Featured Story
The Life She Has
Chapter One of our 12-part Echoes serial. A story about life as it is. The choices we make, the things we hide, the prayers we stop praying, and the quiet ways God can begin calling us back to Him.
Chapter One
At 6:43 on Monday morning, Ime was standing in front of the bathroom mirror wearing one false eyelash.
The other one was stuck to her index finger.
“Jesus Christ.”
She froze.
Then looked upward.
“Sorry.”
She wasn't entirely sure who the apology was for.
God, whom she hadn't spoken to properly in about three years, or Jesus Christ, whose name she had just used because a strip lash refused to cooperate.
Probably both.
Ime tried again.
The lash attached itself beautifully to the middle of her eyelid and nowhere else.
Her phone buzzed on the sink.
Are you wearing the black dress?
Ime stared at the message.
It was 6:44 in the morning.
She typed with one hand.
Good morning to you too.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Good morning. Are you wearing the black dress?
Ime smiled despite herself.
Yes.
The reply came before she'd put the phone down.
Don't.
Ime looked at herself in the mirror.
“Of course.”
Another message.
That dress photographs cheap.
The smile disappeared.
For perhaps three seconds, something unpleasant moved through her chest.
Then she swallowed it.
Amara was probably right.
Amara was usually right about these things.
Her phone buzzed again.
Wear the cream trousers I bought you. White top. Gold hoops. Ponytail. Clean girl.
Then:
And please don't wear that 14-inch wig.
Ime looked toward the bedroom.
The offending wig sat innocently on its stand.
She typed:
What did the wig do to you?
Exist.
Ime laughed.
There.
That was Amara.
One minute she could make you want to throw your phone through a wall.
The next, she reminded you why you'd kept her since nursery school.
Ime peeled off the rebellious lash.
“I'm not wearing any of you.”
Both lashes went into the bin.
• • •
Her mother was frying plantain when Ime entered the kitchen.
“Good morning.”
“Morning.”
There was already a flask beside Ime's handbag.
Tea.
Her lunch sat inside a small insulated bag.
Ime glanced at it.
“Mama, I told you I would buy lunch today.”
“With which money?”
Ime stopped.
Her mother didn't turn from the frying pan.
It was the casualness that made it worse.
“With my money.”
“Okay.”
That was all.
Okay.
Ime opened the refrigerator harder than necessary.
Behind her, oil hissed.
“I have money.”
“I said okay.”
“So why did you say, ‘with which money?’”
Her mother finally turned.
“Ah-ah, Ime. It is morning. I don't have strength.”
“You were the one that—”
“Take egg.”
“I don't want.”
“Take one.”
“Mama.”
“You will be hungry before ten.”
“I said I don't—”
Her mother dropped two boiled eggs into the lunch bag.
Ime stared at her.
She zipped it.
“Your own is too much.”
“My own is too much?”
“Yes.”
She returned to her plantain.
Ime opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
“Mama, you're the one that asked me with which money.”
“Did I ask you for money?”
“That is not the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
Ime had no idea anymore.
Her mother lifted a piece of plantain from the oil and inspected it.
“Mrs Aigbe's daughter bought her a car.”
There it was.
Ime closed her eyes.
Seven o'clock in the morning.
“Mama.”
“What?”
“Why are you telling me?”
“Am I not allowed to tell you something?”
“You know exactly what you're doing.”
Her mother looked genuinely offended.
“What am I doing?”
Ime stared at her.
This was the problem.
If she explained it, she would sound insane.
Her mother sighed.
“Everything I say now is a problem. Since your father died, I have tried. Only you. One child. Everything I had, I put into you. Now ordinary conversation, I cannot have with you.”
“Mama, please.”
“Did I ask you to buy me a car?”
“No.”
“Did I say you should marry?”
“No.”
“Did I say you should give me grandchildren?”
“No.”
“Good.”
She transferred the plantain onto a plate.
“Mrs Aigbe's daughter bought her a Toyota. That is all I said.”
Ime picked up her handbag.
“I am going to work.”
“You haven't eaten.”
“I'm not hungry.”
“You see yourself?”
“Mama—”
“You will now go outside and buy rubbish for three thousand naira when there is food here.”
Ime stopped at the kitchen door.
Her mother was packing plantain into foil.
“You said you weren't hungry,” she muttered. “Keep it. When you reach office, you will eat.”
Ime watched her put the foil into the already overfilled lunch bag.
Something inside her softened against her will.
“Mama.”
“What?”
“Thank you.”
She waved her away.
“Go. Traffic will catch you.”
Ime picked up the lunch bag.
“And I don't buy rubbish.”
“Yesterday's picture, what was that thing on your plate?”
Ime frowned.
“What picture?”
“Instagram.”
“Mama, are you stalking me?”
“I am following my child.”
“You don't even like Instagram.”
“I can like my daughter's picture.”
“You didn't like it.”
“I saw it.”
Ime stared at her.
Her mother stared back.
Then her mother said:
“Fourteen thousand naira for that small food.”
Ime's mouth dropped open.
