Page 43 of Cursed Daughters
“Good evening, ma,” he called to her.
“Good evening, Kalu. What time will you bring her back home?” Mo chose not to say the thing that was on the tip of her tongue: her mother rarely knew where she was, what she was doing or who she was with. The question was a performance of a type of motherhood Bunmi had never really practised, but Mo was in too good a mood to care.
“No later than ten p.m., ma.”
“Okay. Be sure to be back by ten. Sharp.”
“Yes, ma.” He bowed again, which was overkill but she could tell her mother was soaking it up. Then he jogged over to the passenger’s side and opened the car door for her before she had a chance to touch it. She hoped her mother was taking it in, the way a man treated you when he really loved you.
On the way to Golden Boy’s house, she fiddled with the radio, searching for a good song.
“Are you nervous?” he asked her, placing a hand lightly on her thigh.
“A little.”
“Don’t be. She’ll love you. How could she not?”
“Mmm.”
“Damn, you smell glorious.”
“Focus on the driving, GB.”
“Right. Right.”
The enormous white house was lit up in the night. He took her to what he referred to as the blue room—a mid-sized living room with a Victorian aesthetic and a blue-and-cream colour scheme. She had never been to this room before, had only ever been to his floor.
“Will you wait here? I’ll go get Mum. Do you want anything to drink?”
“No, I’m good.”
“Great. I’ll be right back.”
Ten minutes went by, time she spent looking at the paintings in the room. She didn’t know a lot about art, but she could appreciate what was before her—they were vibrant and distinctive. No wonder Kalu was an artist; how could he be anything else in this environment?
Someone cleared their throat and she spun around. A woman was standing at the door of the room. Mo curtsied before she remembered that Igbo people didn’t curtsy. She took a step forward and then stopped. “Good evening, ma,” she said.
Mrs. Kenosi was a regal woman. It was clear where her son had gotten his looks. She was tall and looked as though she was bathed in sunlight—her skin tone betrayed a touch of European ancestry. The outfit she wore was loose-fitting but did little to disguise her curvy figure. She had gorgeous curly hair that was pulled into a tight French braid. Yet as soft as her physical appearance was, her pale eyes were hard, quickly running over Monife from head to toe. Her lips were pressed together and her chin was raised.
“And you are?”
“Monife, ma.”
“Monife what? You don’t have a last name?”
“Falodun, ma. Monife Falodun.”
“Yoruba?”
“Yes, ma.”
“From which state?”
“Osun state, ma.”
Mrs. Kenosi tutted.
“Which one of the girls are you here to see?”
