Not So Grown Up (CNF)
I came home that day to my sister’s funny face. The sun had just set and I was aching tired but her face meant there was gossip. I like gossip, especially when it’s about boys.
I raise an eyebrow when she cheerily takes my laptop bag from me like a welcoming wife and gingerly sets it on my work desk, then puts her hand on her waist, giving me another funny look. I just laugh as I take off my bag pack, my shoulder screams relief and I rub one as my other hand lets the bag drop on my work chair.
“You need to hear this.” She’s already giggling and I know it is going to be good.
“First let me sit and have some water. Is there anything to eat?”
“Mom boiled rice.” She shrugs
“We have stew?” I say wide-eyed, I didn’t give money for anything of the sort.
“No. We have melon soup from yesterday. It’s not so bad. Want me to get you some?”
I try not to grimace but I can tell by her laughter that I already did, “It’s not that bad,” she says giggling, “It’s nice actually. I added some more atarugu into it. The spice made it better. Let me get some. I just warmed it.” She disappears into the kitchen while I the bedroom to take off my converse and socks. My earrings and pinky ring come off too, into my jewelry box. Mom is fast asleep on the bed, covered in a blanket. The cold in the North is brutal this time of year, it’s barely 6pm, but the wind is an angry chill.
Christabel or Bella for short walks out of the kitchen just as I walk back into the living room. She places a plate of steaming hot white rice covered in melon soup and a bottle of water on the oak stool facing me. She sits on the other end of the couch, her face more excited than before.
“Alright. Spill.” I say as I take a bite of the concoction and realise it’s not that bad but not that good.
“Well, I sent an invitation link to Dry-chest.”
That makes me look up. Dry-chest is a code word for her crush, a young lad in the neighborhood who we agreed looked better with his clothes on after we were unfortunate to see him shirtless. He had the most puny chest that possessed wayward nipples. They seemed to be positioned under his armpits if anything.
“What invitation?”
“For my business. I asked him to help me repost the link to his Whatsapp and guess what he told me?”
I pause, “What?”
“That he doesn’t post girly stuff. He said it’ll affect his steeze.” She adds air quotes to the steeze. I’m perplexed.
“Huh?”
She gesticulates rather aggressively, “I’m sure that’s the exact face I made as well! I was like what?”
“Wait wait,” my attention is now wholly on what she is saying, melon soup forgotten, “he really said that? As how?”
“N’nem,” she began with the Igbo endearment meaning sister, “na really as how. I was so shocked that words evaporated from my brain. I just stared at him.”
“I don’t understand.” I was still trying to process what she was saying. Steeze? Who says that now? Especially when it comes to helping your friend.
“When he said that thing eh, I was so pissed that I asked him what kind of rubbish talk that was. Oga proceeded to tell me that he wouldn’t have explained if he knew I would react like that. And I’m like, as how na? So I asked him if he had a girlfriend, he won’t post her business because it is girly stuff?”
“How is jewelry girly stuff?” I began, “Most of the jewelry dealers here are men. In fact, your plugs are all men. Wait o, more than half your clients are men. So what kind of logic is that?”
“My dear I was so stunned! In this era? In fact sef, which steeze is he talking about? Someone still living in his mom’s house and eating her food.”
That makes us laugh. She rants on as I eat more of the food in front of me.
“I can’t believe I had a crush on that thing.” She concludes.
“So the crush is gone?” I take a gulp of water.
“It is more than gone. He can take his steeze and two right nipples to his mother.”
That makes me wheeze with laughter but it also worries me.
“Wait. How old is his younger sister?”
“She’s fifteen.” She gives me a puzzled look, “Why?”
I frown, “And he’s her direct senior?”
“Yes…where are you going with this?”
“Erm. There is a huge possibility that boy is nineteen.” She blanches
“Or seventeen!” She turns scary pale and it makes me laugh harder. That would explain his puny chest and this very ridiculous mindset. We both pause, I am staring at her amused and she just looks horrified. For a boy of seveenteen or nineteen, he is taller than most, even us, and we are tall. Plus, he has a 10+ face card that reminded her of a very handsome filipino actor. And his clothes makes him appear bigger too.
“You are crushing on a minor!” I howl with laughter
“Were!” She barks, “And nineteen is legal age!”
“You and I know he looks more seventeen than nineteen! Oh boy! You nearly indulged in illegal activities!” I muse again and she stomps her feet.
“His age would explain his mentality. He’s not so grown up afterall. He’s a mere boy.” I relax against the couch. Not so hungry afterall.
“Agreed. Are you done with that?” She points to my forgotten food. I have only taken a few bites, mostly because I don’t like the taste of it. I also know she’s deliberately changing the subject. Unlike most popular opinions, Nigerians do blush. My sister is very light in complexion and her cheekbones are currently a faint pink. I decide to spare her further embarrassment.
“Yes. You can have it. I’ll send you some money now. Please, make stew instead. Let’s leave the soups for the swallows.”
She chuckles, “Tell that to momsy.”
