Resurgence

2. Stranger Tides

This is not what I chose.

She didn’t belong to the stereotypical class of hardened, bitter women, who despised men because of some bleak past occurrence or gloomy memories. An unpleasant past she had indeed come from, but that hadn’t planted seeds of hatred within her or brewed some sort of unjustifiable dislike for the opposite sex. She hadn’t been closed off either, like an ancient guarded scroll exclusively for significant references. No, she had been none of that. Yet, here she was―lacking hoards of goodies that were attributed to a life that was the embodiment of love and warmth.

To her, it would have seemed as though stepping a bit overboard, by being too pedantic of matters inclined to such tides since she was still a relatively young woman. But, her friend was the living proof of an individual who was in possession of a vast variety of these commodities that she found scarce and quite ostentatious at an age that was roughly the same as hers. But then again, of what use was constant fretting? She’d rather dispense the energy exhumed by these thoughts into more productive things.

As the haze of her reverie dissipated, her thoughts crashed back to the present and to the image before her. Fisayo was now setting her long natural, velvety hair into order. She brushed it in a quite aggressive, punishing manner and tucked some stray strands into an organized fashion. Natural hair was probably a woman’s greatest headache. But what did she know? Married women and mothers probably had other things of greater, excruciating pain.

Fisayo hardly bore any resemblance to a mother of two, though. She had maintained her slender shape despite the harsh constraints and ordeals that accompanied pregnancy, and taking into consideration that the pregnancy was consecutive, as she had put to bed twice in three years—the task had been no meager, underwhelming one. It required an immense level of strength, endurance and devotion that was rarer in the Nigerian community than honesty and integrity.

The entity surrounding her best friend, was what a large number of women of her caliber would label as Goals―stunning and gorgeous like a freshly discovered actress on the scene, who took a much
anticipated blockbuster with storm by breaking the boundaries and exceeding expectations that had been pillaged. Lani figured that she’d pretty much be head over heels in love with Fisayo―if she was gay, that is.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Fisayo frowned, leaning over the center table to retrieve her bag. “I hope you’re not planning on throwing anything else. It won’t be funny o! I will kuku throw you out of my house. It’s not only you that can throw things.”

“Ode, I’m just wondering when you’re going to start looking like an actual mother―and I’ll ignore the fact that you just objectified me and threatened to eject me from my brother’s house.” Lani said in a feigned bitter voice, with her lips pouted and her cheeks sucked in. Fisayo’s outfit for the morning was a green hooded winter overcoat jacket, with black latches and cuffs. Its helm was finished in a wool, fringy seam and was a couple of inches over her knees. “I mean, I’m sure people must have walked up to you at Finidei and Ebi’s school to ask if you’re actually their mother―or some mean, rich woman who snatched them from their actual parents as collateral for an old debt or something.”

“Oh, please! The whole ‘Matured women’ look―” Fisayo made quotation marks in the air with her index fingers. “―it sucks. Besides, there is no such thing. If a young lady decides to lose her outward glow and blame it on motherhood, then that’s personal.” Fisayo grunted, as her gaze fell to her legs. “Urgh! Why does this buckle keep coming off? Please come help me with it and where the hell is Dare! They’d say women take too much time to get ready, but who is the person acting like they’re putting make up now o? I’ve gotten down since and even prepped Finidei and Ebi, and yet he is still upstairs for reasons I can’t even decipher.”