Little White Lies

I lay on my bed staring at the twirling ceiling fan, surrounded by the stench of fear. The speed of the blades increased and decreased, in sync with the air-conditioner next door—the sounds emanating from it, tortured—just like my heart.

I’d been trying to find a silver lining in a stormy sky for the past two nights and always wound up empty-handed. My lies have eventually caught up with me. I have outmaneuvered myself to a standstill.

Ken, my next-door neighbor, summarized it best.

He’d looked me straight in the eye. “Nikki, how would you kill a mosquito?”

Was that a trick question? I shrugged. “If it's resting on a wall, I’ll smash it against the wall with my open palm.”

Ken winced, nodded slowly. “Bloody.”

I waited.

He cleared his throat. “Okay, hypothetically speaking—if a mosquito perches on my testicle, smashing it hard with an open palm won’t do me any good.”

I let out a shaky breath. I was only twenty-four, and my life was about to end.

+++

My father died when I was nine. He’d dashed across the expressway, intending to take a shortcut to the market where he sold bales of cloth. A 911 lorry stopped him halfway, cutting his life short.

To care for my sister and baby brother, our homemaker mother started baking—cakes, buns, meat pies, chin-chin—and had me hawk them at car parks.

I helped her. Learned the business inside out, but because it was on a small scale, it generated just enough to pay the rent and buy food. Bottom line—we were poor.

Tall, with a bit of flesh on my bones and dreamy eyes, I wasn’t exactly a Miss Nigeria pageant contest material, but I had a pretty side. Even before graduating from secondary school, men were sending messages to my uncle asking for my hand in marriage.

“There’s a ripe corn in your brother's yard that we’re interested in,” they would say.

Mother's formal education ended at high school. She would have preferred I went all the way to university, but money was tight. But she knew that even the Ordinary National Diploma, OND, could be a catapult to a better life.

No marriage for me yet.

She scraped and borrowed. Even my mother’s brother, a civil servant in the state capital, nicknamed Times Are Hard because he said that all the time, chipped in.

I gained admission to the Institute of Management and Technology, IMT, in Enugu. I worked hard and socialized even harder. I met people I would never have met in my everyday life. Getting into the right social circles, and playing your cards right, could be a lift-off to a better life.

I dreamed big and assumed—Fake it until you make it—as my national anthem.

After graduating from the polytechnic, I returned to my hometown at the outskirt of Onitsha. One day, on my way to the market, an up-and-coming young man, Nwadike, who lives in my neighborhood, stopped me.

Dressed in a pair of jeans and shirt, nothing fancy, he looked like any of the other men in town. He’d dropped out of secondary school in our first year to become an apprentice. Now he sold used ‘machine parts’ motorcycle spare parts at the mechanic village.

“Do you have a minute?” asked Nwadike.

“Sure.” I knew he was crazy about me but after my two years in Enugu, in my mind, socially, we were now light-years apart. I couldn’t imagine why he stopped me.

“Emmm…Nkiruka—”

“Nikki.” I corrected him.

He hesitated, then smiled. “I’ve just been settled after ten years of Igba boi, apprenticeship. I—I don’t have a lot of money now. But I want to marry you.”

My eyebrows shot up. I felt like a bomb had gone off in my head. I couldn’t react. Aftershock was the only reason I remained frozen and heard the rest of the nonsense he had to say.

“But,” continued Nwadike, “it’s only a matter of time. As long as God continues to give me good health. I will have a lot later to make you very comfortable.”

I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself—I failed. “I stopped because I thought you had something important to say. The two of us—it just cannot work! You don’t even know the difference between is and was—”

Nwadike stood like a hostage. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead. He scrapped them off with his thumb—flicked them to the side. He swallowed to relieve the sudden tightness in his throat. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down like a ping-pong ball.

“You…you can just say no, you don’t have to insult me. I thought you would have changed by now. Always pretending to be who you are not.”

“I’m not pretending. If my uncle hadn’t stolen my late father's savings, we wouldn’t be living in this neighborhood, rubbing shoulders with a riff-rat like you.”

“Nkiruka…just, be yourself.”

