I
Man is a gregarious animal.
Your first social-studies class opened with a simple sentence. You were in your first year in junior secondary school, in a crisp, new uniform that made you feel grown-up. You mostly understood the sentence: “man” meant man and woman alike—human; “animal” referred to the biological kingdom that humans belonged to, distinct from plants. You had learned these in biology class just the day before. But “gregarious” confused you. You imagined it meant aggressive; it certainly sounded like it should mean aggressive. But then the next sentence was:
This is why he likes to live in community.
Man is an aggressive animal, so he likes to live in community?
You wished the teacher would explain further, but you were too shy to raise your hand in class. Instead, you copied the sentences into your notebook and hoped understanding would follow. You wrote slowly. The easy glide of your ballpoint and the immutability of ink meant mistakes were both probable and permanent. In primary school, words were easier since errors could be erased by simply flipping your pencil. When you were done writing, you stared at the letters, wet and blue, that glistened against the white of your notebook. You could draw no sense from the words. “No worries!” You stilled your agitated mind because you know your brother would help make the meaning plain.
Your brother was your first idea of genius. He was five classes ahead and knew things you didn’t think you would ever learn. Like the first twenty elements in the periodic table which he could reel off his head without pausing for breath. He placed first in his class, always, from as far back as kindergarten when schools began evaluating students with graded tests. You, on the other hand, had never been first. Once, in primary school, you placed third in a class of seventeen students. After you closed from school the afternoon of that wondrous report card, you ran the entire kilometer to your mum’s shop where she sold clothes and shoes for babies and children. Her store was so large and well known within the community that it served as a primary point of reference when strangers asked for direction: “you will see one big, yellow boutique, you can’t miss it!”
You were too out of breath to speak when you arrived and simply stretched out your right hand, the document hanging between your fingers. You still smile when you remember how, after reading, your mum flung the paper into the air and broke into a celebratory dance, kissing the top of your head as she wriggled her waist. Even the salesgirls and waiting customers joined in the moment. Your mum was just as dramatic when she presented the report card to your dad after dinner that evening. But he was a university professor and, so, always more self-possessed. He took his time reading through his tortoise shell glasses. After he had satisfied himself, he folded the paper, tucked it into its envelope, and tucked the envelope into the front pocket of his shirt. He took off his glasses and folded them, too, before speaking.
“It looks like God is finally answering our prayers,” he said as he offered you a handshake before pulling you into a brief but tight hug.
It was only the three of you that evening; your brother was in Abuja to represent his school at the annual national mathematics competition organized by the federal Ministry of Education. As you settled into bed that night, you heard fumbling with the door handles and by the time you turned around, your mum was in your room. This time, she was the one with something—her short and stout Nokia handset—at the end of outstretched hand. You collected the phone and placed it to your ear.
“Mummy said you did well in school,” your brother spoke with a drawl that you associated with him alone.
You smiled and nodded before you remembered to speak “yes! I came third.”
“Well done,” he said, still in a flat tone.
“Yes. Thank you!”
“You can use my Terminator this weekend,” he said, then added, “just don’t play Super Mario because I don’t want you to spoil my score.”
“Yes.”
The next year, you were twelfth in a class of twenty.
“Tòh!” was all your dad said about this next report card as he returned it, unfolded, to you. Your mum sighed, too, but said nothing. You knew to remain before them, head lowered and arms folded behind, until you were properly dismissed. About a minute later, your dad waved you away. As you shuffled off, you heard your mum whisper to him, “children are different, not everyone will know book.”
You could barely see through the wet bubble that had formed in your eyes and was straining your resolve to meet this disappointment bravely. As soon as you entered the large bedroom you shared with your brother, the first things you noticed, even with the teary mist, were the big blue buttons of the Terminator console that had appeared at the edge of your bed. And you knew, without having to check, that the yellow square on top of the device was the cartridge for the Super Mario game. You set the device aside carefully and tiptoed through your nightly rituals because you did not want to interrupt the calm but deep breaths from your brother’s sleeping form on the other end of the room.
When you returned home after your first social studies class, you found your brother lying on his stomach on the floor of the bedroom. He was studying from New General Mathematics for Senior Secondary Schools: Book 3. You smelled the peanuts and knew, even before you heard the loud crunching, that he was eating Kuli Kuli, his favorite study snack. He did not acknowledge your presence but that was not surprising. You, too, said nothing to him as you took off your backpack and placed it at the foot of your bed on the other side of the room. You freed your feet, and after sniffing your socks to confirm they still had one more wear in them, you tucked your shoes away for the next day.
“What does gregarious mean?” You asked when you were finally changed out of your uniform.
Your brother shook his head as if shooing a fly away.
“It’s for school,” you added, because you knew it would get his attention.
