I hurried out to Dad’s office and locked myself in when the service closed. This was the part I hated most. Church members coming up to Dad and me and asking how Mom was, if we had heard anything, and assuring us that they’d be bearing us up in prayer. The same people who had been so quick to find fault with Mom were now behaving like they had been her best buddies all along.

“Hey, there you are. I wanted you to meet Brother Emeka,” Dad said coming into his office.

“I had to use the washroom,” I mumbled.

Dad bought the lie because he knows I don’t use public washrooms. But then again maybe he didn’t because I’d been hiding out in his office since Mom left. He didn’t probe further and I was thankful.

“No problem. We’re taking them to lunch.”

“Them?”

“Emeka and his son. They’re renting a house on our street. Maybe just Emeka though, his son was out in the rain yesterday and wasn’t feeling so good today so maybe he won’t join us. Come on. Let’s go. I have to change out of this suit. I’m suffocating.”

I was glad we were going out to eat. I was tired of my cooking. I changed out of my dress into jeans and a T-shirt and my favourite pair of camouflage ballet flats. Maa Sarfoa came into the room and went straight to her money box and put some money in.

She always does that. She badgers Dad for money for ice cream after church, doesn’t buy the ice cream and first thing when we get home, she drops the money into her susu box. Then she takes her notebook, writes the date and the amount she put in and the grand total. Ever since she was three, there was only one thing she wanted to be when she grew up: rich.

Dad was on the phone when our doorbell rang.

“Gyikua, that must be Emeka, please get the door for me. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

I went down the stairs, glad for once that we could at least try and be normal with these people who hadn’t known Mom or Ntiriwa.

I opened the door with a smile plastered on my face. “Hell . . .”

We were both surprised. He was the last person I’d expected to find standing in front of my door. He obviously thought the same too because he looked back at the visiting preacher, who was standing right behind him.

“. . .Oo,” I finished with a fake smile. “Do come in. My dad’s on the phone; he’ll be down in a minute.”

Brother Emeka smiled. His son—the guy with the afro— was still looking at me like he couldn’t believe it.

“Small world,” he muttered as he passed by me.

I shut the door, praying the ground would open up and swallow me. I knew exactly what he was thinking: A pastor’s daughter who wouldn’t help someone in need. If I hadn’t had even more embarrassing moments in my life, this moment would have been ranked number one. But as it was I had had some very embarrassing moments, but this would definitely make the top five.

I ushered them into the living room and went straight to the kitchen, purposely to get them water to drink, but I couldn’t move. How was I going to spend an entire afternoon with them—with him knowing what I had done yesterday? He was probably, right at this moment, telling his dad about what happened yesterday.

I couldn’t go back there. I wouldn’t go back there. I’d tell Dad I had cramps or something. You’d think a man with a wife and three daughters would be able to handle any mention of the word: menstruation. Not my dad. He just got really embarrassed and usually left Mom to deal with us. Yes, I’d tell Dad I had cramps and that I needed to lie down, then they could all go out and have lunch and save me from further embarrassment.

I heard Dad come down the stairs and introductions being made. Dad was laughing and saying,

“The last time I saw you, you were a baby, but the resemblance is still there. Your Mom refused to cut your hair so most people thought you were a girl.”

Someone said something and he laughed again. Then he called to me to bring our guests some water. I had hoped he’d come to the kitchen himself to see what was taking me so long so I could clutch my abdomen and writhe in pain, but he didn’t. I took out two glasses and poured some water into them. I carried the tray into the living room and served Brother Emeka first.

Dad said, “This is Gyikua and Sarfoa . . .? There she is. Maa Sarfoa’s our kaakyire. Our baby-last.”

Sarfoa came over to greet Brother Emeka so no one noticed when Emeka’s son refused to look in my direction as I stood in front of him with the tray.

“Your water,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

He ignored me. He was looking at Sarfoa who was basking in the attention everyone was giving her.

Dad turned to me. “Chidi, have some water. Are you not thirsty?” Everyone turned to look at us. Chidi turned to look at my face. This moment had jumped quickly from number five to number three.

“I don’t need water right now, sir.”

“Uh okay,” Dad said not sure what he meant. “Let’s go. I’m starving.”

We drove to the Golden Tulip Hotel separately. Dad drove Sarfoa and me, and Chidi drove his father. I was surprised he had a driver’s license. He couldn’t be that much older than me.

When we got to the hotel, we went to inspect the red Audi that Chidi had driven.

“You drive,” Dad said, impressed.

Chidi nodded.

His dad said, “It’s his own car. He picked it out on his eighteenth birthday.”

Dad smiled but there was something like sadness in his eyes, and I was wondering if it was because we couldn’t have afforded to change Mom’s car which constantly died in traffic. He and Mom had been talking of getting her a new car for some time, but that was all it was, talk.

Things got better after that. Much better. Dad and Brother Emeka had been really good friends at the university, and they just kept talking and talking and talking while we waited for our orders. As a result, I could get away with not having to engage Chidi in conversation. Not that he looked like he was eager to talk to me. He totally ignored me, which was just fine by me.

From time to time Dad and Brother Emeka engaged us in the conversation. Brother Emeka asked about school and my preparations for the West African Senior School Certificate Examination (WASSCE). He told Dad about Chidi being an amateur photographer, and Dad and Chidi got talking about camera pixels and lenses and other things I had no idea of. Dad has always said he’d take up photography, but he doesn’t even own a proper camera.

Our food came and I couldn’t help being surprised that instead of normal food—potato chips and chicken for Sarfoa, steaks for Dad and Emeka, shrimp fried rice and beef sauce for me—Chidi’s meal was half a chocolate cake! And it was a rich chocolate cake, dark brown with chocolate icing and shavings of white chocolate on top.

“Daddy, can I have my dessert first too?” Sarfoa asked.

“No. Finish your food and you can have dessert.” Dad blessed our food and everyone started eating.

For dessert, Sarfoa had a slice of Chidi’s chocolate cake. Our dads had the fruit salad. I very much wanted some of the chocolate cake but I didn’t want him to think he’d influenced my decision so I had strawberry ice cream instead. For his dessert, Chidi had two slices of cheesecake.

***

Tell us: How do you think Gyikua knows Chidi?