THE PAST AND HOW IT AFECTS THE PRESENT

Mustering a little bit of courage and inner fierceness, she went back into the house, a detached two-bedroom apartment with unsightly walls and trim where the paint had begun to peel. 

“I am confused, Kent. Do you for a second fathom the kind of shame ostracism as a girl dating a White man on campus. I am supposed to be a model for the other girls who are Black on campus. But I chose to date you amidst all of the rumors, hoping that you would not put me to shame, but here you are, doing the exact opposite of what I thought you would do.”

“But, Isioma, I have listened to you over and over again.”

“Kent, I’m breaking up with you. You and I aren’t the same: you are never going to understand what racism or systematic racism is. Your people — they are rich, considered first in society. I’m not sure I can say the same for mine. And what’s worse is: Now, you —a White man— are saying the word.”

Kent smirked. “Isioma you are overreacting; it’s just a word.”

. `.

She didn’t utter a word. Instead, she washed the pepper off her hands with the Lemon Fresh dishwashing liquid in the kitchen, packed her bags, and left. 

And that was the last time she ever heard from Kent. 

Subconsciously, Isioma slowly revered from her thoughts. With Adele’s Chasing Pavements playing in the background and the sunlight dazzling and dancing on her face, she looked up and saw the billboard; boldly inscribed on it was Marshmello Printing Press

“Madam, we are here.”

Then it dawned on her; she had arrived at work.

Isioma had been working for Marshmello Printing Press for over four years now. Yes, she was a doctor, or should we say she studied Medicine.

With her mother and family back in Enugu in Oblivion, Isioma had quit her six-figure job of being a medical doctor at Weinstein Hospital five years ago. She told her mother she was working — as a medical doctor but indeed, this was far from the truth. 

Back at the University of Houston, Isioma would always brood over how and why she never wanted to become a medical doctor: the blood, the care, the stress of staying up late at night and burning midnight candles, the incessant need to meet up with projects and assignments, the impromptu tests, the smell of the university’s laboratory, the dead rats and other specimens often infuriated her. Even though she was good at it, a First Class graduate at that, she still knew being in a coat was not for her. Usually, in class, Isioma was the apple of her lecturers’ eye: smart, talented, sharp-witted, and beautiful too. 

In her university days, Isioma would always be the first to get to class. She would always pay rapt attention to her lectures; her notes were up to date. 

To drive home this point, on her graduation day, her Anatomy lecturer, Professor Milburn called her to the side. At first, she thought it was some congratulatory message — the one lecturers gave to their favorite students. Or, some sort of warning that sounded like the “Do not forget the daughter of whom you are.” speeches like the one her Mother gave before her departure from Enugu to the University of Houston. But it was a different time. He dragged her to the corner to ask her for her complete Anatomy notes. 

“Congratulations! I am so proud of you; you have come so far and it’s beautiful to see you graduate as the best student in Medicine and Surgery. I have been waiting for this day. I am super proud of you, my dear and you should know that. It is not easy being one of the best students in my class. I know I can be harsh on you all sometimes. I can imagine the sleepless nights and the midnight candles you have burned just to get to this level. I am not mincing words when I say I am impressed. However, can I have your notes, please? So that the ones coming after you can make good use of it,” Professor Milburn beckoned. 

“Of course, sir, you can have it,” Isioma shouted with so much enthusiasm.

After the event, she immediately went over to his office to hand over the notes to him, “Here you go, sir. I hope the ones coming after me can make good use of it."

So for a Professor in Anatomy who graduated from Harvard to want her notes, it meant that she was a very bright and promising student. 

But despite the plaque, the medals, the cheer, the awards and accolades, and even the sash that had the embroidery of white thread that spelled Beauty with brains (which Isioma, in her young self, thought was very misogynistic at that time). She never felt fulfilled.

