Page 77 of Cursed Daughters
Are you soft launching me Z?
Depends.
On?
If I get brownie points for soft launching you.
You get all the brownie points.
Then I was soft launching you.
LOL.
What are you doing?
She looked at her searches.
Nothing.
Come over.
II
His apartment was on the fifth floor in the 1004 apartments in the heart of Victoria Island. Just one of many, impossible to distinguish from the outside, hard to find without specific instructions. But on the inside, Zubby had made it his own. His walls were covered with anime and Marvel art, and in the room he used as a study, he had thick, well-thumbed books on coding and programming and shelves and shelves of comics. She loved how quirky his apartment was. He had the typical big-screen TV, but there was a lot of warmth to the space—a large brown sofa, green curtains and a blue throw blanket.
They sat in the living room. She listened to him talking to his sister on the phone as she searched for the elusive genetic counsellor job. Any that seemed to match were in the US or Europe. Time was passing quickly; it had already been eight months since she got her master’s, and she was no closer to the career she’d been dreaming of. Zubby ended his call and resumed sketching. Now and again he would look at her, so she suspected that she was playing the role of muse. She didn’t mind that at all.
She looked at some of the international postings again. There was one—a graduate role at a UK-based NGO dedicated to genetic health and access to genetic counselling. It was perfect. She hadn’t even considered going abroad to work. For starters, she didn’t have a work visa, but the NGO was offering to sponsor the right candidate. Grandma West had always spoken so poorly of the UK; her memories there were of the cold—cold food, cold weather, coldpeople. Besides, Zubby was here, in Lagos. But it wouldn’t hurt to apply. She filled out the application and pressed send.
She paused when she saw him stretching from the corner of hereye.
“Can I see?”
He handed her his iPad, and there she was; well, a semi-realistic version of herself—he had exaggerated her hair, made it so large it took up most of the page; her eyes were bigger too, and more angled; her lips were puckered because she was engrossed with her laptop. It was still mostly sketch, but he had started to ink the outlines.
“It’s really good.”
“Then why do you look so sad?”
“It’s hard to look at myself these days without thinking of her.”
“Hmm.” And then, “You know what, I have an idea.” He stood up abruptly and grabbed his jacket. “C’mon.”
“Wait. What?”
“I want to take you somewhere.”
“Where?”
“It’s a surprise!”
He took her to a tattoo parlour. She hadn’t even known that they existed in Lagos. He was out of the car before she got a chance to ask him what on earth was going on. She followed suit. Inside, he began to explain himself.
“You told me about…you know…your aunt. And all the commonalities you shared. But you didn’t say anything about a tattoo.”
“Why would I? I don’t think she had one. I don’t think anyone in my family has ever had a tattoo.”
“Exactly. So if you get one, it’ll be another thing to set you apart from her. Right?”
