'Risi, When Will You Marry?' by Caleb Ajinomoh

Risi, when will you marry?

You hold the door open, slightly, two-minded about taking the next step forward or turning around. You remember the tongue-lashing your mother will get if you don’t show up so you let the door open in on them and the living room turns silent. They’re all staring at you. You don’t have enough eyes to match them all so you rest the only pair you boast on the wallpaper above the television.

“Good evening Uncle Tunde, good evening Aunty Funke, good evening Uncle Yele, good evening Uncle Bello”, you distribute salutations and genuflect appropriately as your knees drop on the bare floor to which the centre rug doesn’t extend its reddish forage.

This position reminds you of your twenty-ninth birthday, just over three years ago, the last time you visited home, when this same assembly was congregated in your name. These old feelings have found you kneeling before uncles and aunties you owe nothing, and they stir again in your chest because you know just why they’ve called you.

“My daughter, welcome” your aunty Funke, as always, spoke first. They don’t ask you to sit because this is the best position they want you. You watch your mother shift uneasily on her stool, her folded brows betraying her unspoken disgust with proceedings. She rolls her eyes in your aunt’s direction. You’re sure it is because everybody knows aunty Funke has never known the joy of motherhood and this is her best chance to say ‘my daughter’. After all, she’s only sixty eight now.

Your father is sat sphinx-like and stony. No amount of genuflection can wipe away the shame you’ve brought upon the family. Aunty Funke waits for all of the leg shifting to subside, then resumes.

“How is Lagos?” She doesn’t wait for a response. “You abandoned your father for how many years? It is not good. One, two, three years. Ah! It is not good o” She folds her hands over her sagged breasts, indicating she was through with her Kodak minute.

Your father is still not looking at you. His eyes haven’t lost their flint.

“Very well, ma. I’m so sorry. It is not as if I have not been thinking about coming. It is this my job-

“Job eh? This your own job that does not allow you to visit your people, even to talk on the telephone”

“Or even talk to young men”. It is uncle Yele who cuts in now, his scanty beard looking like whiskers under the glow of the lantern.

“Abi they don’t have men in the city? Abi you people don’t have men in your work place?” uncle Tunde quips, but nobody is laughing. You say nothing, but you feel better knowing they’d confirmed what you suspected was the reason for your summons. Your stomach ties in several knots. Bantu weavers are probably jealous.

“Young woman, you are what, thirty two now?” it is uncle Bello who speaks now. You don’t understand why one of the most educated men in your family is even sitting here, joining in the cockamamie deliberations.

“Yes sir. Yesterday was my birthd-

“That’s not what he asked you”. Aunty Funke throats her irritation. You notice your mum shift again. You cannot imagine what must be going through her head. Sometimes you pity her; sometimes you are angry she cannot stand up for herself, for you maybe.

“What have you done with your life? In fact what have you done about what we last talked about the last time we were in your father’s house like this?” uncle Yele breaks in now.

Your eyes remain glued to the wallpaper. You want to exchange places with the happy woman portrayed in the picture.

Read the rest of the story on The Naked Convos

Caleb Ajinomohis a print journalist, copywriter, dramatist, screen writer. His first non-fiction, Job Seekers Do Stupid Things’ was published on Amazon/KDP in september 2015. His first fiction, fe-mme fa-tale, a literary thriller is primed for a March 2016 release. Follow him on Twitter @Queerpants. This short story was culled from The Naked Convos.

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