You are either claustrophobic or cleithrophobic—whichever one it is that caters to the fear of being trapped. It is only now that you remember, after your pulse crescendos and your body becomes an object, suspended in air, floating slowly, slowly. You did not rob a bank. You did not murder anyone yet you’re in the dock, awaiting a sentencing that may forever alter the course of your life. The living room suddenly feels like an oven—too hot, too small to contain you, Papa, and the matter. Perhaps this is your hell, your judgement.

In another room, Mama who wanted you to get married—six years ago—to an ugly, potbellied, but very nice man—twice your age—is crying along with women from the All Saints Womens’ group over which she presides. Papa says something and you’re unsure if his words are real or a projection from the current trance-like state you’re in. 

“Is your mouth heavy? I said how old are you?” 

His question descends on you like a lashing—the type to leave welts—and you’re immediately yanked back to reality. His condescension wrings your insides till you’re a mere child again, hunched over the dining table, chewing on your Eleganza pen, cramming your multiplications.

“Twenty-nine, Papa,” you manage to say.

“Twenty-nine. Which is practically thirty. A thirty-year-old woman throws away a good, responsible, Christian man for no reason at all. The height of foolishness and insanity!”

You flinch, then you steady your breathing. You want to tell him you do not regret your decision, that Ugo was being unreasonable and anachronistic. But something holds the words captive in your throat so that you cannot respond to this statement which sounds more like a newspaper headline than a description of your life. It is humiliating, this shame you’re being forced to wear like a habit. Your eyes well up instead. 

When you were younger, Papa would flog you senseless as he was wont to do whenever you did not ‘behave properly’. What he did not know was you welcomed the beatings because with a cane you could easily odenshi the pain. His reprimands, however, rendered you powerless against the vitriol at which he was adept. And the aftermath, a brooding sadness, is the same emotion you feel now.  

So, you remain a child until Papa hoists himself from the sunken leather sofa, his signature stoop slowing his walk. It is only then you remember what you should be—what you are—a grown-ass woman. 

*

Your phone does not catch a break. Everybody wants to know, not how you are, but, for goodness’ sake, what happened? Did Ugo cheat on you? Was he hitting you? Why nau? Your favourite cousin, Uloma, texts you after ten missed calls—Sis are you sure about this? You think you are sure, but now there’s a chance you’re not. Frankly, everything is happening too quickly for you to decide what you’re thinking. One moment, you were discussing marriage rites with your fiancé, Ugo, and the next, you were disagreeing and cancelling the wedding. 

Now, as you drive slowly along the interlocked cul-de-sac leading up to his parents’ mansion, you brace yourself for what lies ahead. Inside the compound, you alight from Papa’s Hilux and cast a cursory glance at the sorry-looking tubers of yam, cartons of soft drinks, and fruit baskets that you’ve loaded into the back of the vehicle. Ugo’s family had brought them when he asked for your hand in marriage at the introduction ceremony. Dejection shades them now, as though they too know, they are the rejected participants from a wedding that never was. Papa asked you to return them and though you knew this was a terrible idea, an insult, you also considered that Ugo’s family would at least find the gesture respectable.

Under the blazing sun, you wear your sunshades to hide your sullen eyes and your shame. Then you draw a deep breath, straighten your back, and march toward the front door. The first time you came to this house with Papa, you saw how hard he tried to feign apathy, to not give away his astonishment. The house was a replica of one of the structures in Papa’s old architectural books; the ones he’d insisted on keeping as proof of his early beginnings as a lecturer. At first, his eyes had widened with fascination, but almost immediately, they’d shrunk, as though blasé about the building, as though mansions like that were commonplace where he came from. But what you really saw was somberness, the type that settles over a person when they behold a beautiful thing that could never be theirs. It was at that moment you realised you’d inherited this obsession for buildings from Papa. He is the reason you became an architect.

The friezes were what you loved most about the house and when you mentioned it, Ugo told you about its Senegalese sculptor and his great eye for detail. The dainty garden bursting with vibrant hues—from bougainvillea to purple hearts—now reminds you of the Garden of Eden, of how a worry-free Adam and Eve chased after their naked selves. Simply heaven! And this heaven intimidates you, an unworthy sinner, so your heart begins to thud with every step you take towards this hallowed building you have come to taint.  At the thought of facing Ugo’s mother, a robust, bug-eyed woman with a wicked glare, you imagine that, just like Papa, she might scold you until you shrunk into an atom of your being. You relax your posture and rehearse a confident demeanor, along with answers to all the questions she might ask. Then you ring the doorbell and wait.

