Cursed Daughters by Oyinkan Braithwaite - 83

The night before Eniiyi was due to meet Zubby’s parents, a thick fog settled over Lagos and she was overcome by a fever. Her bones were aching and her head felt as though it would split in two. She dragged herself into the bathroom and dunked a hand towel in a bowl of cold water before placing it on her forehead.

She crawled back into bed. Time passed, she couldn’t have said how long. At some point she heard her mother speak, but she dared not open her eyes.

‘You are feverish. Take off the duvet. We need to cool you down.’

Her mother tried to remove it, but she only held on tighter. Her skin may have been burning, but her bones felt as though they were being whipped in a storm. Ebun eventually gave up, and Eniiyi returned to sleep. Sometimes she would see slivers of Monife: the sleeve of her shirt, her long, thick hair, her bare flat feet. If Monife was trying to tell her something, she couldn’t hear it above the pounding in her head.

And then someone was giving her water, and slipping a pill into her mouth. Her mother. And behind her, the shape of Grandma East, and the sound of her voice, praying. She was okay. She only wanted to sleep. She meant to tell them that. Perhaps she had told them.

When the fever broke, she was alone. She stepped out of her bed and walked to her window. There wasn’t much to see; the view was blocked by two gnarly trees, but above that there were a dozen stars and a full bright moon. She opened the window to let some air in; there was an odd smell in her room, something fresh and briny, like seawater. She felt better, weak but better.

Still, she could understand her mother’s surprise when she walked down the stairs later that afternoon in a mustard-yellow crop top and maxi skirt with voluminous pockets.

‘You’re going out?’

‘I had made plans.’

‘Plans ke? You were really sick last night.’

‘I feel better now.’

‘You should be taking it easy. Go back to bed, Eniiyi. Whatever it is can wait.’ The suggestion was tempting. Her bed was warm, familiar; the terror in her heart was less familiar. Was this how Zubby had felt before meeting Ebun? She had promised him she would do this. She wanted to do this. She loved him. And even though they had only been together for ten months, she saw a future with him, and the first step was meeting his family. And yet she couldn’t account for how afraid she was.

‘I won’t be back late.’

Zubby had offered to pick her up, but she told him she would take an Uber there instead. Her mother wasn’t aware she was still seeing him. She would tell her eventually, but for now she lacked the energy to fight with her.

‘Na d house be dis?’ asked the Uber driver, slowing before a set of gates that were quite unlike her own. They were painted a light grey and made of three-inch-wide rails. You could see through them to view the house, and even in the fog she could already tell the place was pretty big. Beside the gate was emblazoned the number 57.

‘Yes. I think this is it.’

As if by magic, a man appeared at her window. He was wearing a blue and white uniform, so she guessed he was the security guard. She wound down the glass.

‘Good afternoon, ma. Who are you here to see?’

‘Zubby. Please.’

‘And your name, ma?’

She gave him her name, and he glanced down at a sheet on his board before belting an instruction to whomever was in charge of the gates. They opened as if by magic. The car was waved in, and they drove to the house.

‘Me I know say the owner don steal government money finish,’ remarked the driver as she stepped out of the car. And then he was gone, leaving her no time to reassure him that Zubby’s parents owned private businesses. The money was probably as clean as it was going to get.

The house was gorgeous, all sleek lines and massive windows. The one time Zubby had mentioned his childhood home, he’d casually said it was ‘nice’; he hadn’t done it justice. It looked like the house of a Hollywood celebrity. As she took the three wide steps to the door, it opened and Zubby stood before her. He looked relieved, as if he had been unsure that she would show up. He took her hand and squeezed it.

‘I am glad you are here.’

‘Me too,’ she said, though her heart was thumping and there was sweat running down her back. Each step forward into the house was only increasing her nerves. She felt faint. The floors were marble and the ceiling was high. Her head moved around as though on a swivel to take in this painting, that sculpture – she found the art vibrant and distinctive. She followed him past three doors, and then he opened one on the left.

‘This is the pink room. They host the important guests here.’ He winked at her.

The pink room was more cream than pink. The textured paint was cream, as were the rugs, the curtains and the sofas. However, there were hints of blush in the cushions, in the subtle pattern in the fabric of the curtain and in the glow that came from the light. But by far the most noticeable aspect of the pink room was the staircase that led to a mezzanine, which held a gorgeous library that went all the way around. How had he never mentioned this library?

He was staring at her. She turned to him and smiled.

‘Has your boyfriend told you how stunning you are lately?’

