I gathered my things and turned to Nathan.
“It was a pleasure meeting you Mr. Cowe,” I said to him, “We might have an agreement but I still plan to make your time with me a living hell.”
He raised a brow as if challenging me to do my worst, “I look forward to working with you Adira.”
CHAPTER 4: TEN DAYS POST BREAK-UP
There are three things everyone should know about having African parents.
Number 1, no matter how old you are, how successful or how much you have grown, you will always be their child. They will scold you, they will tell you when you have messed up, and they will still give you that deadly stink eye of theirs.
Number 2, you are either a child or an adult, there is no in between. No matter what option you choose, you have to be independent. As early as 14, I was already doing things for my parents on the weekends for some extra cash. If I wanted money, I had to work for it. Nothing was ever taken for granted.
And finally number 3, you do not ignore their summons unless you are dying or you have a death wish.
My dad was the one who texted me during the dinner with Nathan Cowe, and I ignored the text for as long as I could. But the truth is there is only so long you can ignore your Nigerian father for when he calls.
Last night, I got a message from him, it was one sentence, but it was enough to pass across the message, “Adira Emiade Arogundade, I want you at home tomorrow.”
The fact that he summoned me wasn’t the issue, it was the fact that he pulled out the full name card. I had no other choice but to obey.’
I immediately sent a text to Marissa telling her that I wouldn’t be coming into work the next day and for her to answer all my important calls. By 10 a.m. I was out of my house and driving to my parent’s place.
They live in a pretty small house. It’s a four bedroom modern cottage styled house with a beautiful garden at the back that my mom tends to, a pretty decent driveway, white walls and a blue zinc roof.
My dad always said that he never saw the need to have a big house when it was just the three of us. I even wanted to buy him a larger house when I started making my own money, but he told me point blank that he loved his house and wasn’t interested in moving. I secretly think that it is because he didn’t want to let go of the memories.
My mom opened the door before I even got out of the car and rushed over to give me a hug. She barely reached my shoulders but that didn’t stop her from squeezing me so tightly that I almost stopped breathing.
Her graying hair was braided all back and she had a blue wrapper tied around her body. Her hands felt greasy against my back and I let out an involuntary shiver at the thought of her leaving stains on my top.
I gently pulled away from her, “Good morning mom,”
“I missed you so much,” her hands went to my face and I jerked back lightly, “Sorry, I was making stew when I saw your car. I forgot to wash my hands.”
“It’s fine,” I assured her as I discreetly used the window of my car to check for stains on my shirt. When I was satisfied that there was nothing I turned back to her, “Where’s dad?”
“He’s inside,” she gave me an encouraging smile as we started to walk towards the house, “He missed you and was worried that you were overworking yourself.”
I hummed in disbelief, “I guess that explains why he sent a text using my full name.”
Mom just shook her head and gently nudged me into the house. The inside hasn’t changed since I was sixteen. The walls are still painted the same beige color, it s the brown chairs that I sat on growing up. The dining table is the same; even the chandelier is the same. My family doesn’t exactly do well with change.
She locked the door behind her and left for the kitchen. She didn’t need to show me where my dad was, I already knew.
There are only few possible places my dad could have chosen to be; his room, his study or the living room.
Considering that I was standing in the living room; that obviously wasn’t the right answer. His room would have been the next option but it is almost 11, and he is always up as early as 5 a.m. The onlyreason he would be in his room is if he is sick or he went to pick up something. That left his study.
I made my way there and knocked on the door softly. I heard his voice as clear as day telling me to enter and I gently pushed it open.
My dad was sitting in front of an open laptop. His fingers flew across the keyboard and his eyes were fixated on the screen. Even as I stepped in, his eyes didn’t move from the screen once but I knew he could see my every move clearly.
He was wearing a simple orange polo shirt. I am sure he paired it with shorts as usual; his round rimmed glasses were perched on his nose, and every few seconds, he would adjust it and then take a sip from the mug of tea next to him.
I gently shut the door and went on both knees, “Good morning sir.”
“Good morning Adira,” he still didn’t look up from his laptop, but he gestured for me to sit on one of the chairs opposite him, “How are you? How is your show coming up?”
