In Her Sister's Shadow

By Hannah Onoguwe                                                        Download pdf, epub, mobi

If all our misfortunes were laid in one common heap whence everyone must take an equal portion, most people would be contented to take their own. -Socrates
Two things happened at once.
Ireti came back, bearing packages in her arms and followed closely by the perspiring houseboy and then a man I presumed was him. I was about to stand when a furry body brushed against my ankles. With a yelp I snatched my legs off the floor. It was a cat, and with the commotion I made it darted to safety under the glass-topped coffee table, looking back at me somewhat accusingly. My heart beat an uneven staccato. When the houseboy let me in about fifteen minutes ago, there had been no sign of a pet. It had a mix of brown and black, with a bit of white on its head, its eyes were an eerie green. What the hell, it looked—
“Just like Tito, huh?” Ireti had seen my expression and, after dropping her purchases on the dining table, turned to me with an amused expression.
Uncannily so.
“Yes,” I said, struggling to act unaffected, forcing my gaze off the animal who had dismissed me and had begun to wash its face. I stood to give her a hug. She smelled of some vanilla-based scent with just a hint of exertion underneath. Over her shoulder I saw the man look on with an indulgent smile. He wasn’t bad-looking, dark-skinned and of average height. He wore a shirt with an abstract pattern that was just a tad too large, and dark trousers with a muted stripe. Really?
Ireti pulled back and looked me over. “I missed you.”
“Me, too,” I injected enthusiasm into my voice. We last saw each other at Christmas, seven months ago. A few weeks after, news of her divorce had filtered to me. It shocked me, for she had given no indication that things between her and Derin were awry — although I was always the last to know anything. Her face shone with genuine warmth, effortlessly beautiful with just a hint of makeup, eyes slanted just a bit at the corners, lips a rosebud. With her svelte figure in a tunic-styled dress embellished with sequins, she looked amazing.
My gaze strayed to the man behind her.
“Oh,” she said. “Let me do the honours…” She put a hand on his shoulder. “Pedro, this is Folake, my younger sister. Folake, Pedro, my fiancé.”
He stretched a hand to me. “It’s good to meet you,” he said. His voice was smooth, his palm firm. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“It’s good to meet you, too.” I studied his face and tried to figure out why she had agreed to be part of this whole drama. I had heard almost nothing about him. He was the son of one of Daddy’s friends and business partners. Never married. I vaguely remembered seeing his father once or twice, but we weren’t familiar with the children. Apparently most of them had grown up with their mother who had lived alternately in Nigeria and the UK. Two old men playing matchmaker was kind of disgusting, but there we were.
There was a slight, awkward pause where I wondered if I should say more. Finally, we dismissed each other with a smile. As he turned away, Ireti pulled me over to the seat I had vacated and settled beside me with a sigh. Pedro’s house looked and smelled of a successful businessman. Wall-mounted air-freshener dispensers permeated the room with a heady blend of citrus and pine. The furniture was plush with artfully arranged throw-pillows in various colours. The curtains matched the seats, a brown and pale yellow with gauzy material underneath. Wall-to-wall carpeting, a plasma screen, a vase of artificial flowers in the middle of the coffee table. The cat was nowhere in sight.
“You look great,” Ireti said.
“Um…thanks.”
My dress of Ankara fabric had to be almost three years old. It did miracles for my tummy, which had never quite recovered after two children. My husband had recently begun making subtle noises about a third. Compared to Ireti, who had modeled while at university, I was a pudgy midget. Make that a pudgy, near-sighted midget. Not that we didn’t look alike. No one who saw us together failed to notice the resemblance. But somehow she seemed to have picked the choice genes, like Arnold Schwarzenegger in Twins. Our parents were tall and Ireti had got that too. I, on the other hand, had stopped at a measly five two. I guess from the womb I’d opted to take after Uncle Oscar in Calabar. With my kind of luck, I had probably inherited his receding hairline as well.