The help, Eke, opens the door and welcomes you; her voice is bereft, lacking its usual friendliness. Regardless, you throw her a warm smile and pat her left arm, but she yanks the arm free before letting you know that the people whom you seek are unavailable. You ask to come in anyway and she reluctantly agrees.

You regret the decision almost immediately because he is right there in the living room, the man you were supposed to marry in two weeks. He’s standing by the mini bar, taking a bottle from the rows of exotic drinks on display. Your heart stops for a split second. Ugo, your handsome man with the alluring build. Dashing as always. Only Ugo can pull off this look in a simple black T-shirt and matching shorts. Your mouth turns dry. You are not prepared for him at all. You’d imagined he’d be over at his apartment, or perhaps out with his friend, anywhere but here. Your palms start to bleed, tiny droplets of fear. You cannot decide whether to take a seat or remain standing, whether to speak or stay quiet. You should ask him how he is. You should ask him something. Anything.

“Hi,” you finally say. He sips whatever is in his glass, Johnny Walker perhaps; you are too disconcerted to tell.

You admit, Ugo’s nonchalance is rightly placed. Ashamed, your eyes dart around the rest of the room, large enough to comfortably fit the two sitting rooms in your father’s house. An outsized abstract painting fills up a corner of the wall. A giant vintage wall clock tells you the time: 4:35pm. The house is as pristine as always, except, now the silence it holds feels like a statement, a cutting remark. 

“Ugo, I said—”

“Why are you here?” His razor-sharp voice slashes through your sentence and pierces your heart. You purse your lips. He has never taken this tone with you before. Yet even with everything that has happened, the sound of his voice still tingles your insides and you realise you miss it. You miss him. You miss the way he tucked your locs behind your ear before leaning in for a kiss. You miss the meticulous manner in which he studied your skin before caressing it, the mildly coarse texture of his palms as they brushed against yours, his fresh oud scent that lingered on your clothes long after you’d parted ways. But it is only now that the finality of what you once had dawns on you. You’d not given the breakup much thought, before; you’d been too busy entertaining Papa’s insults, stroking all the places where his singeing words had hurt you. 

“Papa asked me to return the gifts.”  Your voice is brittle, like it will splinter if you speak too loud. “They are outside.”

He nods and stares at you blankly. You return his gaze, feeling unsure. His eye bags are more pronounced, as though he has not gotten much sleep, or perhaps he has cried a lot. 

“How can you be so cold? So selfish? Did everything mean nothing to you, Obim?” 

The sea of everything floods your mind but what melts you is the fact that he still calls you Obim: my heart. Ugo had his way with words, just like with everything. He used to tell you that you were the rhythm to his songs, the melody to his life; without you, there was no music. The day you told him you were celibate and waiting until marriage, you were both in this room, by the beige Yamaha grand piano. He did not flinch. He said he’d wait because, for you, even the earth should pause to make way for whatever you wanted. Now you wonder why this earth continues to rotate, as your life borders on falling apart. 

“So, you’re ready to give this all up simply because I asked you to be a housewife, to take care of our home, our family? Is that it?” 

You ask yourself if that is it. Your lips, though heavy, part enough for you to whisper, “Obim…”

“No! You know what? It’s okay; I don’t want to talk about it.” He stands up and leaves the sitting room, disappearing into a dark hallway.

Your body feels trapped in a box of ice so you just stand there, frozen, until Eke comes to ask you if you’re ready to leave, madam.

*

In the times when you wonder if you truly know what you’re doing, if you may indeed be treating your life like a game of chance, you call your brother Eche who is in Canada. 

His buff frame fills your phone screen now. He digs into a plate of pasta and his fork freezes halfway to his mouth as your Glo network lags. His dreads appear longer than they did on your last call two weeks ago. They look just about the same length as yours now. He waves at you and his warm smile feels like the hug you desperately need. You wish you could carve him out of the phone, concretize him—his paint-stained overall and his brown beret—until he is standing right in front of you. In his background, Canvases and easels pile up, as though jealously fighting for a spot in his cramped studio.

