Ace of Spades

by Faridah Àbíké-Íyímídé

“Well, I named you after my mother. Like you, she was smart and beautiful, knew what she wanted—and what she didn’t.” Her smile widens. “Chiamaka means ‘God is beautiful,’ and Adebayo, from my father, means ‘she who came in a joyful time.’” Mom never talks about her family; I’ve never even met them or been to Nigeria. But I know Mom loves them. Sometimes she’ll cook something and say, This was my mom’s favorite, or she’ll tell me about her childhood and the busyness of Lagos—where she grew up: Think New York is busy? Lagos is truly the city that never rests. But she never goes into detail, just gives me glimpses of her life before she married Dad. I’m always left feeling unsatisfied, like I’d dreamed of eating a meal after being starved for a year, got to have a bite, and then had it quickly snatched away before I could sate my hunger. I sometimes wonder if Mom’s family was as disappointed in her for marrying Dad as Dad’s family was when he married Mom. I wonder if they ever met me, whether they’d hate me for just existing, like Dad’s family does.