The Death of Vivek Oji(25)

“I thought that military school would have toughened him up,” said Rhatha.

“That’s what Chika was hoping when he sent him,” replied Kavita, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice. The other Nigerwives knew the whole story—she’d vented to them about it years ago when Chika first made the decision, despite Kavita’s objection that the boy was too young to live so far away from them.

To her surprise, the Nigerwives had supported Chika. “You have to allow him to raise his son the way he wants to,” they said. “We’re overprotective because this isn’t our country, but Chika knows what he’s doing. You trusted him enough to stay here instead of going back home, so trust him with your son.” So Kavita did; yet every holiday she waited with a tight chest until her son was back in her arms, safe and browned from the harsh sun.

“I hear it’s so hot there you can use the water from the tap to make garri?” she’d asked him, during one of his first holidays back home.

Vivek had laughed. “Yes, Amma. It’s Jos. You can grow strawberries up there.”

She had been worried that he’d be targeted for being Igbo, but her neighbor Osinachi had laughed when she heard that. “He looks Hausa,” she said. “Or even Fulani. He will be fine there. The boy doesn’t even hear Igbo like that.” Osinachi was an architect whose husband worked in Kuwait. She had lost her oldest child in a car accident years ago, and their surviving son, Tobechukwu, had grown up to be—as Osinachi put it—a bit of a tout, a troublemaker.

“Kavita?” Her mind had been drifting, but Rhatha’s voice drew her back.

“Sorry,” she said.

“I was saying that maybe the military school idea wasn’t the best. He might have had to repress his natural sensitivity, so it’s breaking out now.”

Kavita barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes. “How are your girls?” she asked instead, and Rhatha preened. The only thing she loved more than prying into other people’s lives was talking about her two darlings. She went off on a glowing monologue about how wonderfully the girls were doing with this time off, how they were exploring their artistic sides, how Somto’s swimming was bordering on extraordinary. Kavita smiled and nodded, tuning out most of Rhatha’s words. They had some tea and biscuits, and after an hour or two the girls came out of Vivek’s room carrying a tray still full of cupcakes.

“We should have baked something else,” Olunne said. “I forgot he doesn’t like these.”

“Isn’t he coming out?” asked Kavita, making to stand up.

“No, Aunty,” said Somto. “He got very tired and he said he’s going to sleep for a while. But we had a nice time. Thank you.” She put the cupcakes on a side table. The mothers were expecting them to say more about Vivek, but it was as if somewhere within the walls of Vivek’s room, allegiances had shifted, unseen pacts had been made, and Somto and Olunne had stepped out carrying Vivek’s secrets in the elastic of their ponytails. It was clear they had no intention of sharing what had happened, so everyone sat awkwardly in the parlor for a bit until Rhatha took the girls home.

Later that night, when Vivek came out for dinner, the table was tense. Chika was chewing his cowtail with aggressive crunches and Kavita could hear her cutlery ringing against her plate.

“How was it having some friends over?” she asked Vivek.

He looked up from his food and his face was calmer than it had been since he returned home. “It was nice,” he said. “Thank you for inviting them.” His voice was level and polite, and Chika glanced at him in surprise. After dinner, Vivek excused himself, washed the plates, then went to bed.

“What happened to that one?” asked Chika.

“I think he just needed some friends,” Kavita said. “He can’t be isolated all the time; it’s not good for him.”

“Aren’t those girls much younger than him?”

“Only by three or four years, Chika, come on. They played together all the time as children.”

“They’re not really children anymore,” he noted, unfolding a newspaper, and Kavita swatted him on the arm.

“Shut up,” she said. “He’s a good boy.” She didn’t ask Chika about Eloise’s visit to the factory. She didn’t care.

“I still think we should take him to the village this weekend,” Chika said. “I talked to Mary about it. Osita will be there.”

“Oh, good! I haven’t seen that boy in so long.”

So that was how they came to take Vivek to the village house. Kavita combed his hair, and when they returned to Ngwa, Vivek started going out to visit Somto and Olunne more and more. If he stayed out past curfew, he just ended up spending the night at Rhatha’s house. His parents didn’t mind; they knew he was safe there, and the boy seemed to be doing better, so they were happy.

One day, Kavita called Rhatha’s house to check on Vivek. “The boy isn’t here,” Rhatha said in her high and lilting voice. A spike of panic shot through Kavita’s chest.

“What do you mean, he’s not there? He hasn’t come home yet.”

“Oh, no, he’s fine. They’re over at Maja’s house.”

Kavita frowned. “Really? Why?”

Rhatha paused. “She does have a daughter their age, darling.”