Twain Became One

CHAPTER 1: Longings for home

BALTIMORE, NOVEMBER 2013

PAMELA

The winter wind blew harshly and I pulled my woolen coat closer for warmth. For a Nigerian girl like me this extreme weather sometimes feels like torture.

I jogged up the small flight of stairs to the lecture theatre with a fuzzy head after having spent half the night before pouring over lecture notes and slides. I was late again for the umpteenth time but was relieved because it was almost over; No more night calls at the clinic, studying as if I would go insane or enduring Mr. Peter ogling me as always. I'm a finalist baby.

It's insane how much time we spend in the education system. The moment you start, it never stops. It's always one certificate after the other, all to keep the body and soul together.

This class in particular was boring. The lecturer droned on about primary health care for autistic patients while I used the time to perfect my drawing skills. I can't be the only one who draws on my notes in boring classes. I half listened and dozed off for the rest of the class. "See you next week for your test and orals." he finished in that deafening baritone voice of his and finally walked out.

Hallelujah somebody! Yes, I was that medical student that hated classes and long boring lectures, don't judge. I had my next class at 10am so I could either catch a little sleep, join some group discussion 'or eat' my grumbling stomach reminded me. And I chose the latter. I gathered my stuff quickly and made it outside the class when my phone rang with the familiar 'Pills and potion' song by Nicki Minaj.

Pills and potions
We're overdosing
I'm angry but I still love you. 🎶

I fished it out from my backpack immediately after rummaging in it for a while, "Temitope mi o oko mi atata" (Yoruba praise) my mum's voice came through and I couldn't help smiling.

"Good afternoon ma," I greeted, almost curtseying over the phone because Nigerian culture was drummed down into my skull.

A loud hiss followed and I face palmed myself mentally waiting for what I did wronb. "So you don't like speaking Yoruba again abi? Because you are not in Nigeria?" I scratched the space between my eyebrows in frustration and tried my best not to answer.

Questions like this in Yoruba culture were rhetorical. Meaning if you love your life, don't answer. Just keep mute, Yoruba mothers were dramatic they only want to cause more drama.

"You can't answer Temitope?" I rolled my eyes grateful that she couldn't see me right now.

"Sorry ma. My head is aching," I replied and let a stupid grin split my lips at how wise I was.

Crisis averted. Another random fact about Nigerian mothers or perhaps all mothers is that they forget what they are mad about immediately you tell them something is wrong with you. It works sometimes but not always, especially when you don't overplay that card.

"Ah kpele omo mi (sorry my child)" after which she went on and on about how she was sure I wasn't eating well, how I was her baby and whether I had prayed."

My mother, my gold as I usually call her is a typical Yoruba woman of fifty-two years old married to my father: Mr. Williams Ore. She was beautiful, chubby, Godfearing, all in all the pillar of our home.

I was cut shut from my reverie quickly with another question, "so when last did you go to church?"

"Ooooh God!" I groaned mentally. Not again. "Ma, I went on Sunday but I did not attend any of the weekday fellowships."
I waited for the usual long lecture that never came, "It's okay. "