I pull into the gates of my father’s house, and before I can even put the car in park, the front doors swing open.
“Uncle Uzo! Uncle Uzo is here!”
A swarm of children, aged four to six, spills out onto the driveway. They are an army of miniature traditional tunics and dresses, their laughter echoing off the stone facade.
Beside me, Aspen’s lips quirk into a surprised smile. “Uncle... Uzo?”
I shrug, unable to hide my own grin. “Chidi’s little ones. I happen to be the favorite.”
I help her out of the car, and she’s immediately descended upon. My nieces and nephews don't give her a chance to be shy. They swarm her, looking up with wide, curious eyes that take in every detail of the new face in their driveway.
“Are you Uncle Uzo’s girlfriend?” my youngest niece, Amaka, asks, tugging insistently on Aspen’s hand.
Aspen looks at me, her expression a mix of shock and a softening warmth I haven't seen all morning. “I... I guess so?”
I clear my throat, my voice ringing out with stern confidence. “Actually, this is Uncle Uzo’s wife.”
“You’re pretty!” my oldest nephew, Nnamdi, pipes up.
“Thank you,” Aspen says, but I can tell she’s starting to feel the weight of it. She has that same wide-eyed, overwhelmed look she wore the day the reporters swarmed her at the park.
“Okay, kids. Let’s get her into the house so she can get settled, shall we?”
Nnamdi helps with the bags while I lead Aspen toward the front door, stepping into the controlled chaos of a Chidubem celebration. The foyer is already a sea of vibrant colors and high-pitched greetings. The house smells like a sea of flavors. And the “Aunties” are out in full force, their their gele headwraps or, ichafu as my grandmother used to call them, rising like colorful crowns toward the ceiling.
“Uzo! My son!”
I am pulled into a succession of fragrant, bone-crushing hugs. Within the first ten minutes, I’ve introduced Aspen a dozen times.
“This is Aspen, my wife.”
“The one from the television?” I hear just as many times.
The reactions vary. Some Aunties eye her with a keen, discerning sharpness, cataloging her posture and her presence with the scrutiny only a judgemental auntie can muster. Otherswrap her in silk-clad arms, whispering blessings in Igbo that she doesn't understand but clearly feels.
I take her through the Great Room toward the back terrace, where the catering has been set up. The long tables are buckling under the weight of the feast.
“This is the heart of the operation,” I tell her, guiding her toward the long tables where the caterers are still working. I point out the polished stainless steel chafing dishes. “That is Jollof—don’t let anyone tell you the Ghanaian version is better. It’s a lie.”
Aspen laughs, the sound a little breathless. “I’ve actually had both, but I can’t say which is better. I happen to like both.”
“Don’t let my mother hear you say that,” I warn, only half-joking. “Over here is Moin Moin. It’s a savory bean pudding. My mother prefers hers made with black-eyed peas. And that,” I point to a rich, textured stew, “is Egusi. It’s her specialty. It’s bold, spicy, and a little stubborn. Just like her.”
Aspen leans in to catch the aroma. “It smells like... fish?” she observes. Then she coughs, a sharp, involuntary sound. She nearly gags, her hand flying to her mouth as the potent scent of ground crayfish hits her. “Oh my God it’s really fishy.”
A voice cuts through the air, cool and sharp. “You do not like fish where you are from?”
We both turn to find my mother standing there. She is a vision of sapphire silk and gold, her gele tilted at an angle that suggests she’s looking down on the world from a great height. Beautiful. Regal. Lethal.
“Mummy,” I say, stepping forward. “This is Aspen.”
My mother doesn't speak. She just stares, her gaze performing a slow, clinical scan of the woman beside me.
Aspen recovers quickly, stepping forward with her hand extended. “Mrs. Chidubem. It’s lovely to meet you.”
Aspen hasn’t changed into her traditional dress yet. She's still in her travel clothes she wore for the flight, and the look my mother gives her as she eyes her up and down is nothing short of an indictment. She lingers on Aspen’s jeans for a second too long before offering her hand with a tight, plastic smile.
“Pleasure,” she says, her tone clipped.
