A broad smile crept across your face as you read the email from the UK Home Office about your visa application approval. With a scholarship from the University of Derby in hand, you were confident about being successful, but you couldn’t be too sure. You provided all the required documents to support your application, fingers crossed. A sense of pride engulfed you in the knowledge that your efforts paid off.
Later that night, you shared the news with your friend Chuka on FaceTime. He couldn’t wait to show you around town. Having lived in Derby for nearly five years, he would make the perfect tour guide. You struggled to catch up as he babbled about what to bring along with you, in his British-Nigerian accent. He even promised to pick you up from the airport. By the end of the call, you were excited about leaving Lagos.
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There were mixed emotions at home the night before your trip. Your younger siblings, Dozie and Amara, gushed about the presents they wanted you to send them once you arrived in England. They were twelve and fourteen years old. Dozie wanted the latest PlayStation 5. Amara was undecided between a purse and a wristwatch. She bounced on her toes when you told her she could have both.
The aroma of the bitterleaf soup Mama was cooking filled the two-bedroom flat you all lived in. It was your favourite soup, served with pounded yams. Mama knew this, and she treated you to it.
Everyone usually had something to say at dinner, especially recounting how their day had gone. Mama always had the most stories. A teacher at the community primary school, she would speak fondly about her students. Although you hadn’t met most of them, you felt like you knew them due to her vivid descriptions. But she was quiet that night.
As you cleared your throat to speak, Dozie and Amara turned to you immediately. Mama didn’t. She kept her head down, fiddling with her food.
‘Mama, this is delicious,’ you complimented her cooking, in an attempt to cheer her up. But she remained quiet.
‘Mama,’ you called her. No response. You called her again, a little louder this time.
‘What?’ She snapped out of her thoughts, looking at you for the first time that night with heavy eyes.
You wanted to ask if she was okay, but stopped yourself because it would unleash the tears she was holding back.
‘The food was delicious,’ you said instead.
‘Thank you, my son,’ she forced a smile, and returned her eyes to her plates.
You were only thirteen years old when Papa passed away five years ago. His absence made you grow up faster to fill his shoes. You got your first job when you turned fifteen, waiting tables at Skies, the Chinese restaurant at the City Centre. You were happy to support Mama financially with your salary. She was proud of you.
‘Wherever he is, your father would be proud of you too,’ she rubbed your shoulder.
Hearing those words made you happy in ways you couldn’t describe. A few days later, she asked you to join her to create a monthly family budget. It became a routine for the two of you.
As you cleared the dishes after dinner, you told Mama that you would like to continue budgeting with her on FaceTime calls when you travel. She joked about being too old for FaceTime, and you both laughed.
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You had travelled all day, spending most of the time in Istanbul, waiting for your connecting flight to London. Chuka wasn’t on the ground to receive you at Heathrow Airport as agreed. When you boarded the plane in Lagos, you texted him your estimated 9 p.m. arrival time. The message was delivered immediately after you sent it, but he had not yet responded. You texted him again, letting him know you had arrived safely and were waiting for him. You only became worried when you didn’t hear from him after three hours. Your last message was delivered. You dialled his number, and it went to voicemail.
You began to panic, then remembered the email from the international team at your school, advising you to take a National Express coach if no one was coming to pick you up from the airport. When you didn’t hear from him two hours later, you decided to leave.
‘The fare is £25,’ says the attendant at the ticket booth. You wanted to pay with your Mastercard, but it was declined.
‘I must have entered the wrong PIN,’ you tried it again. It was incorrect. You were sure you had some money on the card. You tried one more time. Nothing.
‘Do you want to try another card?’ The attendant was getting impatient.
You didn’t have another card. You remembered getting some cash before the journey. You unzipped your backpack, and rifled through the clutter until you found the white envelope containing some fifty-pound notes.
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You couldn’t sleep on your first night because of the cold weather. You brought your brown blanket from Lagos, which you hardly used because it was too thick. The same blanket was too light here. As you tossed in bed out of frustration, you saw the heater by the wall. You fell asleep shortly after turning it on, only to wake up later due to the heat. You spent the rest of the night regulating the heater, waking up to turn it off and on.
