Lost in Assimilation

By

Tọpẹ Oluwọlé

Rachel kicked off her high-heels to one corner of the three-bedroom, Boston apartment she shared with Lanre, who studied law but decide to become a filmmaker, and Kayode, who was scheduled to start his Engineering program at Wentworth in a few weeks. Rachel turned on the fan to beat the summer heat and began fanning through her mail, when she saw her latest copy of Ovation, which a friend in Atlanta was kind enough to send her.

The phone ran, and Rachel ignored the first ring and began flipping through the glossy pages of the Nigerian, socialite tabloid when the phone rang again. She dropped the magazine and her handbag, and then picked the cordless phone of its base on the coffee table at the end of the tan leather couch. She glanced at the caller ID and it read +44234--, before the call terminated.

“That Jumoke girl.” Rachel sucked her teeth. “She is always ‘flashing’ me, when she decides she does not want to buy phone card.” Rachel grabbed her handbag next to the discarded stack of mail and pulled out a ten-dollar Africa phone card. She hated dialing GSM wireless phones because they ate up her minutes. “She is probably calling to complain about me not sending her the gari she has been harassing me about,” Rachel said as she dialed the number.

The phone rang about four or fives times before a pre-recorded voice speaking in a fake British accent said, “All circuit are currently busy, please try you call again later.” Rachel tried twice more before she got through.

“Hello?” Rachel said.

“Hello?” A male voice responded in a deep baritone.

“The is Rachel, who is speaking?” Rachel asked.

“Hello?” The male voice repeated.

“Yes, Hellooo! Who is this?” Rachel raised her voice

“Oluwafumialafia! Is it me you are talking to like that?” The man replied in Yoruba. He was so loud, that Rachel could still hear him when she moved the phone receiver away from her face.

Rachel winced, and then replied in Yoruba, “Daddy, do not be upset.”

Continuing in English, Rachel pleaded, “the line was not clear, and we are always having problems with this phone card.”

Mr. Okafor moved to a different subject once his daughter had apologized. “So, your mother and I will be arriving next Saturday on Vehgin Atlantic, flight three-two-four.”

“Ah-ah!” Rachel eyes widened “Next Saturday? I though you said the twenty-sixth before?”

“Eeeehn, that was before-before. I had to change it because I have a meeting for a big contract in Abuja next Thursday,” Mr. Okafor explained. “Is that going to be a problem?”

Punching the couch arm, Rachel seethed because she knew her answer to the question would be, “No sa.”

“Good, good.” Mr. Okafor replied. “Oh, your mother said she is carrying gari for you, because she knows you have probably finished the bag she sent you last.” Rachel was about to protest when her father interrupted her. “Have you written down the flight information?” Before Rachel could respond, he continued, “Veh-gin, TREE-TWO-WAAAN--” Rachel held her peace and scribbled down her father’s repeated itinerary. When she finally got a chance to speak, she heard, “you are out of credit,” in the same fake British accent, and then the line cut.

Rachel called the hotel and adjusted her parents’ hotel reservation. She then went upstairs, locked herself in her room, and the slipped into a hot bubble bath.

Lanre came home about two hours later at 7:40 P.M., wearing his gray sweatshirt and sweatpants. He tossed his boxing gym bag at the base of the stairs, and began going through his mail when he took a whiff of an aroma in the apartment. He strolled into the kitchen, saw Rachel, and then asked, “What’s burning?”

Rachel scowled at him. “You are very stupid.” Lanre recoiled and then noticed the table was set for three with glasses and silverware instead of the usual paper plates and plastic ware.

“What’s the occasion?” Lanre asked with a raised eyebrow.

Rachel avoided eye contact with Lanre and began scooping out rice from a big pot into a ceramic dish. “I just felt like cooking.”

“Well, it smells like burnt dodo. You’d better open the window, and put on the fan before you set off the smoke detector.

“You are very, very stupid!” Rachel yelled, and then composed herself. “I just wanted us to have dinner together for once that is all.”

Lanre cast her a suspicious glance, and then sat down. “You are up to something.” The front door opened and shut again. A young man, wearing an oversized shirt, baggie jeans and sneakers, walked to the kitchen with a black backpack slung across his left shoulder.

“Hello Kayode!” Rachel smiled.

“Hey Kay, what’s up?” Kayode put out his fist and connected it with Lanre’s.

“Whazzup people?” Kayode sniffed. “Who’s burning dodo?” Lanre bellowed, and Rachel scowled at Kayode.

“See, I told you!” Lanre laughed at Rachel. Rachel took a hand towel and flung it at Lanre, who ducked so the towel hit Kayode.

“What’d I do?” Lanre asked, raising his hands in surrender.

“I made dinner for everyone,” Rachel said, “but Larry is being ungrateful.”

Lanre frowned. “My name is Lanre.”

Kayode dropped his backpack beneath the table and took a seat. “When’s John’s comin’?” Kayode asked.

“John is not coming,” Rachel said. She opened open up the glass bowls of white rice, pepe stew, and mixed vegetables. Lanre got up to get the dish of dodo when Rachel glared at him. “Sit!”

“What’s the occasion then?” Kayode asked. He sat back down and reached for the bowl of dodo.

Rachel smacked his forearm. “Did you wash your hands?” Kayode strolled to the sink and complied. “I though at least you would appreciate a home-cooked meal.”

“True, true.” Kayode nodded.

Lanre waited until Rachel sat back down and then asked, “Why the special treat?”

