Page 55 of Cursed Daughters
“Must you go?” she pouted.
“It’s my mother’s uncle, Mo.”
“Fine.” And she held out her hand. “What will you give me?” He smiled at her and removed his watch, handing it over. She slipped it on and twisted her wrist this way and that before looking up at him. “I demand a greater toll.”
“Oh! You demand, do you?”
He thought about it for a moment, then whipped out a marker from his pocket, taking off the cap and pushing up the sleeve of her top. “What shall I sketch?”
“A bird,” she replied, picking the first thing that came to her mind. “Will Amara’s…will Amara’s family be at the funeral?”
“Maybe. Her mum and my mum have decided they are best friends. So…maybe.”
“So Amara will be there too.”
“I haven’t asked.”
She put a lid on the emotions bubbling up inside her. She hatedwhen he played this game—the “I’m too innocent to see what’s happening” game. It was getting old.
“Have you seen her since? Since we hung out?”
He paused, for a beat. “Once. Her car broke down on Adeyemi Lawson.”
“Why didn’t she call her father?”
“Our house was just around the corner, Mo. It wouldn’t have made sense to disturb her dad.”
“You don’t know shit about cars,” she snapped.
“I took a driver with me. Look, I get that you are upset…”
“Oh. You do, do you?”
“…but I was just helping a friend out.”
She said nothing. He came to her and lifted her chin, staring into her soul with his big browns. She felt her eyes water and blinked back the tears. When had she become this person? He frowned gently.
“What would give you peace? Would you rather I never speak to her again?”
Yes! Yes! It was what she wanted to say, but the words that came out were “No. Of course not.”
He kissed her on the forehead and then released her. She felt a chill come over her. “I should get going,” he said.
“No, no, wait. Let me just…let me get some water. To cool us off.”
“Nah, I’m good. I’ll just head.”
“What about malt? My mum bought some because I told her you love it.”
He smiled and settled back into the couch. “Well, in that case…”
—
She hadn’t been planning to give him Mama G’s powder. After she’d got home, she’d tossed it into her dresser, swore never to think about it again. But she could feel him slipping away from her; what else was she meant todo?
She quickly ran through the open courtyard to the west wing, opened the drawer, retrieved the powder, took it to the kitchen and poured it into a glass of malt. She stirred vigorously, so the powder would dissolve. Then she wiped the sweat off her brow, took a couple deep breaths and carried the drink to the east living room.
He took a sip. “Perfect,” he said, a little malt moustache on his top lip.
