“It’s good,” he repeated after they’d finished dinner. “I know a lot of people don’t take this mental health thing seriously, especially Nigerians, but I don’t want you to feel ashamed or uncomfortable, you hear? This is good.”
“Thank you, daddy,” Obiora said, ducking his head. The movement might have come across as bashful, but in reality, he was trying to hide his shame.
“Perhaps I can finally hope for some grandkids in your future, eh, obim?” his mother teased, standing up to begin clearing the table.
Obiora blushed, though his throat was thick with something bitter. He stood, as did his brothers, to help pack up the dishes and take them to the kitchen. “My future spouse could be a man, mummy.”
“Ehen? Are you saying you won’t adopt if that’s the case?”
Obiora managed a small laugh. “Touché.”
“So Nkem is not enough of a grandchild for you?” Obinna asked with a teasingly raised eyebrow.
“Don’t go putting words in my mouth now.”
They laughed.
“We should even be focusing on Obioma, sef,” their dad added with a sparkle in his eye. “You and Anita have been married, what? Almost a year now? Should we be expecting any good news any time soon?”
“Daddy, please,” Obioma said, but he was blushing.
They laughed again.
In the kitchen, they scraped off the bits of food still clinging to the dishes, then used paper towels to wipe their surfaces after. Even after telling their mother that it wasn’t necessary to wipe the plates before putting them into the dishwasher, she was adamant the oils would somehow ruin the machine. It was tradition now to wipe their plates after eating.
“I’m going to head out,” Obiora said when they were done, and the dishwasher was gently whirring.
“Really? So soon?” his father asked as Obiora walked into the sitting room, his mother and brothers following behind. Osita was already in his favourite chair in front of the TV, settled in for either the news, a sports channel, or a film; it all depended on his mood, and his wife’s preference, of course.
“Yeah,” Obiora answered, managing to sound perfectly sheepish, hands in his pockets. “I want to double check my stuff—make sure I have everything before I leave.”
“Ah, ah, you’re only checking your things now?” his father scolded gently. “If you forget anything, you know you’ll be on your own since you said they don’t allow phones and such.”
“I know, I know. I’ll be thorough.”
“What about you two?” Ifeoma asked, glancing at Obioma and Obinna in turn, her hands on her hips. “Will you be leaving early as well?”
His brothers glanced at each other, exchanging a look Obiora couldn’t quite interpret, but made him feel strangely nervous.
“Yeah, we’ll be heading out as well,” Obioma finally said.
Obinna threw an arm over Obiora’s shoulders, nearly making him stumble. The three of them were a perfect combination of their parents; tall, like their mother, and stocky and well-built, like their father, thanks to stable gym routines. They had their father’s warm, brown skin, and their mother’s loose, kinky curls.
“Yeah, we want to go drinking—spend some sibling time together before he leaves, yeah?” His eldest brother ruffled his hair playfully.
“Stop it,” Obiora groaned, smacking his hand away half-heartedly.
“All right, then. Let me see you in the kitchen for a bit before you leave.” His mother nodded at him.
The bitter taste in the back of his throat intensified. He left his father and brothers behind, following after her.
She turned to face him, a soft, concerned look on her face. “I hope we’re not making you uncomfortable?” she said in Igbo, her voice pitched low. “You look worried.”
Ah, shit. Curse his mother’s uncanny ability to read him like an open book.
“I’m fine, mummy,” he replied in English. “I’m just a little self-conscious about the whole thing, though not in a bad way.” Fucking hell, the lies were going to make him physically sick—he could almost feel his stomach heaving.
“Mhm?” The sound was noncommittal. She placed both her hands on his shoulders, and stroked his arms gently. “The most important thing to us is your health. You know that, right? I mean, yes, we’d be ecstatic if you are able to find love again, but most of all, we just want you to heal—that’s all. Don’t feel pressured by my jokes about grandchildren, eh, obim?” My heart. She called all of them that, but it still managed to feel special every time she did, no matter who she was referring to.