He stopped chewing and raised his head to you. He pointed at his copy of Longman’s English Dictionary; it was just poking out of his school bag a few feet from where he was sprawled. You walked over, picked it up, and handed it to him. The blue and yellow cover was latticed with white veins where the color had flaked off. He flipped through with an easy familiarity then stopped when he found the right page. He raised his head from the text before speaking:
“Social, extroverted,” he explained. “Like when someone likes being with people.”
You were struck again by how deeply puberty had textured his voice. It added a sagely quality to his words. You also noticed that the ridges of his teeth were browned from the Kuli kuli, and this made him seem even older to you. He extended the still open dictionary. You collected it and ran your eyes across the text a few times. You couldn’t locate the entry, but it did not matter because you believed your brother entirely. You returned the dictionary to his bag, slid onto the floor beside him, and placed your head on his shoulder.
“What?” he asked.
“Man is a gregarious animal,” you responded.
For a moment, you feared he would shrug you off. But he smiled and gently tapped your head with the rounded end of his pen. Then he placed his packet of kuli kuli within your reach and returned to his math problem.
***
II
Your arms are puckered with goosebumps when you wake. Your basement apartment is cold, much cooler than it was the night before. So cold that you remember a meme you saw on Instagram about a second “fool’s spring” that occurred mid-March. Feeling a fool, you hop off the bed, wheel the windows shut, and pull the mini space heater from under the bed where you had put it away in anticipation of spring. A dull hum fills the room as the rust of the radiator disappears into the glow and promise of orange-red warmth. You clamber back into bed and wait under the thin cover of cotton sheets for the warmth to spread. The crooked poster above the wardrobe draws your attention. You make a mental note to set it right when you get out of bed again. It is a simple image, designed in Canva: red calligraphy set against a textured black background.
No one leaves home unless
home is the mouth of a shark.
These words from the poem, Home, by the Somali-British writer Warsan Shire held you through the move from Lagos to Toronto. You designed the poster on the plane. Your first outing in Canada was to a Dollarama to pick out the simple black frame that now holds the words. The image hangs eye-level from your bed, the only decorative element in your space.
You remember now that you have to call home. Your mum answers the phone within seconds. She sounds feeble, as she did when you last spoke the day before. You make another mental note to bring up her increasing frailty with your brother. She is giving her typical rundown of the state of the country. You want to pay attention but all you can think is that your mum is growing old without anyone to bear witness to this late phase of her life.
“Your dad predicted this, you know?” she says. This mention of your dad brings you back to the conversation.
“When Buhari won in 2015, your dad said it that Tinúbú wants to be the next president of Nigeria. My husband has the gift of prophecy!”
She falls silent now. Only heavy breathing interrupts the static of the phone connection. The rhythm of this grief is familiar: nearly six years in, and you know to keep the silence till the wave passes. If one imagined your family to be its own small society, then the world is divided in two: the period before and the period following the death of the patriarch. This shift happened at the end of your first week at work, the same month you graduated university. You were headed home when the family driver called to say your dad had developed a sudden pain in his chest, and he was taking him to a hospital. Your dad died in the car, stuck in traffic.
Your brother had long left the country when your dad died, so it fell to you to break the news to your mum. She seemed to listen as you spoke. But when you were done, she unfurled herself, entered the kitchen, and spent the rest of the night preparing pounded yam and Egusi soup, your dad’s favorite meal. She served large portions onto the special plates she reserved for visitors and celebratory occasions and set the platter at the head of the dining table. Then, with arms folded across her chest, she planted herself beside the empty chair where her husband sat every night. She seemed to be treating his death like one of their petty fights where your dad would temporarily lock himself in the study, to emerge only when he perceived the aroma of a well-prepared meal. Nothing happened; their long-perfected reconciliation ritual could not raise the dead. The silence stretched in her one-sided battle of wills.
“Tell my husband that his food is ready,” she finally spoke, before going to bed.
“Remember that he likes blue-white o,” she said as you picked out the fabric for his burial garment.
“Use the yellow-gold one,” she said when it came time to select the trimmings for his casket. “He kukuma likes yellow-gold chains.”
In this after period, dead people remain in present tense.
Your brother visited briefly for the burial rites. He showed no emotions throughout the chaos of the ceremonies, not sadness for the loss nor anger at the exploitation from relatives. His stoic demeanor offered a template to organize the zig-zag of emotions that poked your insides and you took it on with gratitude. But too soon, he returned to the United Kingdom and took his steadiness with him. You tried to maintain the façade after he was gone. When the photographer delivered the pictures and film from the burial ceremony, you placed them in the downstairs storeroom immediately. When your mum said she could not face re-arranging their shared wardrobe, you hired a cleaning crew to come in and pack up all your dad’s clothes. The Ghana Must Go bags, swollen with decades of fashion statements, also ended up in the downstairs storeroom. When your mum stopped going to her boutique because she could not face the inquisition from friends and strangers alike, you organized to have a young woman, who was among the first set of salesgirls your mum employed, take over management of the business. You were doing okay until you settled down to sort through your dad’s home office. There, you found the old report card where you came in third position. It was in the same safe that held the title documents to the house. There, at your dad’s desk, the dam unstopped and waters poured from you for hours.