“Nne, tell me what happened. How could you leave that fine young handsome man? How could you bring disgrace to our high and mighty family?” He is doing a lousy impression of Papa. 

“It’s not funny, Eche.” But you smile.

“Ewoo! This girl has disgraced me. Why me? Chim o!” He clasps his hands loosely atop his head in the dramatic way Mama does when there’s trouble. He’s on point with her adenoidal voice and arched eyebrows. 

His smiles reveal a near-perfect dentition, which bears semblance to yours. He twirls his fork into his plate. You smile at him; the boy whose entire face Mama always claims you stole. The silence that erupts now feels good. It is the type that is not hungry for words and perhaps, this is your favourite thing about time with him—the moments that do not demand to be filled with anything other than your presence. 

It was Eche you spoke to the night of the introduction ceremony when everything fell apart. You asked him if you were being childish; if you were stupid to have called off the wedding only weeks before. He hushed you, saying you were wise to have ended it just in time; brave too.

“Then why does it feel like this? I’m so sad. I can’t explain it.” 

“I know, Nne. Sometimes, you can make the right decision and still feel unhappy.”

Eche had always been wiser than you, kinder too. You remember a period in your childhood; Eche had taught you to pad your buttocks whenever Papa wanted to flog you. It worked for a while until the night you were discovered with heaps of clothes underneath your trousers. Papa doubled your strokes and flogged you till you came down with a fever. That night, it was Eche who fixed you a cold cup of Milo and held you until you fell asleep.

You wish you could see the world through his kind, free-spirited eyes. You’ve always admired his insouciance too, his ability to not give a single hoot what anyone thinks: especially Papa.

“Papa is probably on the verge of disowning me,” you say.

 He winks. “You won’t be the first.”

“I wish Papa—”

“Abegi! Papa this, Papa that. How does he add or remove anything from your life?” 

“Eche—”

“Nne, don’t Eche me. You are already dealing with so much, why are you carrying Papa on your head again?”

“I’m not.”

“Okay, if you say so.” He shovels more spaghetti into his mouth. “So what is Ugo saying? Is he seeing reason with you yet?”

“He won’t even talk to me.”

“Na wa! Who marries a whole senior architectural director and turns them into a housewife? In this 2023? Haba! Ugo fall my hand sha.”

You sigh. Ugo fell your hand too. When Ugo first told you to quit your job so you could focus on becoming a wife, you took it as a joke. The evening of the introduction, right after you had seen off the last set of guests, your make-up still intact, he asked if you’d resigned. And you marveled because it never crossed your mind to ask if he’d been serious about it. It was not even a thing your mind could have conceived to ask. Was it not Ugo who ensured you left your former job for your current one which paid a lot more? The same Ugo who stayed up all night with you while you designed sketches and confirmed construction requirements? It did not make any sense that he’d later suggest this. Then as if you did not already know, he began to lecture you about his mother, who was living a wholesome life with his father. His father took care of all the bills while his mother took care of the home. It was true that they were happy and their marriage worked. It even worked for Papa and Mama, but what you want is different. So when he pleaded with you to see reason with him, you pleaded with him to see things your way too. And it broke your heart, how both of you could love each other so deeply, and still approach a matter so differently. 

“At the end of the day, Ugo wants what he wants…” Eche shrugs. 

“And I don’t get to have a say in this?”

“You do have a say. In fact, you have said it. You called off the wedding, Nne. I don’t hear a louder statement than that.”

You purse your lips. You don’t want wise Eche now. You want sympathetic Eche. You want the Eche who will agree with you.

“You know you don’t get to decide what someone else should want for themselves. Neither do they get to decide for you as well.”

You kiss your teeth even though you agree with him. 

“Don’t worry, Nne, this will pass soon,” he says, his tone reassuring, nearly omniscient.

*

As the days crawl painfully into weeks, you hope that Ugo will call to tell you he has changed his mind, that you can reach a compromise. But he doesn’t. One morning, you drag your feet toward the light peeking through your curtain and let it in. Later, after a long shower, you dawdle in front of the mirror, studying your face. Your eye bags have refused to disappear. New skin tags form on your dark skin, right around your eyes and although barely conspicuous, they remind you of the legion on Papa’s face and of the ruthless passing of time which Papa tells you is no longer on your side. You rub your cheeks gently, the skin supple and moisturized. You’ve always prioritized your skin and body. Even though it has been a month since you last visited the gym, your body still keeps itself for you, and you wonder for how much longer. 