“It’s Nikki!”

Nwadike sighed, raised both hands in surrender. “A termite will fly high, but eventually its wings will fall off. It will come crashing down, and the patient frog will eat it.”

I walked away. What nonsense. I’d set my eyes on the son of the richest man in our town, millionaire Chief Benson’s son. Unfortunately, he wants nothing to do with me. He thought I was a riff-rat.

Did I use those words right? I brought out my phone and Googled riff-rat. All-knowing Google corrected it to riff-raff. Well, Nwadike wouldn’t know I screwed that up.

+++

Later that evening, when I returned home, I went to help my mother in the kitchen. I’d passed my younger siblings in front of our compound, taking turns operating our kiosk.

Mother stooped in front of the gas oven, pulling out trays of meat pies with a rag. Rivers of sweat trickled down from her scalp, soaking her blouse. The kitchen itself could be an oven.

“Mommy, let me help you. Go sit down.” I took over, placing the trays on cooling racks. I scooped puff-puff out of the frying pan and set them on a perforated surface to drain. After about thirty minutes, I had the kitchen under control.

Mother stood up, retied her wrapper. “Thank you, my daughter.” Her voice was slow and deliberate.

“Anytime.” I headed for the door.

“Nkiruka.”

I stopped. “Yes, mommy.”

She let out a breath. “Your uncle was here earlier. He was furious. He said you are spreading rumors he stole your dad's money. And that’s why we…we are struggling.”

My insides tightened. Nwadike.

“He was yelling so much the entire neighborhood gathered. He said you are aloof, won’t cut your wrapper according to your size. Blah, blah, blah.”

A tear rolled down my cheek. I became a little girl again, insecure. Shaking my head, I said, “Mommy, Nwadike asked me to marry him. I can’t. I just can’t. I said all those things on the spur of the moment.”

“You’ve known Nwadike all your life.” She spread out her hand. “You’re twenty-three…but, it’s up to you. I won’t pressure you. You’re a good person but sometimes misunderstood. Remember, nobody likes to be belittled.”

“Oh God, now everybody hates me.”

She hugged me and rubbed my back. “Nobody hates you. Be yourself. You have a good heart…show it.”

We stayed like that for a while. “I feel this village is too small for me.” I pulled back, an idea taking root in my mind. “I should go to Lagos, start afresh.” I squeezed mommy’s hand. “Please give me your blessing to go to Lagos.”

Mom laughed. “Nkiruka! You’ve always had that fire burning inside you since you were a child. Maybe you are right. The heart knows what the heart wants. But Lagos is tough.”

“I have a friend from school, Mary Jane. I could stay with her. I’ll ask her.”

I went to the room I shared with my sister and called Mary Jane.

“Nikki! Good timing,” said Mary Jane. “Come over. You can stay with me until you get on your feet.”

Two days later, I was on a bus heading to Lagos. Once we crossed the River Niger bridge, the game was afoot. It was a six-hour journey to Lagos, and I had time to reflect on where I was coming from and where I was going.

My mother’s advice the night before I left echoed in my mind. Whatever job you find, show up every day, and always give your best, even when you don’t feel like it. Consistent discipline is the key to success.

Say your prayers, but remember, your success or failure is in your own hands. You can’t win the lottery if you don’t buy a ticket. I looked at my hands and repeated my mother’s words, my resolve to succeed even greater.

+++

I arrived in Lagos late Friday afternoon, and Mary Jane was excited to see me. It was like an extension of school all over again. She lived in a three-bedroom bungalow with two other girls.

As evening approached, the house became alive. The girls got ready to go out. Mary Jane invited me to hang out with her and her male friend if I wasn’t tired from the trip.

“Your boyfriend?” I asked.

“No, just a male friend. Remember…like in school. You have a school boyfriend and a male friend outside school who pays the bills.”

I nodded. I was tired, but you didn’t say no to your host.

After I showered and dressed up, we watched a Nollywood movie as we waited for the guys to show up. One of the girls received a text—their ride was outside. They left together.

Twenty minutes later, Mary Jane’s phone buzzed. She looked at the screen. “Time to go.”