I’d gone natural a few months ago, and my kinky hair was in a soft cloud around my face. Translucent powder and lip gloss were about all I could manage these days and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d treated myself to a manicure and pedicure. I mentally gave myself a pat on the back that I was wearing Davidoff’s Cool Water. Classy. Not cheap.
I made myself more comfortable, the upholstery hugging my bottom like a lover, and automatically moved my bag from beside me to the floor. A framed photograph caught my eye; a younger Pedro in cap and gown and wide grin, evidently courtesy of some foreign university. Pity they hadn’t taught fashion sense alongside.
“So tell me what’s been happening to you. I hardly ever hear your gist. How’s your business coming along?” Her tone was light, but I knew the accusation was there somewhere.
I wanted to retort that it was the way I wanted it, that it was deliberate. I was as emotionally separate from the family I grew up with as the prodigal son. While growing up, it had been torture trying but never succeeding to acquire the halo Ireti seemed to have been born with. So when I finally left it was with a sigh of relief, and I had never looked back. Oh, I visited on the odd day, but I couldn’t leave fast enough. And when I called, it was usually when my husband had all but twisted my arm to do so—or used his other fail-proof tactic, bribery.
“It’s fine,” I replied. From the direction of the kitchen I could hear clinking and scratching, pot covers being lifted and things being stirred. From the moment I’d walked into the cool tiled house, aromas of peppers and onions and fish had assailed my nostrils. “I’ve been getting referrals like crazy. I had to hire two more staff last month.”
“That’s fantastic. My baby sister, the interior decorator, in high demand. Who would have thought?”
Her voice was heavy with teasing and it didn’t seem her words concealed any sarcasm. Yet I wondered why she would say something like that. I wanted to ask—no, yell in her face: Am I not permitted to have dreams of my own? After all, you got to travel the world, be a hotshot broadcaster, live the good life. Why not me? I realized belatedly that she was looking at me expectantly and I tamped down the familiar bitterness.
“Imagine that.” The smiles were becoming painful but I didn’t relent. We sat for a minute in awkward silence. Finally I pulled my gaze from wandering around the room and turned it on her. I am an adult and I can act like one. Straightening my glasses, I took the initiative.
“So,” I ventured. “Pedro seems very....” I grappled for a suitable word. “Solid.” Said man had disappeared into the house, his footsteps fading. His shoes had those heels that clacked. I contained a grimace.
Ireti’s brows furrowed, then she laughed. “That’s one way of putting it, I guess. I know you’re wondering what the hell I’m thinking.” She raised a hand to stop me from refuting it. “But to be honest, Folake, I’m just tired. After all the drama with Derin, I need something totally different. I’m at that stage of my life where dependable will take the prize over dashing any day.”
My heart squeezed for the first time in something akin to sympathy—at least with respect to her. I had always been in the background, second-best, never quite matching up to my vivacious, smart-as-Einstein older sister. “Why can’t you cook stew like Ireti,” my mom would ask. I was left to tear the lettuce for salad or dice vegetables. And even that never quite turned out right. “Did you use a saw to cut these,” mom would ask. When we cleaned the house, she would scrutinize areas I’d already slaved over, but give Ireti a smile of approval. Dad used to praise her, “You know, Ireti has always been good with numbers.” But when she chose to go into journalism, his praises turned to, “Ireti has always shown promise—very inquisitive, great with words.”
Of me he would say, “You’ve been good all-round,” which everyone knew meant that I was an average student. When I changed courses from Law to English, he took it in stride with barely a murmur. But one night, I overheard him tell mom, “Ireti won a scholarship to study abroad. Thank God, she’s making us proud.” Not long after, Ireti had come home with a mouth-watering, suave young man whom she’d first met on an international flight. He happened to be the son of a prominent businessmen, from a bona fide Yoruba family. My mother had welcomed him with open arms. My aunt had congratulated Ireti on “such a catch”, and asked when I was bringing someone home. Mama had looked at me with a resigned expression. The wedding had been lavish, no expense spared, the MC being Ali Baba, a prominent comedian, with the entertainment handled by Plantashun Boiz, who had been hot at the time. It occurred to me now that the disbanding of the group must have been some sort of prognosis for Ireti’s marriage.