Your phone lights up now with a call from Uloma. You’d rather not answer, but you miss her so much.

“Hello,” you say.

“Nne, haba, me of all people.” 

“Ndo. I haven’t spoken to anybody yet.” You say this as if implying she should be grateful you finally answered her call, even though you ignored it for days.

“So?”

“So what?” 

“Is the wedding still happening?” 

“No, I don’t think so.” The gravity of your words makes you feel dizzy.

“Hian! Nneka, Nneka! Because of small become a housewife? Many women are cooking, cleaning, and still splitting bills o! At least, he will take care of you. Sis, what Ugo is offering you is a good deal.”

Uloma’s voice rings like a beautiful song, yet her words hit you like venom. She says the words ‘offering’ and ‘deal’ as if what you and Ugo shared was a business partnership.

Memories come to you from your childhood—you, Eche, and Uloma doing assignments in this room, talking about what you wanted to become in the future. You would design houses, Eche would paint them, and Uloma would decorate the interior. Now, Uloma has probably forgotten those dreams. She married Johnny, who insisted she did nothing but housekeeping.

“At the end of the day, we women still know how to get our way. Just accept it for now and after the wedding, you bring up the matter. Simple.”

You wonder if she ever mentioned her dream of becoming Nigeria’s ‘Number Wan’ interior decorator to Johnny and what he had said about it. Uloma is quiet now but you hear her breathing.

“Nne, you know deep down that Ugo is a good man—” she finally says.

You know he is and this has been the crux of your dilemma. Suddenly, your door creaks open and Papa ambles in. You tell Uloma you will call her back but she continues to speak. Her voice trails off as you move the phone away from your ear.

“Papa.” 

He nests himself by the door. You do not remember the last time he walked through that door. Maybe it’s because your room is at the end of the hallway. Or maybe it is because, over the years, something had come to hover over you two that left your relationship fragile, a thing to be handled with care. Rather than look at him, you fix your eyes on a woman’s portrait hung on the wall opposite you. It is a hyper realistic pen drawing Eche worked on for days before gifting it to you on your twenty-fifth birthday. 

You stare again at the mirror and notice the backdrop of your dainty room, which looks like it has been dipped in caramel and coffee. The room reflects your not-happy-not-sad mood.

“Look here,” Papa says. 

You obey.

“So, you’re wise in your eyes after this thing you’ve done, ehn? You’re happy here when your mates are in their husbands’ houses?”

You purse your lips and bow your head. Before you can respond, he continues.

“Like brother, like sister. Did I not try my best? Why have the two of you decided to shame me and your mother like this?”

His voice is suddenly laced with pain; an emotion you had never considered he would ever feel courtesy of you or Eche. 

“You don’t know anything. You think you know what you want now but I’m so sorry for you.” He shakes his head. “You don’t know anything!” 

You may not know best but at least you know what you want: to build your own firm, marry a supportive man who does not see your desires as less than his. You want to take your children on work trips that show them the world’s most exquisite structures. You want to make sacrifices for your family out of love, not because it is your duty as a woman.

“I know what I want!” You blurt but Papa has taken his leave by the time you look up.

*

One day, Eche calls you. He has just been commissioned to paint a portrait of the new governor of Ontario. His agent, Wesley, a blonde-haired, older man, whom you have met once on a video call, just came to deliver the news.

“The governor saw my work at the gallery and had his people reach out to Wesley. Can you even believe it?”  

His excitement is so palpable. The victory feels like yours too. The tingling in your insides tells you that this could as well have been you landing your first major client. 

“Oh-my-God! Congrats! From Lagos to Canada” You scream-sing.

“We takin’ overrr!” He responds, then he jumps up and does the shimmy dance.

Many years ago, when you were about eleven and Eche fourteen, a woman came to the house. She asked to see Papa because Eche had beaten up her child. It was true, but what she’d left out was that the boy had bullied you non-stop for a month, and earlier that day, he had lifted your school uniform so that all the other kids saw your Mickey Mouse panties. You went to Eche crying so he decided to fight the boy. 

When Eche won the fight, you both did the shimmy—which you now join him in doing—singing ‘mmehh and ntohh’ to the squirming boy on the floor. You laugh out loud now as you dance. Had someone walked into your room, they’d have seen two consenting baby-adults separated by distance and phone screens, shaking their waists to nonexistent music, waving their arms happily. For a brief moment, all the worries of the world come to a halt and you feel young, free, and happy. 