Her friend drove a Mercedes jeep. Once he saw me, his eyes lit up like a suya seller's kerosene lamp.

He took us to an upscale pastry shop in Lekki. We ordered, and as we waited, he talked non-stop about his day. The business trip he would make soon. The obscene amount the government owed him from a contract.

Then, I felt his hand on my knee under the table. Slowly, it crept up my skirt. He kept on talking, able to dissociate his mouth from his hand.

I hadn’t even been in Lagos for five hours and was already getting unwanted attention. I sighed inwardly and glanced at Mary Jane. Was she in on this? You don’t bite the hand that feeds you, and right now, Mary Jane is the only person I know in Lagos.

The fingers continued to creep up. Not even five hours.

I jumped to my feet. “MJ, where’s the toilet?”

She smiled and pointed.

“I’ll be right back.” As I walked away, I could feel his eyes on me.

Then he said, “MJ, this your friend has better nyash o.”

Mary Jane laughed. “Trust me. I know your spec.”

I inhaled and exhaled. I too was on the menu.

I checked out the restaurant as I headed to the loo. The smell of baked goods reminded me of my mother’s kitchen at home. All the circular tables were occupied. Busy. I’d seen the menu. They charged an arm and a leg for pastries.

A quick look at their display case showed the usual pastries elegantly presented, but not too different from what we made at home.

I found the toilet and waited for it to be free. Nearby, a commotion was going on in the kitchen. Through a crack in the door, I saw a woman in an apron, tired-looking but well put together, scolding a younger woman.

“It’s so hard to find good people,” said the woman, throwing her hand down, exasperated.

The bathroom freed up, and I went in, my thoughts returning to my predicament.

When I got back to the table, I sat closer to Mary Jane. Then I engaged her in a talk of how grateful I was for her hosting me.

We went club hopping after eating, then ended up at her friend’s house in the early hours of the morning. My night ended when I declined to join Mary Jane and her friend in his bedroom. She gave me her house key, and I took a cab back to her place.

+++

Mary Jane and her roommates were kept women. I wasn’t a saint, but I wanted a job, not to be anyone’s plaything. What happens when they acquire a new toy? Or get bored with the old toy? It happens.

Finding a job in Lagos was like looking for a mermaid. University graduates would show up in the thousands for a secretarial job posting my diploma was suitable for. I couldn’t compete. An office job seemed out of the question.

By my third week, I’d almost exhausted my funds. Mary Jane was putting pressure to get on the wild side or find another place to stay. I was in turmoil. Someone's circumstance was a significant driver of decision-making.

As my tentative last day in Lagos approached, based on my cash reserve, I remembered my first day. Would things be different if I’d played ball that night at the restaurant? No, it was a bakery. A light bulb went off in my head.

I took a shower, put on my best skirt suit, and hailed an Uber. Two hours later, I was at the bakery in Lekki. I walked confidently to the cashier and told her I came to see the manager in my best made in IMT American accent.

“Madam Beatrice?”

I nodded.

“I’ll get her for you.”

Madam Beatrice brought me into her office after I’d dropped a few names. My pulse raced. She was buying it.

“Let me reiterate what I hear,” said Madam Beatrice. “You used to live abroad, and you love to bake. You’re visiting from the East. Where? Anambra, Enugu, Imo—”

“Anambra.”

“And, you’re tired of staying at home doing nothing and would like to work. What’s your name again?”

“Nikki. Nikki Young. My uncle owns Young Shall Grow Motors.”

Madam Beatrice lifted an eyebrow.

Oh, God. Now, I’ve overreached. I held my hands together in front of me to stop them from shaking. I’d squeezed my insides so tight I couldn’t breathe. My heart tried to betray me, beating like a cake mixer on steroids.

She looked at me and tapped a pen on the table. “I was about to put out a help wanted ad, but, since you came to us…” She drew in a deep breath and exhaled through her mouth in a rush of air. “I’m skeptical.”

My heart fell.

Then she smiled. “Prove me right, and you’ll be driving one of your uncle's buses. When can you start?”