My wedding had barely made a blip in history: there was nothing to mark it from the rest of the garden-variety weddings the average couple had. There had been no extras, no frivolities. With Uti’s parents being civil service retirees, and he being a humble lawyer just starting his own firm, we had cut it pretty close. But I had been completely in love with this serious man of average height, a man with the most amazing eyes. Even Ireti’s non-appearance had been a relief. I didn’t need her upstaging me. She had been away in the UAE for some conference or the other that she couldn’t turn down; she had been chosen, it was a privilege to be chosen, blah-blah-blah. I had tuned out when my mother recited all this to me, but made appropriate noises.
“So you’ll be traveling back and forth?” I asked now.
“Yes, at first. I am looking out for a job here.”
“With your credentials, it shouldn’t be hard,” I said generously. Then with some carelessness, the question was out of my mouth: “Maybe start a family?” That figure had to know some stretching sometime! And time was not on her side. At thirty-eight it would seem she had imbibed the attitudes of some of these oyibo people toward children—apathy.
Ireti smiled, gazed straight ahead. “Well. Yes.” She seemed to struggle with something, her lips pursed, before she spoke again. “My not having any children hasn’t been for lack of trying.” I tried but couldn’t stifle my soft sound of surprise. For a second she seemed to enjoy my reaction. “Three cycles of IVF, and nothing to show for it. That was the reason for the divorce.”
I am ashamed to say this, but on top of the shock was a sense of… justification. For a moment I felt like the fanatical neighbor we once had. She would say to my mother while clapping her hands gleefully and doing a little dance: “My God has disgraced my enemies o, Mama Ireti!” In Ireti’s perfect world where everything had come so easily to her, it seemed things could go wrong! And then a wave of shame washed over me. She was still my sister, my family. No matter my feelings towards her, I wouldn’t wish such a trial on my worst enemy.
“I’m…sorry.” I shook my head slightly as I looked at her face. The words sounded so inadequate.
“Me, too,” she said softly.
We were silent for a long moment before I spoke. “Whose idea was it to get a divorce?”
“Derin’s, of course. His mom and sisters encouraged him to get another wife. He succumbed to their urgings so he went off and got some mulatto chick pregnant. ‘I only slept with her a few times, I swear’,” Ireti mimicked Derin, her lips twisting. “Right. The writing was on the wall right there. She could get pregnant after a few times, but me? Going at it like rabbits didn’t do a damn thing.”
It was a story told over and over again in our culture. Women who couldn’t have children being discarded for a more prolific model. Sometimes the men still kept the first wife, sometimes they separated. Often, like in Derin’s case, the men had affairs that produced children, and in that way the new woman insinuated herself into that house. Only in a few cases did you hear that the wife who couldn’t have children supported the man’s move. I’d even heard of a couple where the wife had gone out to look for a wife for her husband so he wouldn’t remain childless. The question that always nagged at me when I heard these stories was: Are children the be-all and end-all of a marriage? It seemed in our culture, they were. Children couldn’t make a marriage, but they could certainly break one. Even in a marriage that wasn’t working, a woman with children was treated with some respect. Better yet if she had a good number of boys among them. Then she was almost a goddess.
“I never thought Derin was that kind of man,” I said. He seemed so…twenty-first century.
“Well, nor did I. But maybe I shouldn’t be surprised. He was a bit of a Mummy’s boy.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmured.
“Yeah.” And then with a return of her usual self, she looked at me with a snide expression and stated, “Apparently, not all of us can just open our legs and conceive.” And even though I knew it was meant to be a dig at me, this time I didn’t take it to heart. I had given birth barely seven months after the wedding. Although I’d had my suspicions at the time, the flurry of preparing for a wedding was enough to drive them out of my mind. In those days churches were yet to begin the madness of having the bride-to-be undergo a pregnancy test a day or two before the wedding. If it were today, the wedding would have been called off.