“God is in the neighbourhood,” you say.

“You next.” 

This news inspires you, prompts you to shed your dead weight.  You delete Ugo’s number. You are that child of the shimmy dance unafraid of the world. Not adulthood, not even Ugo can take that joy from you. You swipe through your photo gallery, deleting pictures and videos of both of you. Then you stare at the only post on his Instagram: a picture of him sipping juice at La Maison, in Ikoyi. A picture you took and posted on his page. You consider blocking him, but reckon that might send the wrong message, so you exit the app. 

*

It takes a whole year for you to get a big job with a new company: Granger’s. You pack your bags and get ready to move to the city of Abuja, but not before doing the shimmy dance with Eche. On the morning of your flight, before Papa leaves for an event, he orders you not to leave the house unless the job comes with a husband. Because no daughter of his will be a single woman living alone, like a prostitute. You pay him no mind. Mama watches you like a forced accomplice to a crime. Before you step out of the house, she hugs you and tells you to call her when you land. You nod.

For the first few days, you’re living in the Transcorp Hilton in Maitama, on the company’s tab. In the evenings after work, you take walks or just book a taxi to a restaurant of the driver’s choosing. You love the vibrancy of this new city; how fresh and therapeutic it feels. The drivers move their vehicles cautiously, unlike the aggressive style of Lagos drivers. You visit restaurants and try new things. You even give Sushi— a dish you tasted long ago and vowed never to attempt again— a second chance. You wonder why you denied yourself the pleasures of newness for so long when beautiful wonders and experiences were camping right outside your tent.

The petering sun casts a warm glow over the hotel compound when Godspower, the company’s driver, drops you off. You’d spent the entire day looking for a decent apartment in Wuse 2. You’re now thinking of having a cool shower when you see him—Ugo, flanked by two men. Your heart skips a beat, or two. Just before you decide to look away, to pretend you haven’t seen this person whose presence sends your heart racing, your eyes interlock. You stare at each other till you feel jolts of electricity crackling through you. His stare is intense and for a brief moment, it feels as though it is only both of you in the world again. 

He walks toward you, then pauses as if to absorb the reality of your presence before leaning into you for a hug. It’s been exactly one year and two months since you last saw him the day you returned the marriage items. You press against him gently, yet firmly. He tells you he’s here on a business trip; you tell him about your new job and casually mention your house-hunting troubles. He says he knows a few housing agents, that is if you need any help. Then a wry smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He shrugs. “I just never thought I’d bump into you again…in Abuja of all places. What are the odds?”

“Yeah, me too. It’s so good to see you.”

His lips twitch as if he wants to say something then changes his mind. You suspect he wants to tell you of his upcoming wedding. You’re at first unsure how to react should he say it. Feign surprise and smile or own up and say you know? 

“I’m getting married,” he says finally.

“I know.” 

“What?”

You nod. “Mama isn’t the president of All saints’ gist committee for nothing.” 

He laughs. “Ah, Mama! How is she?”

“She’s doing very well… and I’m really happy for you.” You’re not sure if this is completely true, but you’re sure it’s not a lie either.

He nods and rubs your cheek like he used to, smiles, then gently pushes your locks behind your ear. 

“What about you? I hope you’re happy?” 

You are. You want to tell him that you are proud of the decisions you’ve made, proud of the life you now live. You also want to tell him that you miss him and how he pampered you silly. You want to thank him for loving you, for teaching you about the beauty of loving and letting go.

Instead, you smile at your Ugo, pat his arm, and reply, “Yes, Obim, I am.”

He hugs you again, then asks your permission to return to his meeting. You chuckle. Like he ever needed your permission for anything.

About the Author:

Anjola Olusola is a writer living in Lagos, Nigeria. Her feature manuscript ‘Of Orchids and new songs’ was shortlisted for the 2020 Quramo Writers prize. She is an alumnus of the 2023 Idembeka Creative Writers workshop. She’s @anjolaogunsanwo on all platforms.

*Featured image by Teresa from Pixabay

*The Pleasures of Newness” was previously published under the name, Anjola Ogunsanwo. The writer requested a change of name, from Ogunsanwo to Olusola.