When he got to the tiny alleyway behind the restaurant, he began to pace, the vibration of his phone making his heart thump furiously underneath his ribcage. It was mid-April, but the cool air still had a lingering bite to it that Ejiro, as panicked as he was, currently didn’t feel.
It’s just until I get my citizenship, was what he’d told his mother. It’d been six months since his citizenship had been approved, and now she wouldn’t stop calling, asking when he was coming home.
He didn’t even know why he was panicking. He wanted to go home. Eventually. Right?
“I didn’t send you to study abroad so you can just abandon your roots. Whether you like it or not, you are still a Nigerian, and you have duties to your country to uphold,” was what she’d said when he’d first told her about his intentions to apply for citizenship. Somehow, even though Ajiri had told her the same thing, Ejiro was the one she’d had a problem with.
Then again, Ajiri did literally the opposite of anything their mother wanted; “became” a lesbian—even though it wasn’t precisely a choice; got tattoos and a nose ring; decided to study Fashion Design for her Masters instead of something more science-y like Business Management, which she—and Ejiro, both at the request of their mother—had studied for her Bachelor’s; got an internship with a fashion brand in the UK instead of going back home and “starting up her own local business”; and finally topping it all off by saying she wasn’t ever going back to Nigeria, unless it was to visit. Their mother had obviously since given up on her.
Ejiro, on the other hand, just wanted to please her. Was that so wrong?
The phone had stopped ringing.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, striving to think of an excuse for why he hadn’t answered immediately.
He didn’t know why the thought of going back home filled his throat with bile. His mother was all alone, she needed them. He couldn’t just abandon her. Besides, it wasn’t like he was doing anything worthwhile in the UK. Like his mother had said countless times before, the job with his uncle was just a courtesy because they were family; it wasn’t a real job, and his work as a comic artist online—despite the steady income it brought—wasn’t a real job either, merely a hobby.
The phone started ringing again.
“Jesus Christ,” he repeated, with more feeling.
He ripped the device out of his pocket, closing his eyes as he answered.
“Hello?”
“Hi!” chirped a cheery, unfamiliar, decidedly English voice. “Am I speaking to Ejiro Odavwaro?”
She completely butchered the pronunciation of his name. He was too relieved at it not being his mother that he didn’t bother to correct her.
“Yes, this is he.” His accent subconsciously switched when he realised he may not be talking to another Nigerian.
“Hi, hi!” the woman repeated, her excitement doubling, if that were possible. “My name is Stacey Radcliff, and I’m a representative from Cupid Calling. I’m ringing you to say—I’m sure you can guess this already—that we absolutely loved your audition tape and we’d love it if you could come in for an official interview to discuss you becoming a part of the show!”
Ejiro’s mind was completely blank. She was a who-what-now?
“I’m sorry, could you please repeat that?”
“Certainly.” Stacey sounded amused. “I’m a representative for Cupid Calling. We loved your audition tape, Mr. Odaro, and we’d very much like to meet you in person to discuss you possibly becoming a part of the show.”
Panic began to set in. He had absolutely no idea who on earth she was or what the heck she was talking about. Audition tape?
“Uh … what show was that again?” And it’s Odavwaro. They could pronounce Galifianakis and McConaughey but his four syllables were apparently a problem.
The woman still sounded patient as she repeated, “Cupid Calling, Mr. Odaro.”
“Odavwaro.”
“Oh, pardon me. Odavwaro,” she echoed, managing to finally get it right. “Would you like me to call you at a later date? Though I do have to warn you, if you don’t reply in the affirmative on your second call—or you miss it—we will be going with someone else for the show.”
“I completely understand, thank you, I’m actually at work right now, so you understand—”
“Of course, Mr. Odavwaro. What would be a better time for you? We’re free Monday through Thursday between the hours of eight in the morning till five in the evening.”
“Oh, uh …” He paused to think. Today was Tuesday. He had a day off tomorrow. “Tomorrow at noon sound okay?”
“That’s perfect. I’ll call you then. Congratulations once again.”
The call ended.