The cat meandered back into the room casually, its pink tongue darting out to lick its lips repeatedly, evidence that it had just eaten something. It undulated itself between Ireti’s ankles, its tail sticking straight up. With a smile, she picked it up and placed it in her lap. The cat’s eyes closed in rapture as she petted it between the ears. My throat felt tight as I watched them.
“Brings back memories,” she murmured.
“What’s its name?” Its loud purring was beginning to grate on my nerves.
“Fluffy. Not very original, obviously, but you know men. Somehow though, when I saw this cat’s resemblance to Tito and the fact that Pedro obviously adores animals, it might sound silly, but…I took it as a sign.”
Hours later, I was back home. After dinner, bathed and dressed in my cotton pajamas and hairnet, I was still a little agitated. I half sat up in bed and fixed my husband a baleful look. “Of course, it sounds silly! I mean, who does that?”
The room was done up in blue and peach, from the duvet that draped our lower bodies to the throw pillows in the two-seater some feet away. The curtains were drawn and I had switched the air conditioning off, so the room was warm. The flat screen TV lit up the room. The usual calming effect this ambience had on me was nonexistent.
Uti reluctantly dragged his gaze from the Premier League match re-run and when he met my eyes, which told him I was aware he was distracted, he dragged his foot across the sheet until it snuggled against mine. I recognized the gesture as playful and apologetic and it deflated some of my annoyance.
“To her it makes sense. You girls loved the one you had when you were kids, didn’t you? Tito, was it?”
“Well...” I couldn’t quite say more. Ireti had been crazy about that cat. And I had loved it. At first. Our parents had got it for us. As a kitten it hadn’t been particularly discerning. But as it grew it became clear that it favored her. All of a sudden, it became her cat. When she was gone, he would curl in my lap contentedly, play with me and look at me in that combined way of aloofness and adoration cats had. But the minute she walked through the door, it was all over, as if I didn’t exist. My parents thought it was cute and laughed about it. For me, it was as if the animal had imbibed their general feeling towards me: tolerance.
I snapped to as I realized Uti was saying more. “I think after her failed marriage, there are other considerations which are more important to her than great looks or loads of money.”
I snorted. “Oh, now she knows. These were things I knew over twelve years ago.”
Uti’s brow shot up. “Okay, I’ll try not to take offence at that. Agreed, I wasn’t exactly a moneybags when we got married, but you know the ladies were all over this.”
As he made a sweeping gesture over his body, one hand still clutching the remote, and shot me his winning smile, I melted. “You were the cutest man.”
“Just were?”
“Still are.” I touched the dimple in his cheek, the lights from the TV dappling the planes of his face. For a moment I was taken back to the day we met. He had been doing his Masters when I was in my final year at school. I had been in the canteen our two faculties shared when he had walked in. His was a familiar face but I was a bit peeved when he asked to share my table, thinking he would ask me out then and there. Surprisingly, it took almost three months before he did, and by then I was frustrated as hell. After that, though, the relationship took off faster than I’d expected.
I folded my arms across my chest and scooted down a little further. “So they’re having a ceremony at the registry. Why does she even need a maid of honour, or in this case, matron of honour? Why me? After all, she’s got a couple of her hoity-toity friends she could ask. Like I’m destined to be that for life.” It had been more than enough the first time around.
As if he read my mind, Uti said, “This time shouldn’t be a big deal, then. I mean, how long can the ceremony last?”
Long enough, I thought. But I only sighed.
“And maybe she doesn’t want her hoity-toity friends. Did you ever stop to consider that most of them might have become her friends just because she became part of Derin’s circle?”
Oh, I hated it when he sounded so reasonable! And now he made it sound like I was overreacting. I probably was, but the whole matter still grated.
I remembered the sympathy that I’d felt when she told me about her efforts to conceive. It was rekindled now as I thought of our two boys who had come so easily to us. In fact Uti had once joked that it was as if looking at me lustfully was all it took to get me pregnant. My wit was clear in Tima—or so their father told me—while Inyene shone with his seriousness. Add to that healthy doses of intelligence, humour, and silliness and they amounted to a much-loved pair of offspring who were currently away. Whoever invented boarding schools deserved an international award of some sort.
