Page 51 of Cursed Daughters
“You can get…passionate sometimes. I just…She isn’t the issue here.”
“Fantastic. Neither amI.”
XII
The hangout was set for the following week. She selected her outfit carefully. Red seemed too aggressive a choice, so she went with a black waistcoat and black trousers. She divided her hair into five strands, twisted them and then intertwined them atop her head. She sprayed herself with her favourite perfume; it would serve as a kind of armour. Her dark eyes gave her image in the mirror a once-over. She looked sophisticated and intimidating, which was great, since on the inside she felt wildly vulnerable.
“Do you want me to come?” Ebun had appeared out of nowhere and was watching her from the doorway. The offer was tempting, but Mo wasn’t entirely sure it would work in her favour. She didn’t want Amara to think she needed support. If the girl was bold enough to turn up alone, then Mo would be too.
Golden Boy had chosen the setting—a restaurant with a premium view of the coastline. It was lovely; they were surrounded by greenery and the table overlooked the water. She was the last one to arrive, which was how she had planned it. GB and Amara were sitting on opposite sides of the table, but Amara was leaning forward. Her fingers were playing with the ends of her hair. GB was barely moving, but whatever he said had Amara throwing her head back and laughing. Mo felt her heart clench. She walked over to them, and they both looked up at her as though they were surprised by her presence. GB stood up and kissed her gently on the cheek before pulling her chair back. She sat down. She didn’t know what to say; all the words she had formed were gone.
Amara was quite pretty. It was the sort of beauty that grew on you slowly, but once it had taken root, there was no denying it. It wasn’t particularly threatening, but it was youthful, gentle and soft. She had a round face and a rosebud nose. Her lips were petite and looked as though they were perpetually pursed. She was wearing a pastel-pink dress with thick straps and bows at the shoulders, which paired nicely with GB’s pale-blue shirt. And she was small—small hands, small waist. She couldn’t have been much taller than five foot three; both Monife and GB towered over her.
“Hello,” she said. Her voice was light, and somewhat low. She kept glancing at GB as though she were deferring to him, and it set Monife’s teeth on edge. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Hi.”
“Mo, we have ordered already,” said her boyfriend. He passed her the menu, and she glanced through it. As she tried to make her selection, Golden Boy updated her on what they had been discussing—something about the depth of Nigerian corruption.
“Kalu knows so much,” cooed Amara, and Mo glanced up from the menu, resisting the urge to slap her.
“Mmm.”
“He talks about you all the time, by the way.”
“Only bad things, I hope.”
Amara looked puzzled. “Sorry?”
“Don’t mind Mo, she says that kind of stuff all the time.”
Amara and Golden Boy’s food arrived, and then Mo ordered, too—asun, fries and plantain. Amara wasn’t talking that much, but she hung on every word that Golden Boy was saying. It was clear she thought the sun rose from and set in his ass. Mo didn’t know what she could do with this information, or what she could do about the situation; it felt as though everything was running away from her. She had forgotten what she aimed to achieve with this outing.
“So how did the two of you meet?” Amara asked.
“We met in a club fourteen months ago, and had sex behind the bins.”
“She is kidding! She is kidding.”
Amara was clearly struggling to understand Mo’s sense of humour. She offered Mo an uncertain smile and then looked back to Golden Boy for clarification. “It’s just the kind of humour she has,” he said. “She enjoys being provocative.”
“I can explain myself, thanks.”
“Sorry o, I was just…”
Did they exchange a look, or had she imagined it? She was beginning to feel light-headed. She suddenly wished she had brought Ebun with her. She needed a witness, or an ally. There was no denying that the two of them complemented one another—two light-skinned, attractive kids from the east. This was what Mrs. K saw. This was what Mrs. K wanted.
“So are you seeing anyone, Amara?”
“Umm, no…not really.”
“There’s no one you’re interested in?”
“I’m just waiting for the one.”
Mo might have imagined it, but she would swear Amara had glanced at Golden Boy again. If he noticed, there was no indication of it. But then he held a PhD in not seeing the obvious—girls flirting with him, girls wanting to get to know him, girls wanting to have sex with him. If Mo hadn’t been so bold, hadn’t walked up to him at a party and dragged him outside, he would have missed her signals as well.
She needed a drink. She waved the waiter over and ordered a mojito. She wasn’t sure she wanted to endure the outing sober. She felt Golden Boy’s eyes on her as she ordered one glass, then two, then three. He was judging her. Amara had ordered water with cucumber slices. Who ordered water with cucumber slices? She raised her hand to request another drink.
