“Do you think Isabella suffers because she’s closeted?” I ask. “Maybe.” With a broad, red-handled knife, Taiye cuts into the soft yellow-green skin of the pawpaw. A firm push down and the fruit falls open in two even halves, tiny juicy black seeds glistening in the candlelight. “Maybe her brain just doesn’t make enough serotonin, and she needs help,” Taiye continues. “But you know our people. Nigerians don’t get depressed. She really should just pray it away.” She chuckles as she guts the fruit.
