Waver✓

T W O

<Listen to God with a broken heart. He is not only the doctor who mends it but also the father who wipes away the tears.>

|2|

"MOM! I'M home!" I yelled as I crossed our front lawn in four large strides.

"Yoo!! Mom! Your favorite girl is in the house!" I shouted once more, grinning from ear to ear.

The minute I was out of school and in the safety of my home, I dropped my shy bullied self and became the complete opposite, more like an alter ego.

This was pretty weird honestly but you can't blame me. Home was peaceful. At home, I wasn't black, I was just messing and I was loved. Home made me feel like a somebody and when I mean home, I meant my two lovely parents.

"Quit that racket honey, I can hear you. I'm not deaf!" Mom yelled back from someplace within the house. She was probably in the kitchen because I perceived the delicious aroma of fried fish. Mhmm. I wonder what she's got cooking.

My legs took me to the sitting room. Large and homey, the furniture was rustic and dark with vibrant cushions. A red plush carpet, that was dust and clutter free, covered the floor. On the walls were more of pictures in frames than paint. Every single picture was one of a happy memory; a smiling girl who was me, my birthdays and awards I had gotten, my parents on their wedding day and many other family pictures.

Of all the pictures hung on the wall, the one I loved most was the image of my parents on their wedding day. Mom appeared beautiful in her white gown and Dad was looking amazing in his fitted tuxedo. They seemed so happy and content together.

Whenever I saw that picture, I couldn't help but feel a pang in my heart. I wanted to find someone to be happy with too. Someone that didn't even have to be my lover. A friend would also do.

I sighed, dropping my bag on the carpeted floor and sat down on the couch, not wanting to move. This was just not a house, it was my home, our home; my parents made it that way.

"Olayinka! I'm in the kitchen. Bia ebe a!" My mom was talking in another language now; I wonder which.

She could speak several languages; French, Spanish, Russian, Arabic, German, Yoruba and Igbo. I wonder how she did that. I couldn't even get the hang of French that was taught at school to talk more of other languages.

Mom's a Nigerian who married my dad, an American hence I'm mixed. She usually told me about her country Nigeria and though I have never been there before, I longed to visit it. The stories my mom told me made it seem like an exotic place; the clothes, the cultural diversity, the food, especially the food, drew me. Besides, I really wanted to know more about my heritage too.

"I'm coming Mom and stop switching to another language. I don't quite get you," I said as I walked to the kitchen. I stood for a minute, taking in the scenery; a woman wearing a black and white coloured apron humming gently to herself while cutting vegetables. I beamed.

My mom was a tall, beautiful, brown skinned woman with jet black hair that always seemed to be in a ponytail whenever she worked, to prevent it from distracting her. She always had a small smile on her face and I believed she could take over the world if she wanted to. That was my mom, my inspiration. She was practically the love of my life after Dad.

She was preparing jollof rice, its delicious scent reaching my nostrils. My gaze met the fried fish in an uncovered pan. It called to me but I resisted its siren lure. Mom would not be happy if I helped myself to one.

I hugged her from behind. "What did you just say now? Bia. . . Ughh. I can't pronounce it. What does it mean and which language is that please?"

She laughed, a tinkle of musical tones coming from her lips. "I don't know why you didn't inherit my gift of being a linguist, Olay."