I glanced over at my husband, who said a few choice words about a player who missed a plum chance to score. One would think this was the first time he was watching the match. With a rueful smile I placed my glasses on the bedside cupboard and lay down fully. As I pulled the duvet up to my chin, I felt him look in my direction but kept my eyes closed. From experience I knew his passion wouldn’t stir until an hour or two later, or in the early hours of the morning—in other words when I was fast asleep. Something about my prone form seemed to turn him on. I had learned to catch my sleep in between.
Two weeks later, we were at the Federal Marriage Registry in Ikoyi. I had never been there before that Thursday and was initially astounded at what could have been mistaken for a marketplace. When we came in at nine o'clock, the place was in full swing, sleek cars bearing About to Wed on their plates. However, having been there for almost two hours awaiting our turn, I had somehow grown accustomed to it. There were three to four dozen couples tying the knot and the place was buzzing. Voices were raised in bright conversation while elsewhere, streams of Yoruba were tossed back and forth in disagreement. There was the overloud soundtrack of a Nollywood movie in the next room and I could perceive the distinct smell of fried meat which was intermittently overshadowed by perfume or body odour. Exuberant relatives in matching aso-ebi traditional outfits milled around just-married couples and took photographs. There were calls for “Take your passport here” and Ireti had been propositioned by not less than eight people about whether she wanted to rent a wedding gown or bouquet. “Very fine gowns from America, very cheap,” one assured.
Ireti verbally declined with a smile the first few times but resorted to shaking her head. She wore a navy blue suit that stopped above spotless legs, her platforms showing lacquered toenails that matched her fingernails. She looked serene, hair pulled back and makeup understated. Every so often, she and Pedro huddled and conversed, a laugh reaching my ears. He was in a matching suit and I secretly hoped it would hit him that there was something to benefit from clothes that didn’t clash.
I wore a coat dress in ash with a contrasting slim purple belt and kitten heels. As the heat of the day climbed, I began to question my decision. But I had spent nearly thirty minutes on my face and I knew I looked great. I had the pleasure of seeing my mother’s eyes widen when she saw me, and of hearing a reluctant, “You look nice.” My father had patted my shoulder and nearly asphyxiated me with his cologne. They were dressed in matching purple lace material. My mother sat with hands demurely folded in her lap while my father barked into his Smartphone, uncaring of the decibel of his voice. Behind them Pedro’s family sat, their chatter lessening the longer we waited.
My mother was right next to Ireti, and had remarked to me, “She’s always tasteful in her fashion choices.” I had gamely looked Ireti over—again—and agreed with her. Some things never changed, and never would. Today I was surprised that the bitter heat I usually felt in my gut was a mere sting. I sent a text message off to Uti who would meet us later at the reception venue. You done with your meeting? When I didn’t get an immediate response I knew he was still in the thick of it. As with most things concerning my parents, the occasion had every sign of turning into a carnival. Although the wedding here was just the immediate family, the reception venue was huge and had been decorated by some professional. I wasn’t surprised that no one had thought to ask me to do the décor. Why should they? Two caterers had been engaged and drinks of every sort were being delivered by a cold van. Some trendy DJ was setting up when we had breezed by that morning.
The door opened and a couple came out, the white sateen and lace wedding gown of the bride showcasing her impressive baby bump. She was beaming, parents smug, groom harassed, and I wondered if this was a modern variation of a shotgun wedding. We were called in next and as we stood, I thought about the money in my purse meant for the officials. Ireti and Pedro had decided on money instead of the crates of soft drinks, and asked me to hold on to it. We stood before the registrar in a room smaller than I had imagined. It resembled a mini-church. I looked at Ireti as she stood, calmly facing her future. Beside her were Pedro and his brother, who could pass for his twin. The day she had told me about her struggle to have children, she had later confided, “The beauty of it is that he loves me just like that. We will try, but whatever happens, I won’t feel his love is conditional.” I had noted she said nothing about loving Pedro and knew in some way, this was a sacrifice on her part. For our parents? Maybe.