“How did you know how much—”
“Go to work, Ime.”
“Mama!”
But her mother was smiling now.
Ime left the kitchen laughing despite herself.
• • •
The fourteen-thousand-naira pasta had, technically, cost Ime nothing.
Amara had paid.
Which was becoming a problem.
Ime knew exactly how much she owed her best friend.
₦427,500.
Not approximately.
Exactly.
She knew because there was a note on her phone titled THINGS TO SORT OUT.
She never opened it.
But she knew.
One hundred and eighty thousand for the wig.
Sixty-five thousand toward her phone.
Forty thousand for the dress she'd worn to Kemi's engagement dinner.
Twenty-seven thousand five hundred for lashes, nails and a pedicure before the Lagos trip that had eventually been cancelled.
Then the smaller things.
Lunch.
Uber.
That blouse.
Those sandals.
The fourteen-thousand-naira pasta.
Things that didn't feel dangerous individually.
Together, they had become four hundred and twenty-seven thousand five hundred naira.
Her salary was due on Friday.
She had ₦18,640 in her account.
And she had posted a photograph the previous evening captioned:
soft life or no life
It had 612 likes.
• • •
At 9:16 a.m., Ime was editing copy for a skincare campaign when her manager walked past her desk and said:
“Conference room. Ten minutes.”
Nobody looked up.
Everybody looked up.
Ime saved her document.
Across from her, Daniel whispered, “Promotion.”
“Shut up.”
“It's you.”
“Daniel.”
“I'm serious.”
Ime hated the tiny explosion of hope in her chest.
She had been waiting eleven months.
Acting Brand Communications Lead.
Acting.
Meaning doing the work without the title and, more importantly, without the money.
The permanent position had been discussed twice.
Nothing had happened.
She opened the front camera on her phone.
Checked her face.
Amara had been right about the ponytail.
She looked expensive.
Competent.
Twenty-nine and thriving.
She stood.
Her phone lit up.
Morning beautiful.
The explosion in her chest changed direction.
She smiled.
Good morning stranger.
Don't start.
Start what?
I had a mad weekend.
She stared at the screen.
They were supposed to have dinner on Saturday.
He had cancelled at 5:38 p.m.
Work emergency.
She had spent three hours getting ready.
Okay.
He called immediately.
Ime declined it.
A second later:
You're angry.
She typed:
I'm going into a meeting.
Then, because she hated herself a little:
Call you later
She added the heart.
Stared at it.
Nearly deleted it.
Didn't.
“Conference room,” Daniel reminded her.
Ime locked her phone.
“Coming.”
• • •
The promotion went to Daniel.
Ime clapped.
That was the extraordinary thing.
She actually clapped.
Her manager said something about restructuring and fresh perspectives and Daniel bringing an exciting new energy to the department.
Ime smiled.
Daniel looked uncomfortable.
Everyone clapped.
Ime clapped too.
Then her manager said:
“And of course, Ime has done an incredible job holding things together over the last year, and we're going to need that experience as Daniel transitions into the role.”
Ime's hands stopped moving.
For half a second.
Then she smiled again.
Because what else was she supposed to do?
• • •
Amara answered on the second ring.
“Don't cry.”
“I'm not crying.”
“You sound like you're crying.”
“Daniel got it.”
Silence.
Then:
“That boy with the head?”
Ime laughed despite herself.
“Amara.”
“The one whose head is shaped like Agege bread?”
“Please.”
“They gave him your job?”
“Apparently he brings fresh energy.”
“Fresh energy from where? His head?”
Ime covered her mouth.
She was sitting inside a toilet cubicle.
“You're mad.”
“I'm coming to get you.”
“I have work.”
“You no longer have work.”
“I have work.”
“You have oppression. Different thing.”
Ime leaned her head against the partition.
“I'm serious.”
“So am I. Leave.”
“I can't.”
“Fine. Tonight. We are going out.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I don't have money.”
The words came out before Ime could stop them.
Silence.
A different silence.
Then Amara said lightly:
“Did I ask you for money?”
Ime closed her eyes.
“No.”
“Exactly. I'll pay.”
“I don't want you to pay.”
“Why?”
“Because I already owe you.”
Another pause.
Then Amara laughed.
“First Bank of Amara has not started recovery proceedings.”
Ime didn't laugh.
Amara noticed.
“Babe.”
“Hmm?”
“Don't be weird.”
“I'm not.”
“You're doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“That thing where you suddenly become proud because you're upset.”
Ime sat straighter.
“I said I don't want you to pay. How is that pride?”
“Okay.”
There it was again.
Okay.
Mama's okay.
Amara's okay.
Two letters that could make her feel twelve years old.
“Forget it,” Ime said.
“No, you forget it. I'm taking you out. You've had a rubbish morning. I'm your friend. Allow me to be your friend.”
Ime rubbed her forehead.
Amara softened.
“Wear something nice.”
“I always wear something nice.”
“Debatable.”
Ime smiled.
“Idiot.”
