Ties That Tether

by Jane Igharo

Let go of the life you’ve planned and accept the life that’s waiting for you. For a moment, I wonder what that would be like. If I hypothetically let go of the life I have always envisioned, the life I have meticulously planned, what else would there be? What else would be waiting for me?

I hate it when she does that, when she turns my apology into an insult. Sorry for yourself. Try to apologize to a Nigerian mother and that’s usually the phrase you get in return.

Immigrants chase success differently because we have something to prove to the people we left behind and the people who note our differences—our accent, our appearance, our religion, our culture—every day.

“Whenever I tell people I grew up in a village in Africa, they imagine mud huts and a safari in my backyard. They imagine a society stricken with poverty and disease and incomprehensible people.” I roll my eyes. “The truth is, my village was far from being a metropolis. Sure, it was quiet, rural, and simple. But our ancient customs and the simplicity of our lifestyle didn’t make us uncivilized. We were a community of teachers and doctors and farmers and vivacious marketwomen whose sharp wits and quick tongues could easily rival many university graduates.

“You choose him.” She lifts her chin and looks down at me. The disdain in her dark eyes is so vile, she almost doesn’t look like my mother. “You imagine a future with him. Okay. Fine. But ask yourself this: How much more of yourself, of your culture will you lose to accommodate him in your life?”

But I don’t want to think so far ahead. I’ll just relish this moment, even as it slips through my fingers like sand.

It all fed something in her—the desire to be the exception, to be the but in every sentence.

“You can’t please someone who’s dead,” Efe mutters. “Yes, but you can honor them.” “And dishonor yourself.”

It’s only normal we learn about each other’s culture—I take on some of his, and he takes on some of mine. Doing that doesn’t mean he’s any less of an Italian and I’m any less of a Nigerian. It just means our world expanded, became richer.” Perhaps that was Rafael’s intention, and I was too scared and naive to envision it.

Your father is dead, and I am alive. I cannot live my life for him.” “But you’ve made me live mine for him.” And this is it—the life-altering moment of realization.

“Baba is dead, and I am alive.” I nod at this simple logic that has somehow evaded me for thirteen years. “He was a good father with good intentions, but he is dead. And for thirteen years, I’ve been obeying a dead man, striving to keep a promise I ignorantly made. And you have been holding that promise over my head.”

“Mom, I know I hurt you, but you didn’t love me enough to just forgive me. Your forgiveness had conditions.” “Azere.” Her mouth falls open, her chin trembling slightly. “How can you say such a thing? Of course I love you.” “No, you don’t.” It’s agonizing to admit this—to say it out loud, to breathe life into the terrible words I’ve been mulling over for days. “Mommy, you don’t love me enough. Your love, like your forgiveness, has conditions.”