|Imran Adebayo Ibrahim|
My head hung high as I pushed the last suitcase I brought from Nigeria into the new apartment we were supposed to be staying in. My mother's fiancé, also my supposedly step-father, stood languidly against the door, welcoming us home with enthusiasm written all over his face. No way! I knew he was faking it. I hated him for it, trying to fake an enthusiastic act when he's not. I can smell it all over him.
All the FaceTime we've done — technically all the FaceTime my love-blinded mother has forced me to do with him from Nigeria — he always tries to be the fatherly figure I had lost. Yeah, my father lost his battle against cancer; may he rest wherever he is. I wish for him to be in paradise. He was far from religious, I know, but at least he was a good dad.
Back to my step-father-to-be; he welcomed my mum with a tight hug, locking his masculinity around my mother. If it weren't for the low-key wedding ceremony my mother and Jamal pulled off back in Nigeria, I would have said "astaghfir allah" right to their faces — even so, Jamal wasn't the right man for my ma and he wasn't worth traveling from Nigeria for, leaving my life there.
Like I had a life over there.
"War-lay, welcome to Atlanta." My annoying step-father never ceases to annoy me, pronouncing my name wrongly.
I gave him a dirty look. "It's Wale, and if you can't pronounce that, you can actually call me Imran. Only my late dad calls me Wale after all." I gave him what he needed at that moment. He paused, and his enthusiasm burned like finely processed papyrus consumed by fire. At least he got to show his real face.
"Aha, Wole, be nice to your father." My beautiful mother wasn't so much beautiful as she said that with her embarrassing Nigerian accent, elongating every word like the words were alive.
I groaned audibly as I pushed my way into what was supposed to be my new apartment. "At least we are not in Nigeria: that's the only silver lining I can grab." I said right at Jamal's face, snickering at the disbelieving look that my mother pulled out. Pissing people off was one of my special powers, and for Jamal, I was ready to go full-time superhero.
My black boi happiness burnt in wilderness as I saw who my stepbrother was.
It was Zayd freakin' Raymond. He is like the god of the teen baseball league, and according to his Instagram posts, he might even join the MLB team after high school. I'm Nigerian, but I enjoy watching baseball more than the normal soccer most Nigerians think you must watch to prove you're man enough. I didn't know I had been stalking my stepbrother's Instagram since fifteen. How would I know when I didn't even ask my mother what my new last name was.
Being the brother of a player like Zayd Raymond is sick — I mean the good kind of sick.
I broke out of my fan-boyish trance and admired the Greek god that stood right in front of me; he had the masculine features his dad has that I never wanted to acknowledge. His well-chiseled jawline — his pointy nose — and those broad shoulders; I just wish I had those features. But my worries are over since he was going to be my elder brother.
"What's this wimp doing here?" Zayd said, punching my weak shoulders playfully and breaking my teenage heart.
As hurtful as it was for me to accept, I'm kind of wimpy, small, and quirky. That's why I had no friends back in my hometown: Lagos. But he wasn't in a position to acknowledge that. Now I know why people say: never meet your heroes.
Jamal clicked his tongue and gave his eighteen-year-old son a disappointed glare, like that was supposed to make me feel better and gave him the benefit of doubt. "That's not the way you speak to your stepbrother," he ordered.
Zayd chuckled softly, "oh, so this is little Imran. I was expecting someone who fought with a lion." He affronted right in front of my mother.
That jerk. So racist. He was referring to Southwestern Nigerian's tribal markings. In some cultures in Nigeria, the act of drawing five straight and thick lines on their faces was common; it's like an identity for them. That doesn't mean all Southwestern Nigerians drew tribal markings on their faces — and I wasn't even from Ibadan. Honestly speaking, I also dislike tribal markings, but that doesn't give him coupon to insult my hometown.
"It's not all Nigerians that have tribal marks. I'm surprised you even knew that." My mother talked way before I could speak, like I wanted to say something. I also was abashed he knew that.
"I've been reading about Nigeria. And what I see here is an impressive work of Nigeria." Zayd said, his eyes scanning me tip-to-toe. "I'm glad you and dad got married, and I'm also happy to have Imran as my dawg." He expressed, tousling my Afro haircut with his large fist.
I broke from his grip. "I'm sure I'll love it here." I pushed his big body away from the way and walked off, more vexed than a rabid raccoon.
The only thing that could make me feel better was a video call with my best friend. And that's what I was going to do after settling 'in'.
Author's Note
Hey-o y'all. This is the second chapter of TLBB, I've drafted down this story for long and I didn't have the guts to upload it until now. How's the chapter, tell me what you think about it.
Glossary
1. Astaghfir allah: means 'I seek forgiveness in God' a statement said by Muslim when they commits a sin.
2. Wale: Is a Yoruba name, in full may be, Kolawale, Oluwale.
3. Lagos and Ibadan: are states in Nigeria.
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