The sound of your phone’s alarm woke you up from sleep. You ignored it at first, but the damn thing wouldn’t keep shut. You stretched your right hand to the side stool beside your bed, grabbed your phone, and turned off the alarm after confirming it was 9 a.m. Your first class was at 10 a.m., so you dragged yourself out of bed to get ready, cussing out the cold under your breath.
The school was quiet, and looked more beautiful in person. As you sat in your first class, you noticed how scanty it was. There were only twenty of you. ‘Perhaps more people would join later,’ you thought.
‘Hi,’ said a female voice as you put your notebook and pen in your backpack after class. Looking up, you saw a girl standing before you, her beauty undeniable. Your smile was a little too much, but you felt justified when she smiled back at you just as much as you did.
‘I’m Cherry,’ she stretches her hand.
‘My name is Osita.’
‘I love your accent,’ she said.
It was the first time someone told you that you had an accent. Unsure of how to respond to that, you only nodded.
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Two months had passed, and you were running out of money. You hadn’t been lucky in your job search. If you didn’t find one soon, you wouldn’t be able to pay your rent next month. The thought of that stressed you out. Applying for jobs online became a pastime. Nothing happened for the longest time, making you wonder if you were doing it right. When one of the companies, a care home, requested an interview with you, you were optimistic about getting the job.
‘Can I ask you a few questions?’ The female voice on the other end of the phone said warmly. The interview was going well until you mentioned that you were an international student and could work only up to 20 hours per week under your visa requirements. She hung up almost immediately.
Some of the other organizations you applied to called you later. Those who didn’t mind you working part-time needed someone with UK work experience, which you didn’t have.
You spoke to Mama on the phone at least twice a week. It was harder to pretend that all was well on FaceTime, so you resorted to WhatsApp voice calls. As the phone rang, you would square your shoulders and wear a smile even though she couldn’t see your face, followed by a cheerful ‘Hello, Mama’ as she answered. Your plan worked. She always matched your feigned excitement and sometimes even surpassed it.
‘I know you’re well because you sound like it,’ she would say.
You hated lying to her, but it was a better burden than having her worry about you. Telling her about your struggles would make her do just that.
Dozie and Amara would call out your name in the background before Mama passed the phone to them. On the first call, Dozie asked about his PlayStation 5, and Amara asked about her purse and wristwatch. You promised to send them soon. That was the last time they asked. Mama must have told them not to. You wondered if she could see through you.
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Another month passed, and you still hadn’t got a job. Two hundred pounds was all you had left. You desperately applied to any job vacancies on Indeed, including those for which you weren’t qualified. One of them was for a waiter at a Chinese restaurant. Being able to speak Chinese was recommended, but that didn’t stop you from trying your luck. You hoped that your experience working at Skies would count. You were surprised when the manager invited you to an interview. You were pessimistic about getting the job, but you went for it anyway.
To your surprise, the manager, Chang, was impressed at the end of the interview. He was taken by your previous work experience in a similar role. He told you that not speaking Chinese wasn’t a problem because most of their customers spoke English anyway.
‘When can you start?’ He asked as you were leaving.
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You didn’t expect juggling between school and work to be easy, so you left no room for self-pity when the weight of it wore you out. If anything, you were grateful for having a job to pay your bills. You had classes from Mondays to Thursdays. After your classes, you would go to the library to do any outstanding assignments or read. You worked long shifts on Fridays and Saturdays, the busiest days in the restaurant.
Chang was right – most of the customers spoke English.
‘Are you from Africa?’ Some of them asked you as you attended to them. They also told you about the time they visited Africa, and how they enjoyed tanning in the sun. You wondered which African country they visited, but didn’t ask them because it was against company policy to discuss non-work-related subjects with customers.
‘What part of Nigeria are you from?’ A young lady asked as you dropped the glass of Margarita she ordered on the table.
‘Pardon?’ You pretended not to have heard her question.
‘You’re from Nigeria, right?’ She smiled.
You nodded, wondering how she knew that.
‘What part?’
‘The South-East – Anambra, precisely.’
‘So, you’re Igbo.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘I work in Lagos. I’m there most of the time.’
‘Do you need anything else?’ You changed the subject.
She shook her head, and then you walked away.
It was around 6 p.m. Customers were just beginning to arrive, but talking to her for too long could get you in trouble. You fiddled around until you had to serve another table.
