That Lonely Black Boi

[0] Prologue

The atmosphere was harsh -- maybe it was the way my face was scrunched, like the angry granny game on Nokia phones. I inhaled painfully. Everyone at the airport had happy faces, smiling and eagerly waiting for their loved ones. I wished people held a white placard with their surname above their heads, waiting for us. Instead, I got him — my half-white stepfather-to-be.

The flight from Nigeria to Atlanta was supposed to be smooth, but for me it was far from it. It being my first flight outside my country, I was worried. When I realized I wasn't going back to Nigeria, it ignited a grotesque feeling inside my guts.

I was definitely going to be jetlagged.

There he stood next to other foreign people, looking sharp. A Ray-Ban sunglasses was glued to his face, probably to hide his demon-like demeanor that only I could perceive. His aura of cunningness was perceptible, but my mother's nostrils were filled with the deceptive stench of love, unable to notice what was right under her nose.

That was why she had a small wedding back in Lagos. Being a widow for three years can be daunting; she grieved for three years, and I can relate. But her marrying the man she met on a business trip was sickening, and not just any man but an Atlantan man. The wedding was a small one; Jamal had to come over to Nigeria for the mediocre nikkah. The only thing that made me smile was the surplus jollof rice — mum had no friends over; all her childhood friends were either on a trip or a vacation.

Those parts were unnecessary for me. I had no right to blame the woman who had cared for me since my douchebag dad allowed a measly prostate cancerous tumor to win the battle he could have won easily. But the way Jamal looked, I knew he was trouble.

"Hey, Soraya!" Jamal called, trying to get my mother's attention after I saw him and ignored his existence.

My mother's eyes lit up like a midnight moon. "Ife," she yelled.

Love.

Ugh. Disgusting. They were ancient and that color of too-deeply-in-love didn't look good on them both. Plus, she called him my late dad's nickname and I didn't even bother to know if he understood what my mother said.

"A-yo," Jamal replied. To my surprise, he also knew how to speak the Yoruba language — a little — I guess. My mother wasn't joking when she told me Jamal's ancestors were from the Southwest part of Nigeria.

Without hesitation, formerly Mrs. Ibrahim hurriedly hugged her billion-dollar husband, linking her hands across his neck. They both locked eyes, speaking the language I could never understand, with their eyes: love language. Jealousy and anger enveloped me at that instance. My mother wasn't supposed to be over my dad so fast: they were the couple goals back in the days when my dad was alive. When we once engaged in a truth or dare session, my dad asked her if she would ever marry again after he left. With love, my mother gave him the answer I was expecting — she said she would forever be a widow, and if she were to remarry, it would be after five years.

It had only been three years, and here she was crossing an ocean for a man.

"Where's the car?" I inquired angrily, breaking the big get-together they were having.

Jamal flashed a smile at me instead. "Hi, War-lay. Pleased to meet you again," he greeted, handing me a chocolate bar.

Actor.

I snatched the choco-bar from his clutches. "Thank you—" I eyed, "—where is the car?" I inquired again.

"Imran, behave this instant; your dad isn't your driver fah." My mother intervene, embarrassing me with her harsh Nigerian accent.

"Step — mom rephrase your words," I said, pushing my suitcase forward and walking over to a red Porsche I saw in a distance of my eyesight.

"Son, that's not the car," Jamal called from behind, and I looked at the vehicle he was pointing at.

A Mitsubishi Mirage?

I couldn't hold my laughter; it sputtered out randomly. Clearing my throat, I asked, "Can we go now?" standing next to the cheapest car I've ever seen.

"Let's bounce!" He yelled, tickling my mother.

God take Jamal and return my father. I prayed insidiously before following him.

Author's Note

Hola mi amigos, welcome to my new story. Don't mind our protagonist, he's been through a lot lately, how much do you guys relate with him?

Lemme know how this first chapter is, and some actual inspiring comment would be very much appreciated. Love y'all.

Glossary

1. Jollof: is a spicy Nigerian dish and also the shortened form of jollof-rice.

2. Yoruba: a tribe/language in the southwestern Nigeria.

3. A-yo: means Joy in Yoruba language.

4. Ife: means Love in Yoruba language