I yelped. “Thank you so much! I—I can start right now. You have no idea how bored I’ve been.”

Her eyes widened. “You can?”

I nodded like an agama lizard after a sprint.

“Okay.” She bolted out of her chair. Like she suddenly remembered there was work to be done. “Come with me.”

We walked into the kitchen. Madam Beatrice tossed an apron at me with the bakery logo, a muffin with a cherry on top. Then she rapid-fire issued instructions.

I stared at their equipment. Nothing there looked like the oven in my mother’s kitchen. I put on my fake it until you make it attitude and paid attention.

Madam Beatrice mixed, consulting a cheat sheet. “Most people have problems with the mixing. The right amount of flour, eggs, baking powder—ingredients that go into a mix. Get it wrong, and the whole batch is useless.”

I’d been baking since I was nine years old, and my mother had drummed it into me—we could not afford to make bad batches. I could guestimate ingredient proportion with uncanny precision. By the end of that day, you would think I grew up in that kitchen.

I could literally run the place by the end of my first week. Lack of sleep and commuting were my greatest problems. I would do the two-hour ride from Lekki to Mary Jane’s with car app services, then turn around after just two hours of sleep.

The movers and shakers of Lagos would come in to order wedding cakes, birthday cakes, and confectioneries to go. I offered expert advice any wish way I could.

That was how I met Lola Ilupeju. I helped her pick a cake for her parent's wedding anniversary, and she invited me to come.

Madam Beatrice surprised me with a paycheck at my one-week mark.

“You’ve impressed me, Nikki. You are a natural with baking.”

We hadn’t discussed salary during the interview. It was way more than anything I could have requested.

I offered to pay Mary Jane rent instead of a menage to continue staying with her. She readily agreed. Life was good. And it was even going to get better.

+++

Lola’s parents' wedding anniversary blew my mind. The Lagos State governor was there. A good number of traditional rulers, bank CEOs, political figures from both the state and national levels were present.

I was thrown into the limelight when Lola introduced me as the cake designer. Madam Beatrice had ‘sold my story’ verbatim to Lola—Nikki Young, a scioness of a wealthy family from Anambra State. Not afraid of hard work.

Then there was Segun Ilupeju, Lola’s big brother. He was tall, broad-shouldered, square-jawed with deep-set eyes that gave him a constant brooding look. But I hadn’t met a more cheerful person.

Once dessert was served by the waiter, Segun, cake in hand, marched over to me.

“I’m Segun, Lola’s brother.”

His voice was confident, with a deep rumble that resonated inside me.

“I’m Nikki Young,” I said. My voice was a pathetic squeak to his.

“I heard you’re responsible for this delicious masterpiece.” He carved out a sizeable chunk and stuffed his mouth. Closed his eyes and moaned as he chewed.

My nostrils flared. “Guilty as charged.”

For Segun and me, it was love at first sight. He worked as an attorney at a Victoria Island law firm. His weekends were free, but mine wasn’t.

Weekends were our biggest selling days of the week, and I had to be at the bakery. Segun still wined and dined me. He’d rearranged his schedule so we could steal pockets of time here and there.

After six months, Madam Beatrice was comfortable enough to have someone else work weekends instead of her or me.

“Let me know any weekend you need to hang out,” said Madam Beatrice. “You’re not a robot. I’ll cover you or get someone else to.” Then she whispered. “Budding love needs baking powder too.”

I now live in a one-bedroom apartment roughly forty-five minutes from the bakery and closer to Segun. One of my neighbors was an up-and-coming comedian, Ken. He loves Igbo proverbs.

Since I moved to Lagos, I hadn’t gone back to my hometown, but I spoke with my mom and siblings all the time. One of these days, I would visit. Maybe at my one-year mark. Come back triumphant.

In the second week of December, Segun took me out to dinner. I was happily enjoying a glass of wine when he took my hands. I smiled at him, and we looked into each other’s eyes as we always did.

I loved him so much, and I could see his love for me burning like a fire in his eyes. Then I saw something else.

My smile faded. The feeling I had when I once fell off the bed while sleeping seized me. Please God. I hope he will not say it.

