What It Means When a Man Falls from the Sky(8)

The fund-raiser took place at a convention center on the island. As we walked in, photographers snapped pictures, directing us to turn this way and that, but Chinyere grabbed my hand before I could stop and shook her head, pulling me to the lobby.

“No one important stops to get their picture taken.”

“And we’re important?”

“No, but the point is to pretend.”

There were a few young women our age, all dressed alike—ushers working the event. The older woman examining invitations rolled her eyes at us, double-checking our invite. We didn’t look like we’d be writing any checks.

Our table seated eight people; our chairs were the only empty ones. The woman to our left was dressed in a red that was an unfortunate match to the tablecloth. She smiled at us in that benign nostalgic way older people reserve for the very young. A waiter stopped by our table.

“Red or white?”

Chinyere winked at me and studied the label with a practiced eye.

“Red please, and leave the bottle.”

Two glasses in, we were the best of friends. We dug through our complimentary souvenir bags, finding a small clock emblazoned with the school’s logo and pamphlets featuring endearing little faces captioned with their plans for the future. Chinyere giggled and pointed out a man two tables over who kept staring at me. Every time I happened to glance at him, his smile grew warmer. At the table next to him a group of older women gathered like birds, dressed in bright shades of traditionals. One stared at Chinyere, but when I told her, she quieted and refused to look in the woman’s direction again. When one of our table companions got up a few minutes later, the woman slid into his seat before it could cool.

“Why, Chi-Chi, my dear, I almost couldn’t believe it was you. How is your . . . brother?”

Chinyere stiffened. “My brother is fine, he’s with my mother.”

“And how is she? I’m surprised she didn’t come tonight, she really loves these little events, doesn’t she?”

When Chinyere didn’t respond, she tried a different tack.

“Why don’t you stand up and let me see that dress, Chi-Chi, my dear?”

Chinyere hesitated, caught between deference and embarrassment. She stood up and moved to sit right down, but the woman gestured. “Turn around, I want to see the back.”

Chinyere hesitated again. This was her mother’s battle, not hers, but in the way of these things, she had become collateral damage.

“Why don’t you turn around?” I said to the woman. “I’d love to describe your outfit to my mother. I didn’t know that fabric was still in fashion.” The woman looked at me, mouth twitching—amusement or anger, I wasn’t sure—then looked back at Chinyere, who had used the distraction to sit down.

The two and a half glasses of wine I’d had swirled in my gut, ready to conjure more impertinence.

“Because I could have sworn I saw a picture of my grandmother wearing that exact outfit. In the sixties.”

Someone at the table snorted, but the woman didn’t look away from me.

“I am Grace Ogige,” the woman said as though I should have known the name. “Who are you?”

“I’m her cousin.”

Grace Ogige did some society math in her head— 1 social climber + x = whose mouthy child is this—then smiled.

“Ah, the sister in America. I knew your father, you know. He was a very good friend of mine.” A hiccup in her voice suggested more. “He was a godly man from a good family.”

I nodded, unsure how to respond. My mother rarely spoke of my father, other than to lecture me about not disappointing him. The woman stared at me for a moment, then scraped a trembling hand under her neckline, her confidence beginning to fray.

“It’s too bad he got all mixed up with the wrong type of people. He could have been alive today.”

“He died in a car accident. There were no ‘wrong type of people.’”

Raised brows around the table echoed what the sane little voice in my head, the one floundering in drink, was trying to tell me: shut up.

“Of course not. It’s just funny how he died so quickly, leaving his family’s holdings to his wife’s relatives. Things just aren’t done like that here. I’m sure your mother finds America more comfortable.”

She delivered the lines like she’d been waiting for this moment, like she’d rehearsed what she’d say to my mother if they met again. That I was not her made no difference. This was the closest she would get to drawing my mother’s blood.

The whole table was silent now, and I regretted taking the heat off Chinyere. Even though my mother had inherited the few properties outside the country, my father’s brothers had challenged her right to his businesses in Nigeria, and they had battled it out in the courts for five years, till I was seven. Chinyere’s father managed what little my mother had been able to win—the bottle factory, various tracts of land—and wielded some small influence. My father’s brothers had retained the majority of his Nigerian holdings, despite the will. The wine began to sour in my belly.

“Well. You two girls enjoy the food. I loaned my chef for the evening, so I know it will be excellent.”

I took another foolish sip of wine.

“Yes, well, you’ve clearly enjoyed your chef.”