Okay. You all know me now, don't you? Well you should! I arrived to an excitingly warm welcome after several years away from my eccentric collection of family members. The house was exactly as it was when I'd left several decades earlier, just that now, it seemed run down and cried for help. Exterior walls formerly white now bayed for a colour change wishing that someone loved them enough to just caress them a little bit and make them feel special. Potted plants I so remember my mum spending time cultivating had long ago died and had not been replaced. Still in their cracked pots, their roots embedded in transient brown dirt suffering heat stroke and water nowhere in sight. My heart arched and my eyes, oh, how my eyes shed tears of pain, for it looked like my home had died while I had blossomed somewhere else.

 

My exile was self imposed and had turned me into a wondering nomad. Me, often referred to as the dusky one, I epitomised dark coffee, tasted like honey, and smelt like vanilla. My nomadic lifestyle had encouraged the frugal sprit within me and I had spent little time over the years thinking or looking back as to how things could have been between my mum and I. But something had changed in this last year and now, well, I am home and let's just say, I want to see what happens this time around. It had not started out like this and I'd not really planned on staying so long away from my home. Just that, it became more difficult to come back. Well you know. Your tastes change, your outlook becomes different to what it was before you left and you acquire the necessary extra baggage. Your not sure if you want to come back and if you do, will you fit in? I could clearly remember the last fight with mum before I left her and sort refuge away from her. That was it for me. Enough was enough.

 

"Mum! I'd rather you'd mind your own business for a change". I pleaded, my index finger instantly touching my forehead pressing down lightly as lights flashed behind my eyes willing the pain away. Not now. 
"Why?" she'd spat out. Arms akimbo, ready for me one more time.
The lights grew brighter, I steadied myself "what do you mean why, because it is not your business remember" sucking and kissing my teeth lips poised in annoyance knowing fully well that she hated that sound and it'll only irritate her more. Mum behaved like an English bull dog, once she took the first bite it was difficult getting her to let go.
Half spitting and talking at the same time while shaking her head she retorted, "my dear, I have no intention of watching you become a spinster in my house you hear". Attacking me with her words, hands waving in the air with an attitude I had not seen in a long time. This attitude was normally reserved for our relatives from the village who transgressed into her personal space.
The nausea arrived at the back of my throat like a long lost friend, but I did not give it room, instead I said as calmly as I could "excuse me! Did I ask for help, no! Do I need your help, no! So what's the problem?". Trying very hard not to be disrespectful by raising my voice. Yes, she could scream but if I tried it I would be called for another one of her holier-than-thou-family meetings. Where I will be made to feel guilty and told to apologise for being such a bad daughter to a mother who has tried so hard for me. Please! Scant attention was paid to the changed expression registered on my face. I was pissed and my visitor was waiting.
"Yes, o! I want to see my grandchildren while I'm alive. Do you have a problem with that, eh. I'm not an oyibo woman o! Abeg, I want to see them life and direct. Now, now." she'd retorted. She was working herself up now stopping was hard. She paused for effect and continued, "ehh, I want to spend time with them, you hear, touch and feel them!".
"Okay, fair enough. We all agree then. I can book my appointment at the sperm centre then. We can have a baby every year if you want". Now it was in my mouth my tongue held it back, the lights at the back of my eyes had changed from yellow orange to orange red my arms where still folded across my chest and I was ready for a verbal brawl, even if I had to be sick all over her. Going to the loo would mean I'd lost this time. Damn it, I was not going to the loo!
Slowly, she swung her whole self round to look at me closely, moving her mouth in a way I swear I'd never seen them move like that before, narrowing her eyes her face said it all. The silence that followed felt like walking on icebergs and no-one walks on icebergs intentionally in the middle of Lagos. It does not snow in Lagos. Without uttering another word, she walked out of the room. That was the last time we fought over anything and in particular my finding a man, breeding and getting married.

 

I was exhausted, I had pains in places I did not know could ache, hunger gnawed at my insides and I still had the after taste that my visitor had left with me. She had come for a long visit this time, two days, in which I was unable to move from where I lay in darkness shielded by the heavy hamarttan drapes, my insides gripped with unending nausea. Eyes closed, yellow orange, orange red, rainbow friends here I am leave me alone they danced behind my eyelids, they made the pain worse. I hated it when she came like this unannounced when I had forgotten about her. Two days after she arrived she packed her things and left with no warning, cautiously I climbed out of bed counting my steps to the bathroom, slowly placing each foot in the bathtub and having a bucket bath for the first time since the fight with mum. That afternoon, I smelt and ate for the first time in days, no I did not mess up my diet just that I'd had a minor setback with a visit from the migraine brigade. Three days later, I got on the plane, left mum, my beloved home, friends and went in search of my freedom.

