confirmed with a sarcastic smile. “Said shit like that was for hobbyists, not people who were serious about their future. And on top of that, he didn’t want anything distracting me from “the plan”.”
I remembered it now; I had asked her about it when I’d first noticed the drop off, and she’d waved me off with this exact spiel about needing to focus on school, about her art being “just a hobby”, and how she’d do the comic thing on the side after we graduated and started working, and only if she had free time.
“Damn. That’s so messed up, Fure. I-I’m sorry I hadn’t noticed.”
“Don’t even. I hadn’t known better back then; if I sincerely believed what I was saying, which I had, how were you supposed to know? You’re not a mind reader.”
“Well. When you put it that way.” I grinned when she laughed. “But ... this is clearly something you want to do. And what your father said—that was nearly four years ago.”
“I don’t know,” she whispered. I gave her a few moments. “Art has always felt—making comics, drawing ...” She let out a frustrated sound. “There’s a difference between drawing for fun and doing it for school or for work. What if studying it begins to make me hate it?”
“I don’t think you will,” I said carefully but honestly. “Plus, I think it’ll be better to study something you do enjoy, or you’ll just end up repeating this whole architecture fiasco—studying for a degree you hate.”
“Right. You’re right.”
“So. It’s settled then. When next your father calls, you know he’s going to ask, and now you have a response. If you want us to do a little more research, narrow it down to a specific degree just so you’re more confident when he calls, we can do that, too.”
Her eyes grew wide, and her lips parted, like she was only just realising the gravity of our brainstorming session.
“You’re freaking out,” I said with amusement.
“Only a little,” she admitted, and I laughed.
“It’s just hitting me that I’m going to do this.
I’m really doing this. Once we graduate, that’ll be the end of architecture for me.
” Her shoulders straightened, like saying the words out loud had given her a boost of confidence. “And I’m going to study art.”
That had come out a little more hesitantly, so I said, with exaggerated excitement, “You’re going to study art!”
She grinned at me. “And I’ll start working on a comic!”
“And you’ll start working on a comic!”
“And life’s going to be fucking great!”
“Hear, hear!”
She laughed, the sound full of relief. When she looked at me again, her eyes were full of gratitude. “Uzezi—”
“Never thank me again.”
She giggled. Then her gaze dropped to my mouth. My stomach lurched.
Her phone began to ring.
“It’s my mum.” She looked a little terrified. “Daddy’s probably talked to her. More like ranted to her, if I want to be honest.”
I snorted. “Go on. Take the call. I’ll be here. And Fure? No matter what, I’ve got you, yeah? Everything will be fine.”
She gave me a strained smile, then left the room for some privacy.
I closed the rest of the tabs, leaving the one with the potential art degree open before shutting down the browser and switching off my laptop.
I was glad I’d helped her figure this out.
It was just unfortunate that, as we’d been doing so, my own discontent had only grown.
I cleared the bed, bagged the packaging holding Ofure’s remaining sweets along with her leftover rice, and placed it and what was left of her drink on my reading desk.
She came back into the room not long later. She was smiling a little bit, though her eyes were red.
“She told me not to worry about it,” she said, her voice a little thick.
I’d had a feeling the conversation would be emotional.
Her parents really expected so much from her; she’d probably thought her mother had called to try and talk her into listening to her father.
Hopefully, from the look of that wobbly, tentative smile, that hadn’t been the case.
“It’s like you said; she said to just give him space to calm down and think it through, then he’ll call me again. ”
Ah, thank God. “Wise woman, your mother.”
“Okay.” She rolled her eyes.
I laughed. She came back to the bed, crawling into the space she’d left. I joined her. I didn’t know what my face was doing, but Ofure gave me an appraising look.
“All right.” Her lips quirked. “Want to talk about it?”
I thought about brushing her off, but ...
“What if I’m doing the same thing?”
She twisted around to face me, giving me her full attention. “Go on.”
“You know I’ve always done what was expected of me.
I’ve always gone with what just ... felt right.
Or what made sense. And, for some part of me, having my entire life planned out by someone else—especially when it’s my parents—doesn’t feel like pressure.
In fact, it feels like the opposite. But what if I’m just ...
going with the flow because it’s easy? Would I be doing this if I’d had other options?
Am I going to wake up one day, full of regret after realising I’ve spent my entire life following the wishes and dreams of other people? I don’t fucking know.”
“Aw,” Ofure cooed softly. “Come here.” She took both my hands in hers.
“We’ve got months still before we graduate.
And there’s time before we have to start thinking of applying for any internships.
We can use this time to properly figure out how you feel.
And, if you decide you do want to explore something else, I’d argue that your father is even more understanding than mine.
No, don’t argue with me.” I huffed out a small laugh.
She smiled. “You’re his one and only child—his first and only son—and he’s spoiled you rotten. ”
“Well.”
She laughed. “If you do decide this isn’t what you want, I know he’ll understand. And if you need help figuring things out, I’m here. Always. After all, two heads ...?”
I laughed, but dutifully completed the mantra. “... are better than one.”