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It was drizzling as you walked out of the restaurant. Your hands tucked in the side pockets of your winter jacket, you walked briskly when you heard a voice behind you. You recognized the face as you turned around. It was the lady from the restaurant.
‘I didn’t get your name earlier,’ she said as she walked closer to you. ‘We’re outside the restaurant, so I’m no longer a customer,’ she added, sensing your hesitation.
‘Osita,’ you answered, reluctantly.
‘Can I give you a lift home? My car is over there,’ she pointed across the road.
‘That won’t be necessary. I live around the corner,’ you lied. Your apartment was a thirty-minute walk away.
‘The faster you get there, the less wet you’d be.’
She was right. The drizzle was getting heavier.
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The ride to your house in her black Toyota Venza lasted for about ten minutes. She joked about your questionable calculation skills as she parked in front of your apartment.
You had no justification for that, so you chuckled instead. She told you her name was Natalie. She was the head of design at a multinational technology company with a branch in Lagos. Soon, you were both laughing, talking about this and that. You had classes at 8 a.m., so you bid her goodnight. She asked for your number, and you gave it to her before getting out of the car.
You were wrapped in a towel, fresh out of the shower, when your phone started to ring. Mama was the one calling. It was a few minutes past 11 p.m. You quickly answered it, wondering why she was calling so late.
‘Hello, Mama.’
‘Osita, it’s Aunty Mabel,’ the person on the other end said.
Aunty Mabel was Mama’s younger sister. Why was she on Mama’s phone?
‘Aunty, where’s Mama?’
‘She’s in a coma.’
Your phone almost fell out of your hand. ‘What do you mean?’ You stutter.
‘She collapsed this afternoon at work. The doctors said she had a heart attack.’
‘A what? How? When?’ Your heart is racing. You’re short of breath.
‘The doctors are doing all they can, but they say it’s touch and go.’
You can’t believe what you’re hearing as you tap your legs.
‘Osita, are you there?’ Aunty Mabel asked when you didn’t respond.
‘Yes, I’m here,’ your voice cracked. ‘How are Dozie and Amara?’ You managed to ask, tears welling in your eyes.
‘They’re staying with me.’
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You were a shadow of yourself in the days that followed. Missing school wasn’t in your habit. Although present, you were absent-minded.
‘Are you okay?’ Cherry asked you after a class.
‘Yeah, I’m good,’ you didn’t want to bother her with your problems.
Your school assignments were piling up because you couldn’t bring yourself to do them. You would pick up a pen to write, but not a single word would come up. As the deadlines for assignments approached, you wrote anything just to submit.
Things were worse at work. You constantly messed up customers’ orders. Chang asked you to take some time off to sort yourself out, but you refused because you needed the distraction. An older woman ordered a non-alcoholic cocktail, but you served her one with alcohol. Allergic to it, she began to convulse. That was the last straw for Chang. He fired you.
Your bed was your dwelling place for days; only bathroom breaks made you leave it. You barely ate, your appetite nonexistent. Attending classes was no longer on your radar. Speaking to Dozie and Amara on Aunty Mabel’s phone on WhatsApp cheered you up. It became a daily evening routine, one you looked forward to.
Your phone rang. Aunty Mabel was calling. It was past 1 p.m., too early for the usual call. Your face flustered with concern as you wondered why she was calling.
‘Hello, Aunty,’ you whispered, suddenly out of breath. The sound of Aunty Mabel’s sharp cry resounded in your ears, cutting through to your heart. The look on your face says anything but surprised.
On the night you received the news of Mama being admitted to the hospital, you saw her in a dream. There was something different about her. A cold sensation ran across your body, the hairs on your skin rising as you stood in her presence. As you looked into her eyes, her smile grew broader, nudging you to smile back. You moved closer, your arms spread out for a hug. But instead of leaning in as she usually would, she receded, her eyes focused on you until she dissolved out of sight.
As you opened your eyes from that dream, you felt a deep sense of loss. Subconsciously, you began to mourn her passing. When Aunty Mabel finally said the words out loud, they were old news. But you wished you could unhear them. Despite your awareness, you clung to a flicker of hope that Mama would be okay. With that possibility out of the way, you fear you’ll drown in the deep sea you’re in as you can neither swim nor have the will to try.
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Image: ChatGPT remixed