 

The plane touched down and my heart skipped a beat, disgorged it's passengers on the tarmac of Murtala Mohammed international airport and we lumbered towards immigration. It was chilly and I was caught unawares as this was not the Lagos my memory served up in rose coated glasses and for which I had spent many a time day dreaming longing for ukazi soup served with pounded yam and garnished with dry fish. I now remembered that I had not wanted to carry a cardigan as Steve had suggested but had packed it in my suitcase instead. My memories of Lagos once again had failed me. For it was chilly and crisp, and reminded one of winter in Harare, Johanesburg and my favourite place London.  

 

It didn't take long, for me to reach the front and get a curious once over from the immigration officer.
"how long are you staying, madam" I observed him as he watched me while he flipped through the passport looking for the page that had the precious visa, which cost me the equivalent of £35 to get. He looks at me again and decides that I look fragile.
"three weeks, it's been a long time". I add not sure what else I should be saying or keeping to myself. I worry that he will ask why it's been so long, I worry about the excuses I have lined up for this question. I worry about how I appear and how they see me and whether I can still speak Igbo. I worry about my extra baggage.
"I can see that. You still have your Nigerian passport, ehh, how funny" he mumbles, head down, extra attention on my passport.
"Yeah, never got round to changing it" should I tell him how I've had to fight to keep this green identity and how it's brought untold embarrassment at times. No, I'm sure he won't be interested.  My baggage is waiting.
"ehh, okay. Welcome to Nigeria" he presses the stamp onto the inkpad and with some force stamps the page. He hands me back my green identity with a smile.

 

"You came back to me" she whispered in my ear, holding and hugging me tightly tears streaming onto my shoulders. My memories had not forgotten her scent, bubblegum strawberry sugar coated love, suffocating me, breaking my armour, willing me to forgive.
"I know, it's been long, Uh" I didn't know how to call her mum. It had been a while since I had uttered the word. I held her anyway and cradled this once longed for memory, and imagined friendship.
"I've been waiting for you. All these years, ehh. You took too long to come back, why?" she had me now arms out stretched. Her voice pleading. She'd aged, was still slim and was wearing a fitted trouser outfit that complemented her figure. She'd dyed her hair almost ginger, that colour of independence you see on menopausal women, her lips shining with a good dose of Vaseline.  Everyone was observing discreetly, but watching nonetheless.
"You know how it is" fighting to lighten the highly emotional mood. I didn't want to remind myself why I had stopped calling her, how I had written several times and she had returned my letters unopened.   
I looked over my shoulder, holding his hand he took a step forward we stood side by side, and I pushed him towards her saying, "this is Steve, my husband. You remember him don't you?" How could she forget him. When I had fallen in love with a man and had called from Harare to say I was getting married, she was happy. At least she will have real grandchildren, not those adopted ones, but ones that are her own. She was happy I was getting married, then had asked where he was from and in innocence, my world view infected by my travels and change in values, had said, "but he's Zimbabwean of course".
"Oh, what kind of name is Steve. What is his Igbo and family name, do we know of them?"
"But mum, he is not Igbo, I never said he was".
"Ah, I thought he was catholic at least. Eh, okay, are you to change faiths, just like that?"
"No mum, he's Anglican and anyway, I hardly go to church, now. Infact, it's been a while". The phone crackled under the unspoken tension and long distance silence. I was waiting for her to speak, but then plunged along and said it. She too, just at that minute decided to voice what she was thinking. Let her know once and for all.
"Mum, he's not black.......". My heart beat a disco and I shook all over. She was very far away but I needed her approval, I needed her to say it was okay, I was a good girl and that she still loved me.
"Is he black? I thought you said he was from Zimbabwe?"
"I know. He is".
"Ehh, how is he not black, then. Abi he uses bleaching cream".
"No mum, he is white. Fourth generation, mum, has a Zimbabwean passport and all".
"Okay now, what kind of shame is this. It's not enough you have this child out of wedlock and now, you want to marry a white man. Is there no black man in Zimbabwe. Did you not see them to marry. Let me tell you now, I'm not coming, you hear". She hung up. I did not speak to her again after that phone call for several years. She was too embarrassed by a daughter who married a white man. I was accused of not behaving like a proper Igbo girl, by marrying a monied Igbo man, organising a big elaborate dowry wedding ceremony and giving her the pleasure of inviting all her friends. Oh no, she had wanted to share dry jokes in our dialect and boring proverbs  with this husband of mine and I had denied her this chance. I was punished alright, she returned all my letters and then I started forgetting about her till she started chasing me and looking for me. I knew I was cured when that started happening.

 

Next to be pushed forward was the granddaughter she had never met, but had disapproved of her birth. Her opinions shaped by the confines of old versus new and modern versus tradition. But I had not cared as I had grown wings and blossomed and was free of those invincible confines, and that evening, at a welcome party organised by her, for I had come back with my family, she welcomed Steve and my daughter into her life and we started anew as if nothing had happened. Just like old times, but much better as I had the love of my life with me.