So, as soon as she graduated, she knew her heart was far from Medicine. She worked at Weinstein Hospital for five years. During her time of servitude, she was one of their most loved doctors. Every December, patients and their families would always bring baskets and hampers of gifts: chocolates, Bounty fruit nut bar, toiletries, sanitizers, cappuccino, and everything they felt a woman in her late-twenties would be in dire need of. 

Even more, every month, the hospital’s management would always make a celebration fête for the most loved and dedicated workers. And on most months, Isioma would always emerge as the doctor of the month. 

But all of these did not make her as happy as she thought she would be in the end. She, after a revelation that she got, felt a sense of not being aligned with God’s plan for her life. Something about working as a doctor felt out of place for Isioma.

On the job, she felt like a robot. So one day, with trembling lips and shaking legs, she walked into the management’s office and tendered her resignation letter to follow her dreams and a more fulfilled path. These words shook the entire management staff.

Resigning was never the hard part. The hard part was then deciding what her passion was. All that filled her head was Art. Isioma loved to write. She was a good writer and she knew it. Her pens danced as they emitted words of grace. She wrote History, Songs, Romance, Sci-Fi, Action, and even Romantic Comedy. 

Back in her days studying in Java Secondary School, Enugu, she would always write. The back of her notes was always scribbled with what looked like love poems and quotes that she had formed from her heart and head. Not only that, but she also had a book, a compilation of stories. The stories were mostly about her childhood experiences, her mother, father, and her love for her childhood crush, Obinna, although, she would often replace his name with some other to avoid being caught. 

After writing each series, her classmates—often girls— would always collect them to read. They moved the romance novels mostly. It wasn’t exactly like Mills and Boons, or the other romance novels they read in secondary school; it was better; it was something close to it. She didn’t monetize it; she was too young to understand the concept of monetizing her craft. So, her female friends would often make photocopies of the hand-written book to read. She loved it. It fanned the flames. All Isioma wanted to do was write more and more until her ink went dry and until she exhausted the last leaflet.

Before her final examinations, Isioma felt she was going to study the English Language. She had already made agreements with her mother to study English in the United States. Initially, her mother had agreed. Until it was time to register for her examinations and she was hit with a final blow: she was ordered by her mother to study Medicine. She argued; she cried; she begged, but Mama wouldn’t listen. She called the Pastor from St Michaels; she called her Uncle to plead on her behalf, but Mama was firmly resolved in her decision: Isioma was going to become a Medical doctor. So she studied and worked hard — just to make Mama proud. Luckily for her, she didn’t find it hard because she was incredibly smart. 

After quitting her job as a medical practitioner, she spent the whole month of August ruminating about her new path, during which was one of the hardest times. She would often wake and lie lifeless, and helpless on her bed, mat, and sometimes the floor. Until one morning, she got an e-mail, an advert, a call for work for training writers. She had forgotten that she signed up for the website. 

For six months, she went through rigorous training at the workshop. The workshop was spearheaded by Professor Clifford, a renowned writer who had been schooled by Chinua Achebe himself. So, it was easy for Isioma to learn; the Igbo blood was flowing through her. So, learning was made easy.

After working, being a perfectionist, and of course, emerging as the best trainee out of the workshop, she was short-listed for a job automatically — that was her prize for being the best student of the Clifford Bi-Annual Writing Workshop.

Marshmello Printing Press was known far and wide throughout Houston. They wrote novels, and books on history, Law, Science, Marketing, Economics, Accounting, Tech, and Politics. And there was also, the newly-established firm, the Romance Segment of it. Novels written from there are often best sellers; books from there were hot cakes: single women, married women, married women with marital issues, gay women, queer men, and women with issues on their matrimonial bed, bachelors, spinsters, and everyone who cared to read. Isioma worked in this department. She was good at her job. 

After highlighting the Uber ride she had ordered, she decided to take the elevator, in hope that she might bump into someone — that might take her attention from the thoughts that disturbed her innermost mind. And as usual, she bumped into her boss, Mr. Mike Ross.