“You know, even the protest, he always said it will happen,” your mum is speaking again. “One time, when they stopped us at a check point, your daddy said the police will soon do the one that they won’t be able to take back.”
You grunt but say nothing. The protests—and the state’s massacre of the protesters—are still too sore to talk about.
On the morning of October 21, 2020, the morning after the massacre, you forced yourself to watch the gore of bleeding and broken bodies that littered the Nigerian social media space. The day before, as you prepared to join the protesters again, your mum convulsed into a fit of anguish, begging you not to leave. So, you stayed home and retweeted posts on Twitter. Your last tweet before you went to bed was a single sentence: ENDSARS NOW! You reached for your phone immediately you woke the next morning. The first thing at the very top of your Twitter feed was a video recorded in the heat of the massacre. You heard staccato of gunshot, screaming, and the national anthem. You saw the tearful faces of the scared protesters, the green and white and red of a discarded and bloodied flag, and the tiny glints of starlight in the night sky. A tightening in your chest threatened to suffocate you as you followed the trail of comments and updates that morning. But you continued to scroll. The pain was self-flagellation for daring to live when other young Nigerians had died. The whole day, you refused food, refused to get out of bed, refused to speak. Until your brother called. In his ears, your grief found home. You cried and wailed and cursed and blamed. He said little but it was enough for you that he took the time out to listen. Later that night, your mum came into your room, her eyes swollen and red.
Would you please consider relocating out of the country? She begged.
You protested: Who would take care of her?
She would feel better knowing you were out of the reach of Nigeria, she insisted. That was all the care she needed.
The night before you relocated to Canada, your mum helped pack your suitcases. You wrapped the old copy of Longman’s English Dictionary in a woolen sweater and carefully arranged family photos between your clothes. As you packed, a photo of the family at your brother’s graduation from secondary school slid onto the carpet. In the image, your dad’s smiling face is turned downwards; he is looking at his sullen son whose hands are stacked with prizes for academic excellence; you are smiling hard at the camera; your mum is watching you, the shadow of a smile teasing the corners of her lips. Your mum picked the photo from the floor and ran her thumb over your dad’s face.
“You can keep it,” you said. Wordlessly, she set the photo aside.
You left home the next morning even though your flight was not till evening. On your way, you watched the city closely, to fix it in your mind forever. Your mum was not allowed into the terminal, so you shared your last moments outside the airport to an audience of panhandlers. In this last image, dark tracks mark your mum’s carefully powdered cheeks.
***
III
You text your brother:
Just spoke to momsie.
She seems well. Talked about dad again.
I think we should consider getting a live-in help for her.
Call me when you are free.
Adulthood put much space between you and your brother. When, after waiting at home for two years, you entered university to study Human Resources and Personnel Management—the choice you settled for since you couldn’t get in for Law—he had graduated medical school and was already processing his visa to the United Kingdom. That small slice of time before you started undergrad and before your brother left, was the heaven of your relationship. Little was said between you two but the love you shared needed few words. He took you out daily, sometimes to the cinema, sometimes to Chicken Republic where you feasted on gluttonous portions of fried chicken, chicken pie, and spicy jollof rice. But soon, too soon, you, your parents, aunties and uncles were standing round in a circle. Your brother was kneeled in the middle as you all prayed journey mercies and God’s protection over him. Then he was go…going…gone.
After sending the texts, you check the time: ten minutes before you had to log in for work. Your job as a short-term remote contract staff in a document review company was the perfect type of rote activity that suited the listlessness of this new-immigrant phase of your life. You put your phone away and hop out of bed. You sniff your armpits, trying but failing to remember the last time you showered. You would go straight to the bathroom once you get off work in the evening you promise yourself, again. A new top over your head, a quick comb through your hair, and you are ready to resume. You are barely seated when an email comes in assigning your first batch of documents.
When you pull away from your desk several hours later, the room is too hot and your armpits are weeping. You turn off the heater and the crooked poster catches your eye again. You go to straighten it but your stomach growls as a wave of nausea hits. You head over to your suitcase instead and rummage in the front pocket for a packet of Kuli Kuli. It is one of the last things left of the snacks you brought from home. You fill your cup in the bathroom and settle down to your meal for the day. The heat of the spicy peanut brittle makes your mouth wet. You swallow saliva and follow it with some gulps of water. You check your phone as you eat. A little red heart has appeared at the corner of your message asking your brother to call. You smile and text:
I’m eating Kuli Kuli and it reminds me of you.
Another heart appears at the bottom of this message. This time it is your eyes that water, and the taste in your mouth is home.
You remember the day you landed in Canada. The border official at Toronto Pearson airport who checked your documents smiled as he handed the stack back to you.
“Welcome home,” he said.
And you remember thinking that for you, “home” is now split across three continents.
***
Photo: Feranmi Ogundeko Unsplash cropped