Segun brought my hand to his lips and kissed it. “Nikki, I fell in love with you the first time I saw you.”

Tears brimmed my eyes. No, no, no. The voice was in my head.

“I want to take the next step with you. I know your dad is watching us from heaven, and I’m sure he approves. But I’d like to ask your mother's permission.” He squeezed my hand. “Nikki, I want to marry you. I want us to go to Anambra State this coming Friday.”

“Oh my God.” My voice was a whisper.

I wrestled my hand from his—covered my mouth. My pulse raced.

He looked at me expectantly. Then his smile even got bigger. “I know how you feel. It also came as a shock when I realized I was ready for us to take the next step. Take your time, I’m looking forward to seeing that magnificent bakery in your colossal home you told me about. Where your love for baking started.”

+++

I asked Segun to drop me off. That night I lay in bed wondering what to do next. My lies had finally caught up with me. Money marries money. Once he realized I came from nothing, he would toss me aside.

I could circumvent that by telling him first. I could hear his voice in my head. ‘Nikki, you looked me straight in the eye and lied to me. I can’t trust you. What else have you lied about.’ He would hate me.

The thought of him hating me broke my heart. But I couldn’t face him.

I went downstairs to get my mail. On my way up, I ran into my neighbor, Ken.

“Nikki, why the long face? Did someone die?”

I shook my head. Then I saw an opportunity. “My friend is in a tight relationship, and she needs advice.”

He cocked his head. “Your friend?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about it. Maybe I can help? When folks pee together, it makes an even bigger foam.”

I smiled for the first time. “You love your Igbo proverbs. Two heads are better than one, right?”

He nodded. Then I told him.

Ken looked at me and said, “How would you, Nikki, kill a mosquito?”

Is this a trick question? I shrugged. “If it's resting on a wall, I’ll smash it with an open palm against that wall.”

Ken winced, nodded slowly. “Bloody.”

I waited.

He cleared his throat. “Okay, hypothetically,” he made air quotes with both hands. "If a mosquito perches on my testicle, I can’t just smash it as hard as possible.”

I looked at him. “Why is everything you say like a parable?”

He shrugged. “Deeper meaning. Your friend should think carefully.”

+++

I lay on my bed, thinking ‘carefully’ as Ken suggested.

Hit the mosquito. Kill it and hurt me. That equates to telling Segun the truth. That would hurt him. Then I’ll lose him forever.

Leave the mosquito alone. It sucks my blood and infects me with malaria. That’s like saying nothing. Segun would go to the East and still discover I was a born liar. He would hate me and leave me.

Either way, the outcome would be the same, losing Segun. Was there a third option?

I smelled it even before it reached my rooftop. I remembered Nwadike’s words, as clear as the approaching clatter of rain on rooftops—stop pretending. Even my mother said it too. Accept who you are and be yourself.

I must stop my lies, make amends, and say the truth always. A plan took hold in my mind. I would seek advice that doesn’t involve foaming pee and mosquitos.

In the morning, I went to see Madam Beatrice at her mansion.

“Nikki!” said a surprised Madam. “Is everything alright?”

I shook my head. “I’m quitting.”

She did a double-take. “I’m surprised to hear that. You are one of my best employees. Let’s go to my study.” I followed her in. She sat behind an immense desk and pointed at the chair opposite her. I told her everything.

“My name is Nkiruka Agu. Young Shall Grow is not my uncle. I’ve never been abroad, and there’s no family money. I felt that pretending would make people accept me. I know you’ll hate me.”

Madam Beatrice stared into space. “No, I don’t hate you. Admitting you are wrong—that took courage. I like you more for that. It’s not easy to take responsibility.” She sighed. “I knew your story didn’t add up right from the start.”

“You knew?”

She nodded. “I ran a check on you. But you were so hardworking, and you proved your worth. I felt things would sort themselves out with time, and you’ll learn for yourself.” She chuckled. “Lagos is a tough place. When I came to Lagos twenty-odd years ago, I wasn’t Madam Beatrice living in an enormous mansion.”

I looked around her house, marveling at how magnificent her home looked.