“Seven-thirty. And please don't wear—”
“If you mention that wig again, I will block you.”
Amara laughed.
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
The call ended.
Ime remained in the cubicle.
She looked at the banking notification she'd been avoiding all morning.
₦18,640.22.
Then Instagram.
9,842 followers.
Her latest story had 1,107 views.
A woman she didn't know had replied:
Your life God when???
Ime stared at it.
Then laughed.
Quietly.
So quietly it almost sounded like crying.
• • •
Emmanuel finally came to see her at 10:26 that night.
By then she'd had two cocktails she hadn't paid for and an argument with Amara she couldn't properly explain.
He parked outside her gate.
Ime climbed into the car.
“You look beautiful.”
She closed the door.
“Thank you.”
He leaned over and kissed her.
She let him.
That was another thing she hated about herself.
Four years and one kiss could still make her forget the speech she'd prepared.
Almost.
“I'm sorry about Saturday,” he said.
“You always are.”
“Ah. Don't do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make everything dramatic.”
Ime looked out the window.
“I'm turning thirty.”
Emmanuel blinked.
“What?”
“In January.”
“I know when your birthday is.”
“I'll be thirty.”
He smiled.
“Congratulations in advance?”
“Emmanuel.”
“What?”
“Where is this going?”
His face changed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
“Ime.”
“No. Don't Ime me.”
“I came here because you had a bad day.”
“And I'm asking you a question.”
“We've had this conversation.”
“No. I've had this conversation. You've avoided it.”
He sighed.
There.
That sigh.
The sigh that made her feel unreasonable before he'd even spoken.
“Baby, what exactly do you want me to say?”
Four years.
She looked at him.
“I want you to tell me whether you intend to marry me.”
“Of course I see a future with you.”
“That wasn't my question.”
“Why are you doing this tonight?”
“Because I got passed over for a promotion I've been doing for almost a year. Because I owe Amara nearly half a million naira. Because I still live with my mother. Because I'm turning thirty and I feel like my entire life is—”
Her voice broke.
She stopped.
Emmanuel reached for her hand.
She pulled it away.
“Answer me.”
He was quiet.
Then:
“I love you.”
Ime laughed.
One sharp, ugly sound.
“That is not an answer.”
“Marriage is not something you just jump into because you're approaching thirty.”
“I didn't say—”
“I have things I'm trying to put together.”
“For four years?”
“That's unfair.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
He rubbed his face.
“You know what my situation is.”
Actually, she didn't.
That was suddenly the strangest thing.
She knew his favourite football club.
His shoe size.
How he took his eggs.
The scar beneath his left knee.
The password he'd used on his old phone.
She knew which uncle had paid his university fees.
She knew he hated pawpaw.
She knew he slept with the television on when he was stressed.
But after four years, she'd never sat in his mother's living room.
She'd never spent Christmas with his family.
She had met one sister.
Once.
At a restaurant.
A woman called Jennifer.
At least he'd said Jennifer was his sister.
Ime looked at him.
“Take me to meet your mother.”
Emmanuel went completely still.
And there it was.
Not an answer.
Something worse.
Fear.
It disappeared almost immediately.
But she had seen it.
“Why?” he asked.
Ime's stomach dropped.
“Why?”
“No, I mean why now?”
She stared at him.
Emmanuel reached for her hand again.
“Ime, that's not what I meant.”
She opened the car door.
“Baby.”
She stepped out.
“Ime.”
She shut the door.
Her phone started ringing before she'd reached the gate.
She didn't answer.
Again.
She didn't answer.
The third time, she switched it off.
Her mother had left the outside light on.
Of course she had.
Ime stood beneath it for a moment, handbag hanging from one shoulder, feet aching inside shoes she'd bought with Amara's money.
Twenty-nine.
No promotion.
₦427,500 in debt.
Nearly ten thousand Instagram followers who thought she was living a life they wanted.
A boyfriend of four years who had just asked why she needed to meet his mother.
And a mother waiting inside who would probably ask why she was coming home at this hour and then warm her dinner.
Ime looked upward.
She hadn't prayed properly in years.
She wasn't about to start now.
Still, something escaped her before she could stop it.
“God.”
The word felt strange in her mouth.
She waited.
Nothing.
Of course.
Ime laughed bitterly and reached for the gate.
Then her phone vibrated in her hand.
She frowned.
She had switched it off.
The screen was black.
The vibration came again.
Not her phone.
Music.
Faint.
Somewhere beyond the houses across the road.
Then voices.
People praying.
Ime stood there listening for perhaps five seconds.
Maybe ten.
Then she opened the gate.
She had had enough of God and church people to last a lifetime.
Behind her, carried faintly through the night, a woman's voice rose above the others.
Ime couldn't hear most of what she said.
Only the last sentence.
“And for the person who is tired of begging to be chosen—remind her tonight that she already is.”
Ime's hand stopped on the gate.
For one ridiculous second, she couldn't move.
Then she rolled her eyes.
“Please.”
She went inside.
But she didn't close the gate immediately.
END OF CHAPTER ONE
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