I stood there stunned, my hands shaking now from anger rather than the cold.
The unearned audacity of her.
She had dismissed me with a look so cold I felt like an inanimate object; just an obstacle in her path, something to be shoved aside for the crime of taking up space.
I felt another bump, but this time the lady apologised.
I exhaled and moved out of the way.
It made me wonder if green eyes was actually being rude. Or was she, in her own cold way, just trying to help?
My phone buzzed again with another Uber notification.
Your driver will arrive in two minutes.
I glared in the direction the rude woman had disappeared, her words echoing in my head.
Princess, this isn’t a luggage storage facility. People here actually move fast instead of camping out wherever they feel like it.
I pulled my jacket tighter around myself and tried to focus on steadying my breathing, but my blood was still boiling at how she had spoken to me—and the confident way she moved—when a black sedan pulled up with the Uber sticker glowing in the windshield.
“Kelechi?” the driver called out, struggling over the pronunciation of my name.
If this were any other day, I would have smiled and corrected him gently, but I was too tired and angry to care about anything except getting away from this airport and that woman’s lingering presence.
“Yes, that’s me,” I said, forcing politeness back into my voice as I loaded my luggage into the trunk with more force than necessary.
As we pulled away from YVR and the airport disappeared behind us, I couldn’t shake the entire encounter out of my mind. I had worked too hard and come too far to let one blunt stranger with pretty eyes get under my skin.
But underneath the anger, underneath the indignation at her dismissive attitude, something else simmered too. Something uncomfortable.
Because even while she was being rude, even while every word out of her mouth made me want to scream, something about her stuck in my mind longer than I wanted to admit.
Welcome to Canada, I thought bitterly, watching the unfamiliar city blur past the window.
“Have you settled in properly?” My father’s voice boomed through my AirPods as I adjusted myself on my narrow residence bed. It was surprisingly comfortable, and I had already made it feel like home with the colourful ankara blankets and wrappers I had brought from Nigeria.
“Yes, Daddy. I have, sir. It wasn’t any hassle getting here at all. We had a layover in Germany and one in Montreal before flying into Vancouver, but other than that, everything went smoothly by God’s grace,” I replied, chewing on my fingernail. It was a habit I had developed when I was three years old, according to Mum.
“That’s good. It’s morning here anyway, and I’m on my way to the shop. Some goods are coming in this morning.”
I almost reminded him it was Sunday morning, for Christ’s sake, but my dad wasn’t the type to pause business even on a Sunday. That was the authentic Igbo entrepreneur spirit in him.
“Okay, sir, be safe out there. And since I can’t hear Mummy’s voice, let me guess... early morning mass with Chuka and Esther?” I added playfully.
It was the norm back home for us to attend early mass. Whether we liked it or not, we didn’t have a choice in the matter.
“You know your mother,” he said, clearing his throat. “You have always made us proud, eh, Ada’m?” He used the pet name he had called me since I was little, his voice softening with affection.
“Yes, sir,” I replied, sinking back against my pillow. I was the only one in this room, and I was grateful for it. Graduate students at Canadian universities usually get single rooms in residence, and Mapleridge University was no exception.
“Good. I want you to keep your head down, read your books very well, and don’t follow those Western ways o. You know your husband is waiting for you back home.”
I shuddered at the reminder.
“Yes, sir, I will be of good behaviour,” I assured him. I could never disobey my parents or stray from the teachings they had instilled in me since childhood, and my dad knew that.
“Good. I’m off now. Take care and be a good girl.”
