RUSTLING LEAVES

Texas was very warm at that time of the year. Hot air filled the atmosphere of Houston, the trees whistling, the almost stunk aroma of the woman roasting kebabs from across the street, and the rustling dead leaves from last fall. Everything reminded Isioma of her last relationship with Kent. 

Well, not only the leaves were dead, but her love life was also dead. She received a call from Mama last year, and as usual, the topic of discussion was her love life. “Isioma, when are you bringing a man to this house?” she asked with so much which so much repressed anger in her tone.

“You know you aren’t getting any younger. Very soon, your breast will start to fall. Do you think your child can suckle oh fallen breast?” she added.

Isioma remembered how lost she was when she traveled to Enugu last year for her cousin’s white wedding in St. Mathews’ Catholic Church back home in Nigeria, and how she had felt lost. She felt lost not because she was angry that her beloved and almost favorite cousin was getting married, no, certainly not. Neither did she feel lost because she was witnessing her cousin, Brenda gets married to her childhood friend, Ikechukwu, no. Isioma felt lost because one hour before the church bell rang, Mama and Father Francis had called her — alongside ten aging council elders — to inquire about their relationship status. 

“You are a doctor, we are proud of you. But you know you don’t have a ring on your finger: you are approaching thirty, Isioma. Our people say that a woman without a husband is like soup without taste,” she exclaimed. “Yes, the children may eat it but it brings them no joy.”

These words rang and ruminated through Isioma’s mind as she was driving home the previous day in her Blue Peugeot Toyota Camry, a 2009 model as it was. It was the one she was gifted by her mother for graduating from the university with a First Class degree in Medicine, but that was the last time she ever revived a gift from Mama. That was long ago, back in 2015. Unmarried women don’t deserve gifts. 

It was an unusual Monday morning. The traffic was affecting the most boisterous parts of Houston. The weather was cozy, with little prickly heat and a little fog; it was evident that the Harmattan season was fast approaching. 

Usually, Isioma would drive herself to work as this was the beauty of her everyday life but that morning, she requested an Uber ride; she was exhausted from all the mental fog and dizziness ruminating about her life brought. She was wearing a blue polka-dot dress and a black bag which she had gotten last year. Finally, the Uber driver arrived in a brown Lexus Jeep with the plate number whose print ink was almost faded.

Isioma, like every almost Nigerian woman, was skeptical about things like this. It felt like magic. Usually back home in Aba, to take a yellow taxi cab, you had to move from the red loamy early paths to the tarred road at Aba. But now, all she had to do was d******d an application and request a ride, only for him to arrive in a matter of minutes, or even seconds. This surprised Isioma, who was very skeptical. So, this procedure was somewhat new to her. It felt like magic so, she was sure to take cognizant note of all these things so she doesn’t disappear like pixies in thin air.

“Good Morning, Madam!’ the driver said as he meandered down the window of the car. From his accent, one could tell very easily that he was Efik a tribe in Nigeria. She was sure."Good Morning, Sir,” Isioma responded to the greeting knowing fully well that even though she wasn’t in a good mood, as an African, she owed the duty of response to adults, and more importantly, a Nigerian. 

“Can we start the trip?” the driver asked. Isioma nodded.

As Nigerians, different nods communicate different things. Isioma was thankful for gestures like this. When she had a bad day, it made her travel quiet, and more peaceful; as all, she had to do was nod. The engine started.

Again, all through the trip to work, all Isioma could ever think of was her love life and her past relationships. 

First was Richard, a thirty-four-year-old Nigerian man who she met at her Friend’s birthday party here in Houston, Texas. Richard was a tall, handsome, good-looking, assertive, and confident man. Though in his early thirties, Richard was young at heart, in looks, and spirit. Whenever her friends from Lagos visited her, they would always call Richard a teenager.

“Isioma, you didn’t tell us that you are now doing small boys here in the United States oh!” They would always say. He often looked like he couldn’t hurt a fly till he hurt Isioma. He hurt her so much that she had to go into severe therapy for almost a year. “How do you explain a man that innocent looking — how do you explain finding him in bed with another man, a man old enough to be his father. How do you trust someone and they betray you so badly by cheating?” she asked her therapist, Nicole as she smashed the table in the office. Richard was bisexual.

However, it didn’t hurt her that he was. Isioma was used to being around LGBTQ+ people even back home in Nigeria. In Aba, some men married men as wives. Even in the Igbo land at large, there were older women in various family clans who would always get married to the younger women who lost their husbands to one form of tragedy or the other. 