“With the power vested in me by the Federal Republic of Nigeria, I now pronounce you man and wife.”
There were some cheers and whistles from Pedro’s people and I could imagine his parents’ relief that he was now ‘hooked’. Were they aware that Ireti had been trying to have kids for the past thirteen years? Maybe. But knowing my father and his cunning with packaging, I doubted he had divulged that bit of information to his friend. My eyes caught Ireti’s and I saw deep in her eyes the barest flash of what looked like resignation. I again felt a bit of that sympathy. It was still an uncomfortable feeling.
Not long afterward, we were at the reception, music blaring, friends of the family and friends of friends swarming around in bright traditional colours and swanky English wear. The programme digressed from the usual wedding parties, with just about everything omitted except words from the chairman of the occasion, the cutting of the cake, the toast, and dancing, of course. I wasn’t needed for anything, and I left the running around to those who were in the business of kissing my parents’ ass. And they were plenty. When Uti came, I felt that familiar tug on my heart. He looked amazing in a crisp dark grey suit, white shirt and plum tie.
“Did I miss anything?”
I shook my head. “Same old song and dance. How was the meeting?”
“All right, but unnecessary.”
We looked towards the front where the bride and groom were rising from their seats to cut the cake. I glanced at my husband, seeing him through new eyes. His hair was thinning slightly and he had an emerging paunch, but he was still handsome. Things weren’t always great, and our disagreements were sometimes crazy, but we never went to bed mad at each other. Well…usually. He loved me and showed it, and tried not to give me any cause to distrust him. He provided for us and supported my business and was a great father. I might wish we had loads of money so we didn’t really have to budget our expenses every month, and I might wish he was always available when I wanted him to be, but it was all about compromise. If I had to decide all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing.
I reached for Uti’s hand and threaded my fingers through his. He looked at me askance. Usually, I shied away from PDAs. As my sister flashed a dazzling smile upon being fed cake by her new husband, I could only think of how I would never want to be in her shoes.
I remembered Tito, how he one day followed me outside when I was washing my clothes. The pump had been faulty. As the plumber fixed it, I had to draw water from the well. The stupid animal darted back and forth as he played with dry leaves, and then he ran off with one of my favorite camisoles. When I finally rescued my clothing, it had holes from his sharp claws. I had felt a roaring heat envelop me, so that all I could think about was revenge.
When she couldn't find Tito, Ireti had fretted. She wept and prayed. Mummy and Daddy proffered an explanation. Male cats sometimes ran away, you know. But a few days later as Sixtus, the boy who helped around the house by cutting the grass and cleaning, fetched water from the well, Tito's little body turned up in the bucket. Ireti had been disconsolate while I had experienced such freedom, such a thrill.
I blinked back unexpected tears as a pang wrenched my chest. As Uti’s forehead creased in question, I unearthed a smile and shook my head. “Emotional events,” I said. He didn’t look convinced but squeezed my hand a little tighter and transferred our entwined fingers from my lap to his.
For the very first time, though, I was feeling an unfamiliar remorse alongside the guilt, my heart burning a hole through its place.
I really shouldn’t have killed Tito.
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Hannah Onoguwe spent most of her growing-up years in Jos where she discovered her love for writing. It is also the setting of her fondest childhood memories. She studied at the Universities of Ibadan and Jos. Her short stories have appeared in Adanna Literary Journal and BLACKBERRY: a magazine, as well as online on Litro, The Missing Slate, Cassava Republic, and African Writer. Her first book, Cupid’s Catapult, is a collection of short, romantic stories published under the Nigeria Writers Series imprint by the Association of Nigerian Authors. She enjoys travelling—in comfort—and is a bit of a movie buff, with a weakness for romantic comedies. When she is not reading or writing, she likes to try new recipes and tweak old ones. Follow her on Twitter @HannahOnoguwe.