“So, what’s your plan? You have skills in the bakery. I hate to let you go, but you can open your place here in Lagos. The city can accommodate one more bakery.”

I smiled. “Thanks for you your kind words. My mother taught me everything I knew about baking in our tiny kitchen. I’ll go back home.”

Madam pursed her lips. “Are you sure? Okay, Nikki. I’ll call you Nikki. Don’t be a stranger. Keep in touch. Have you spoken to Segun?”

“Not yet. I had to be sure. I’ll talk to him in the morning. It’s not something you discuss on the phone.”

“With Segun, remember that the heart wants what the heart wants.”

With my resolve to turn a new leaf, I slept like a baby for the first time. My resolution for the new year was to get enough sleep and be myself.

+++

When morning came, I just couldn’t bear to face Segun. To tell the man I love that I’d lied to him was something I couldn’t do. My new year resolution was already falling apart, and it wasn’t New Year yet.

I figured out a third choice. Hanging around would only hurt those that I love. I would remove myself from the equation.

Ken was happy to buy the little furniture I had. I replaced the SIM card on my phone, then got on an Eastbound bus.

+++

It surprised mother when I walked through the door. She was genuinely happy to see me, and we held each other in a tight embrace.

She pulled back. “Look at you! You look good. Lagos must agree with you.”

“Mommy, I’ll tell you the story later. I know I don’t say this often, but I love and appreciate you.”

“Wow, it’s like everyone is coming home for Christmas this year,” said Mother as she whisked a mixture of flour, eggs, and butter. “How long are you staying?”

“I’m back for good.”

Mother froze. She looked at me, then whisked slowly. “Are you in trouble?”

I shook my head.

“Is it a man?”

I said nothing.

“Ah.”

“Mommy, I’m tired of pretending. I want to be myself.” I looked around. “And you need help here.”

She smiled. “Pass me that bowl.”

Even though I’d just come home, I worked with my mother for the next couple of hours in the kitchen. I took stock, looking at ways to improve the kitchen with the knowledge I’d gained from Lagos.

With Christmas just days away, Mommy had plenty of orders to fulfill, and it looked like I was God sent. We were baking, packaging, and sending them out on the hour. Cakes, buns, chin-chin, you name it.

One evening I was decorating a cake when I read the message to go on with it. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Chief Benson’s daughter was marrying Nwadike, the riff-raff. I caught myself. Don’t belittle anyone.

“Mommy, is this for the Nwadike I know?”

“Oh yes, I forgot to tell you,” said mother cheerfully. “He’s engaged to Chief Benson's daughter.”

I was quiet. “I’m happy for them.”

Even though he’d asked me first, and I rejected him, it hurt. Perhaps I viewed all this wrong too. I thought about Segun. Maybe money doesn’t always marry money. But my case was different. Not only do we come from different sides of the track, but I also lied to him.

Has he been trying to contact me? I fought the urge to call him. I went a step further, made it part of my New Year’s resolution not to get in touch with Segun.

Christmas came and went. We spent it together as a family again. My younger siblings were happy with the presents I bought them and glad I was home.

By January one, people who had returned for the Christmas holiday started leaving. I missed Segun like crazy.

On the fourth of January, I went store hunting, looking for a new home for the bakery. Mom might fight me on that, but it’s time we hired some people and expanded. Maybe add an eating place like Madam Beatrice’s in Lekki.

I was almost home when I heard a familiar voice call my name. Heart pounding, I whirled. Segun…it couldn’t be.

He came out of his car and ran toward me.

“Nikki! You can run, but you can’t hide. No matter what that silly head of yours tells you to do, Segun will find you.”

I wanted to vanish, but he swept me off my feet and spun me around. “Oh my God, you came.”

“I would have come sooner. Madam Beatrice was away on vacation. She told me everything and gave me your name and address this morning. I drove non-stop.”

“When I knew of your intention, I wanted to confess, but I didn’t have the courage to face you.”

“Sweetheart, I would have still loved you, no matter what.”

“I love you, Segun. I’m through with lies. I resolve to be a woman worthy of your love this New Year and beyond."