When she was eight years old, she was aware of, Ifemelu, a trans-woman who was popular and loved throughout the entire Igboland. People loved her. During town meetings, she would always be called to display and play her signature flute. So, to Isioma, the idea of someone loving the same gender was not strange at all. 

To her, what was strange is the idea of you coming home to meet your fiancé on your bed with a man old enough to be his grandfather. Not only that, but you also find out from his friends that he isn’t who he claims to be: he wasn’t a medical doctor; he didn’t have a property in Houston as he claimed; he didn’t have any source of income. Rather, he was a gigolo who lied about everything. This bruised Isioma’s heart; her body system fell apart. Isioma has torn apart for a year. She had to sign up for Dr. Nicole’s therapy sessions. Her life was miserable until she met Kent.

Now, Kent wasn’t like any other man she had been seeing; he was white. Her mother had warned her sternly about dating white men. 

“Isioma, as you are going over to America, don’t bring any Oyinbo to this house o, Ke du?” she said tapping Isioma’s travel bag. 

To Mama, it wasn’t like being White was bad, but she was something black people would call pro-African: all her other boyfriends in previous times were black, tall, shiny-bearded, broad-shouldered. Notably was even Abdul who studied African History, and was very keen about his roots. He would often refuse to speak in English — except in situations where he had to. Oftentimes on campus, he wouldn’t wear anything without a touch of an African print, from Ghana’s finest Kente to the thickest Adire from Ile-Ife—he was crazy about every African culture.

Concerning her being a pan-Africanist, back in her University days, she was also the host of a radio show called Dear White People. Dear White People was a show hosted by the Isioma and some other black students at the University. Some of the topics they would discuss were history — Black history, African culture, the history of Lagos, Caribbean, and Creole Culture. Haiti wasn’t left out too. 

So, for her — the hosts of the radio show known to be popularizing black culture— to be dating a white man. It was unheard of. But she dated him. Regardless of the side talks and sinister comments made about her, she persisted. One time, while Isioma was on air speaking, a student dialed the radio line only to ask, ”Dear White People, what you are doing isn’t right. How can someone who is meant to be propagating black culture, how can she be dating a White Man?”

Isioma for a second was lost. Her heart beating fast, she had to ask, “Sister, what do you mean?”

‘Don’t act like you don’t understand what I’m saying, I’m talking about you Isioma — Isioma Ejiofor,” the student responded. After saying that, she hung up.

Much later, Isioma hung up her relationship with Kent. There were certain things they didn’t see eye-to-eye to. As a Nigerian with a little Yoruba ancestry in her blood, she loved pepper. Whether she was making Mac-and-cheese or Jollof rice, there had to be pepper in it. It was even deep so much so that she would often request Mama to send her pepper, Ata Gugu from Nigeria. 

On the other hand, Kent didn’t do so well with spicy food. Putting anything as spicy as much as ginger would make him sneeze and gasp for breath. She couldn’t even add creole seasoning that was less spicy to meat because he would often have to take something less spicy. All of these things eventually led to them cutting ties with each other. 

The last straw that broke the camel’s back was an argument between the two couples: an argument about racism.

Kent was a fan of Rap music, and Isioma knew that right from the start. He loved rapping alongside black artists with their songs playing in the background. Although, most times, he didn’t get the accent right — or what Isioma would sometimes refer to as ‘Blaccent’— he didn’t get it right but he loved rap music.

One Saturday Afternoon, Isioma had just gotten back from her usual Monday jog. After bathing and freshening up, she tried to make lunch for herself and Richard. 

Then, Richard started singing along to Jay-Z's Niggas in Paris. She didn’t pay much attention until she heard him say the N-word; she was sure to listen over and over again. Was she sure she heard what he said correctly? She wasn’t sure. She needed to comfort herself in her oblivion. Was she seeing things? She immediately ran out of the kitchen, briskly into the sitting room. 

“Kent, what did I just hear you say? Did you say the n-word?” Isioma said, holding and somewhat dragging her left ear as her mother did back in Enugu. 

“Yes, I did baby. I was only singing alongside I didn’t mean it derogatorily,” he responded in defense.

“Well, you’re white. I’m going to need you to stop saying it: song or not. Okay?”

He didn’t wait for a second before responding, “Isioma sometimes you upset me. What is bad in me saying the n-word? I haven’t used it on you or any colored persons; I am only saying it as it was said in the song.”

For a minute, she didn’t utter a word; not even English could save her then. 

Quickly and briskly, she went out of the kitchen, to the middle of the street; she needed air; she needed to breathe and clarify what was going on. Did he just say the n-word? Did he just defend himself for saying the n-word? Did she put herself through all of the humiliation just so that he — a white man— can use the n-word?