Curled in my worn blanket, I scrolled through Instagram, each couple’s photoshoot a taunt—a glittering reminder that it was another Christmas—another Christmas, same blanket, another bowl of chin chin.
I scoffed, biting into a piece of chin chin. “Very ugly sweater,” I muttered under my breath. “Why is this one even overly edited?” “See as person be like doll baby.”
Thelma’s message dropped: “Babe, are you ready?”
I sighed, glancing at my account balance. A meagre sum stared back at me. Yet, I was planning to attend another night of overpriced cocktails and loud music.
Excitement enveloped me when Thelma and Soma arrived from the abroad. It felt like pieces of my childhood had finally come home after floating far and wide for over two decades. I’d missed them more than words could express. I missed their laughter, their mischief, and their warmth. We’d grown up together, bound by the dusty embrace of the same compound, our days coloured by the carefree teenage innocence.
We played tinko tinko, swell, and chef. We’d steal salt and pepper from our mothers’ kitchen when no one was watching, pluck the nearest leaves that looked like they belonged in a pot, mix them with water in a plastic cup, and make “soup.” Our sand eba—perfectly moulded balls of sand—completed the feast. We’d sit cross-legged under the orange tree, feeding our dolls these lavish meals and crooning the same lullabies our mothers had sung to us.
It was on one of those afternoons that Soma dropped her bombshell.
“I’m going to America,” she said casually, her tiny fingers drawing the lines of our swell game on the ground.
Thelma and I froze, glancing at her and then at each other. The silence lasted only a heartbeat before we burst into laughter.
“See this one!” Thelma said, shaking her head. “Do you even know where America is? My father said you have to enter an aeroplane to get there. It will take you up into the sky like you’re going to heaven, and it’s very far.”
“Yes, I know,” Soma replied, her voice steady, unflinching. “We’re all going—Papa, Mama, Ikenna, Daberechi, and me. Papa says we’re going to meet Uncle Amadi there.”
The game forgotten, Thelma and I exchanged wide-eyed looks. Soma sounded so certain, so serious. Could it really be true? We didn’t trust her words alone, not for something this big. So, we ran off to confirm the news from the most reliable sources we knew—our mothers.
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They were gathered in Thelma’s mother’s kitchen, the air rich with the aroma of fried fish and simmering stew. “Mama, is it true Soma is going to America?” I blurted out before my two legs could even enter the kitchen.
Our mothers exchanged glances, a shared understanding passing between them. Then Mama nodded. “It’s true,” she said, her tone gentle but firm. “Her family will be leaving soon.”
And they did. Within weeks, the compound felt empty, quiet. Soma’s laughter became a distant memory, and the void she left behind was hard to fill. Three years later, Thelma’s family followed suit, and their destination was the United Kingdom. I remember standing at the edge of the compound as their car disappeared down the red-earth road, tears streaming silently down my face.
It’s been over twenty-two years since then. We’ve stayed in touch through phone calls, chats, and video calls. But nothing quite compared to the joy of seeing them again, standing in front of me, their faces older but still carrying the spark of the girls I grew up with.
I was very excited when they announced they would visit Nigeria this Christmas. But that excitement quickly turned into anxiety as they dragged me to one high-end spot after another. From Lekki’s finest restaurants to rooftop bars in Victoria Island, their itinerary was as ambitious as their spending habits.
That night was no different.
Soma called, “Babe, are you ready? We are ready, and our Uber’s almost here.” Her accent had totally changed. Most times, what she says clicks thirty seconds later. But Thelma’s accent didn’t completely change. I still tasted a bit of Nigeria in her.
“Yea, I’m ready,” I lied. I hurriedly zipped my red dress, ignoring the fact that it felt a little too tight.
At the club, the bass thumped as strobe lights danced across the room. Waitresses in glittery outfits carried sparklers atop bottles of champagne, their prices rivalling my yearly rent.
“Let’s get a table!” Thelma shouted over the music.
My stomach churned. I knew what that meant: super spending. Soma had already pulled out her phone to transfer money while Thelma flashed her card.
“I’ll get the next one,” I muttered, hoping no one would hear.
“Your card is declined, Ma,” the waitresses said.
“What? That’s not possible,” Thelma said. “Try it again.”
The waitress tried again, and Thelma punched in her pin but the story didn’t change.
“Declined, ma.”
“Let me just transfer,” Soma said, opening her bank app.”
After some seconds, the App wasn’t responding.
“Oge, please can you try?” Soma asked.
I was confident in my KongaPay App. I knew it wouldn’t fail. It had never failed me with all my transfers, bill payments, digital goods purchases and all online payments. That night wasn’t going to be any different. But I didn’t know that I was about to make the biggest mistake of my life.
I made the transfer, a whooping N450,000, and we continued enjoying the night.
Hours passed in a blur of loud music, expensive drinks, and fake laughter. My cheeks hurt from smiling, my head pounding from the overpriced cocktails I had sipped sparingly. I kept glancing at my phone, avoiding my KongaPay App like a plague.
When the night ended, we spilled into the parking lot, chatting about our plans for the next day. But all I cared about was my refund.
“Babes, how far? When am I getting the money?”
“Ahh Ahhh. Calm down. We haven’t even gotten home yet,” Thelma responded. “You saw our card and the Bank App wasn’t working. We have to fix it.”
***
It’s been over 3 weeks since that night. Thelma and Soma have returned back to the abroad and the koko is that none of them are responding to my messages. I’ve tried to process it; I hope it’s not what I’m thinking.
What does this mean?