‘It has been a few hours, I think.’

‘You are stunning.’ She gave him a slight bow of her head, acknowledging the compliment. And she was about to tell him what a beautiful specimen he was when he said, ‘Wait for me? I’ll go get my parents.’

‘You’re leaving me?’

‘I won’t be long.’ He gave her a kiss on her forehead and then left the room.

She sat down on one of the plush leather sofas and waited. After ten minutes, she stood to better examine the picture of the family that hung on one of the walls – Zubby’s mother and sister were the epitome of elegance seated on high-backed armchairs, and standing behind them, Zubby and his father posed with identical smiles. They looked alike.

She heard the door open and spun around. Zubby’s dad was standing in the doorway.

‘Good afternoon,’ she said in greeting. He took a step forward, hand already reaching out to welcome her … and then he froze, staring at her with eyes like saucers.

He was a handsome man; age lent him an elegance that Zubby did not have. He was wearing a cream polo shirt and linen pants. His hair was closely shaven and he had a five o’clock shadow that was peppered with grey. And where Zubby’s eyes were the colour of clay, his father’s shone like the sun. Skin, eyes: the man was golden. But she wasn’t enjoying being pinned under his unwavering gaze.

‘Monife?’

Laughter bubbled up inside her. Perhaps she was still dreaming. Even here, she was tethered to her aunt. She felt a headache coming on. She sighed, gathered herself. ‘No. I’m the long shadow she left.’

‘Come out into the light,’ he told her. Did his voice tremble?

She hadn’t realised she was partly in shadow. She stepped forward, pausing when one of the little pink spotlights was above her head. She heard him suck in his breath.

‘Who are you?’

‘Eniiyi. My name is Eniiyi.’

‘You’re Zubby’s girl.’

‘Yes.’

‘God in heaven,’ he whispered.

‘I’m guessing you knew Monife?’

He laughed, but it sounded sad. ‘Knew her? I loved her.’

The penny dropped. The name she’d read in Monife’s notebook, the name that sat beside the princess’s in the curse of the Falodun women.

‘You’re … you’re Golden Boy?’

He winced. She felt the floor pitch. Of course the man she loved would be the son of the man Monife had loved. Why should she have something for herself? So that was the catalyst? Monife had lost the man she loved, had died for the man she loved, but still desired a happy ending? She rested her hand on an armchair for support. She barely heard Golden Boy when he said: ‘Has she sent you here to haunt me?’

Before she had a chance to reply, Zubby walked in with his mother behind him. Eniiyi straightened up and Golden Boy wiped a tear that had escaped his eye. Zubby’s mother’s photograph did not do her justice. She had a face that looked round and soft, with not a single blemish to be seen. Her eyes were also round, giving her the look of a doe in headlights. She had small, heart-shaped lips and long lashes. She looked kind. She could have been mistaken for a person half her age. And she was dressed quite simply in a white blouse and pale jeans with white trainers. She sported an auburn wig that bounced and curled at her shoulders but looked natural. It took Eniiyi a moment to note all these things, and another moment to note that her boyfriend’s mother was not pleased to see her. It was there in the downturn of her mouth and in the wrinkling of her forehead. She was standing beside and slightly behind her son, who dwarfed her, so Zubby did not see her expression.

‘Oh! Great, Dad, you’re here. Mum, Dad, this is—’

‘You!’ his mother hissed. ‘God forbid. You have haunted my home, haunted my marriage … you won’t take my son, Monife! I won’t allow it!’

Then she was in front of Eniiyi. The woman had lost all composure; her eyes were wide, her wig had slipped. And then she raised her hand.

Eniiyi was slow to react to the slap, the scratches and the hair pulls. But she began to feel angry. Zubby’s mother was vicious, but not particularly strong. She clenched her own hand into a fist, cocked it back … Then the men were there, Zubby trying to get his mother’s nails out of Eni’s skin and his father pulling his wife back by the arms. She resisted him, but he was stronger by far. Eniiyi touched her face and felt a wetness there: blood.

‘What do you think you are doing, Amara?!’

‘Of course you defend her. You would have her destroy our son’s life too? Ị chọrọ ka anyị rapụ ya ka ọ gbụọọ nwa anyị nwoke.’ Eniiyi looked to Zubby for a translation, but he was staring at his mother with worried eyes. It was Golden Boy who spoke up.

‘Are you losing your mind? Do you think you are standing before a ghost?’

‘Fuck you, Kalu. Fuck you.’ And then she was gone.

‘Dad, what the hell?’