Finding Us

1: Freedom!

I've always dreamt of living alone.

This isn't because I don't like my family (they're the best); neither is it because I have something under my sleeves. It's because I love the picture painted on the internet.

I like the idea of being the one to make decisions on what to eat, when to eat it and how to eat. I love that I could go out and come home whenever I wanted without being hassled upon my return; the freedom to embrace the cold air with my naked body. I love all the pros that come with living alone because this equals absolute freedom — something I've never really had the chance to experience.

Like most Nigerian parents, mine expect me to follow a set of rules without contradictions or refusal. Don't go to your friend's place or go out with them, they might be occult members scheming your initiation. Once you come home from school, it's straight to your homework and no staying out late — 6 pm is the curfew. Your friends can't visit because they're scared to the bones of your dad's killer glare. And the list goes on.

So, while I pack my bag, my heart flutters with excitement. I can't wait to be in my new house — even though it's temporary it'll give me a break from this locked-up life and a chance to explore a little.

Even my younger sister can't wait to get rid of me.

“I'll keep my books here." Joy squares her fingers as she pictures her stack of books on my table.

I turn from my wardrobe. “Which books?”

She pretends not to see me as she heads my way. “And maybe I'll keep my shoes down there.”

Slightly twisting around, I see she's pointing at the lower section of my wardrobe. “Joy. Joy. Don't let me hear that you put your nonsense inside my room. It won't be funny.”

“Humph!” She waves her hands around like she's clearing the air, her nose crinkled. “What's that smell? Whose mouth is smelling like that?”

I reach over and slap the back of her head.

“Ow.” She slaps my arm.

“No o. Shebi, I'm a ghost. You weren't supposed to feel that na.”

She sneers at me and goes over to sit on the bed, resting her palms behind her. “Hope you remember what I told you yesterday?”

I return to taking out my clothes from my wardrobe. “What did you tell me?”

“You haven't even left here and you've forgotten already.” Her eyes widen as she sits up.

“If it was important, I'm sure I wouldn't have forgotten.” I fold one of my dashikis, bending to lay it on the neat pile of clothes in my bag.

“It's very important o.”

I roll my eyes at her, a hundred percent sure that she's exaggerating.

“I even gave you a list. Where is it sef?” she asks.

I glance over my shoulder to see her leave the bed for my drawer, which she begins to pull out one after the other.

“Where did you keep it?” she asks.

Although I already remember what she's talking about, I ignore her and keep sifting through my hung clothes.

“Sister Deborah," she says, her frantic behaviour a part of the drama.

“Don't scatter my stuffs o,” I tell her.

When she eventually realizes I've thrown her list out, she slams the drawer shut and I jerk forward.

“Madam, I hope you have money to fix it when you spoil it.”