Instead of acting normal, I cry harder.
“Moyo, please talk to us,” Mom whispers.
I cry.
“Please,” she tries again.
I sob.
“Do you want to talk to your dad alone?”
The sob catches in my throat.
I look up at her, tear-stained and hideous. I don’t know how she can look at me with so much adoration. Tears have my vocal cords in a vice grip, so I just nod and wipe my cheek with the back of my hand.
“Okay,” she says, smiling, but I recognize disappointment in her eyes. “Kolawole, over to you.”
She hops off the call, and it’s just my dad and me. We stare into each other’s eyes, waiting for the other to begin.
He takes the leap. “Moyo, my only daughter. What’s wrong?”
Still teary, I recount the story, the abridged version, of course. Dad is quiet all through except with the appropriate nods andhmm’s. When I’m done, he takes a deep breath, clasps his hands, and rests his chin on his knuckles. It’s a simple act but a sign he’s taking things seriously.
“Do you want me to come there?” he asks, and there’s a sharp, unforgiving edge to his voice I haven’t heard in years.
“And do what?”
“Talk to that irresponsible, useless boy,” he spits, and the venom makes me smile. “You don’t do that to a woman.”
The increased tension in my dad’s voice implores me to sit back. Many years of strict scoldings let me know exactly what’s coming up: a rant.
“These new young boys are a disgrace and were not brought up properly. Haba! Is it not wickedness? It shall not be well with him,” he says, looking to the heavens, and I shriek. “Ah, Moyo, don’t shout. It is true, not a curse. Somebody like that cannot do well in life, especially in that marriage. Watch and see. Anyway, I’m happy you didn’t marry him. If not, I would’ve booked my flight while you were talking. I will not stand for someone treating my angel like this. You are my wonderful girl who deserves someone even more wonderful, who will treat you better than I treat your mother.”
“Oh, that’s not happening, but it’s all right,” I mumble.
His anger is swift. “Moyosore, speak up. What do you mean that’s not happening?”
“I know you see me as your little girl, but Dad, I’m thirty-four. Everything I do ends in ruin. I haven’t experienced the love you and Mom have, and if I’m realistic, I never will.” The words tumble out.
“Momo,” he soothes, using his nickname for me and thus, melting my heart a little. “Never say that again.”
“But Dad,” I whine, transforming into his little girl.
“But nothing. Ah, ah, Moyo,” he draws out my name in exasperation. “You want to give up because of this useless oyinbo? There is someone out there for you. I know it.”
I wish I had his trust in the world. I did once, but look where that got me. I planned hard, loved hard, and still, here I am.
“Not everyone is lucky like you and Mom. Some people never marry, and they’re fine.”
“If it’s that you don’t want to marry, then we can talk about that one later—”
A chuckle escapes me involuntarily. As supportive as my dad is, he’s still a Nigerian man who would love to walk his only kid down the aisle.
“But if you’re saying this because of some ingrate, and now you think you’ll never find someone, I won’t have it,” he says, shaking his head and his cheeks move in tow, similar to a chipmunk.
I have to let him down easy. “Daddy—”
He cuts me off. “Momo, before you start. I know your mother and I met early, and we knew immediately, but it was unexpected to find my soulmate at twenty-three—”