My parents are arriving next Saturday,” Rachel blurted out.

“From Nigeria?” Lanre shouted, almost falling out of his chair. “Oh no, on no! Is this meet-the-parents?” Lanre joked.

Kayode said, “For real? I though they weren’t coming until Labor Day weekend?”

Rachel began serving Kayode’s plate. “Well, my dad has changed his mind.” Lanre brought this plate forward and Rachel served him wet rice, almost crimson stew, and charred dodo to which he winced. Rachel inhaled and continued. “I have a plan and I need your help to pull it off.”

“You must be really desperate to have gone to all this trouble,” Lanre said, pointing to the spread on the table.

“My parents have not seen me since I have been here, and they are always asking me when I will find a husband. They tell everyone I am a doctor and that I am planning to marry an engineer.

“Well, you are a pharmacist,” Kayode said. “You wear a white coat and you work with medicine.”

“And technically, John is an engineer,” Lanre added.

Rachel glared at Kayode, who was struggling with a singed piece of meat with his knife. “A pharmacist and a medical doctor are not the same.” She turned her attention to Larne who was shaving burnt edges off his dodo. “John drives the Red Line train!”

“If you’re okay with what John does for a living, so should your parents,” Lanre said.

“Ah, I cannot cope,” Rachel said. “If my parents see I have no prospects, they will try to do arrangee.” Both Lanre and Kayode stared at Rachel in shock.

“They don’t do that stuff anymore,” Kayode said. “Even my parents said they don’t care who I date, as long as I don’t give any girl bele.”

“Of course, you are a boy,” Rachel said. “It is different with girls. We cannot just do want we want without getting wahalla from this person and that person.”

Lanre sighed. “Okay, what are you scheming, and what does it have to do with us?”

Rachel smiled. “I will be happy to tell you.” She cleared her throat. “I need you--” Rachel pointed to Lanre. “--to pretend to be my boyfriend.” Lanre began gagging on a piece of meat he had just placed in his mouth. “And I need you--” she pointed to Kayode “--to be my driver.”

“Huh?” Kayode exclaimed.

“Just for the weekend,” Rachel added. Lanre and Kayode looked at each other in amazement.

“Lanre, you just have to pretend, just do not get any funny ideas,” Rachel said, “this is just business.”

“Okay,” Lanre grinned. “I’ll do it for a hundred bucks. Since it’s just business.”

“Thief!” Rachel screamed.

“You can always find someone else,” Lanre countered. “Believe me, I’m a bargain.”

“Fine!” Rachel responded.

“What about me?” Kayode chimed in. “I’ll settled for fifty dollars!”

“I do not think so,” Rachel shot back. “You still owe me twenty-five dollars for that parking ticket you got on my car. You will earn it sha, because you are going to pick up my parents from the airport and help me with their food. We all know I am not Top Chef.” Kayode and Lanre were silent.

“If I agree, I don’t have to pay you back?” Lanre asked, his eyes as large as saucers.

“No, you do not have to pay me back,” Rachel surrendered.

Lanre jumped out of his seat, ”I’m the man!”

“Yeah right.” Rachel dismissed him with a wave. “This is what I have in mind. Rachel spent the next two hours over dinner explaining what she would need from both Lanre and Kayode for the following Saturday. When she finished, they were all exhausted.

The following week, Rachel took them through their roles until she was satisfied with their performances. On Saturday morning, Kayode took Rachel to Haymarket to get fish, meat, and vegetables for the dinner. As they made their way through the mob of mostly immigrant customers and listening to brash vendors hawking their goods, Rachel wondered if she would make it through the gauntlet. “Can we stop?”

“No, not here,” Kayode said. “You can’t drop your guard for one second.” They both continued to weave through a variety of ethnicities in the Boston open-air market. Finally, Kayode swerved right and pulled Rachel with him down a rickety staircase with a single railing into a basement fishmonger. Kayode was used to the smell, but Rachel was gagging on it. A young Latino man, who had tubs of tilapia, croaker, and red snapper on ice, ran the shop.

“If you just want to make some fish, go for the croaker, but if you really want to blow their socks off, get some red snapper, you marinade it, and then you fry it.” Kayode rubbed his stomach.

“How do you know all of this?” Rachel asked.

Kayode replied, “My mom came here every weekend when I was a kid.”

“You are still a kid,” Rachel countered.

Kayode shrugged. “Whatever.”

“Okay, I will buy some red snapper,” Rachel said. After paying, Rachel and Kayode headed back to their apartment. On the drive back, Kayode wrote down cooking instructions for Rachel. When they arrived at the apartment. Rachel and Kayode caught Lanre watching a US Open tennis match.

“Is everything ready?” Rachel asked.

Lanre led Rachel by the arm into the kitchen where the table was already set for four. “I also got some soda, juice, and Malta Goya,” Lanre said.

“Thank you o!” Rachel exclaimed. She put the bags of fish and other foodstuff on the countertop to prepare for the meal. “Kayode, change!” Rachel yelled. “It is one o’clock already. Make sure you wear your best security uniform.” Kayode glanced at the clock in the kitchen and then ran out. Rachel and Lanre could hear heavy footfalls racing up the stairs.

“Are you really going to let him drive your Benz, again?” Lanre asked.

Rachel began cutting pepper, tomatoes, and onions for the stew. “I have no choice. My parents are used to being driven here and there by driver, but I cannot afford to charter one.”

Lanre helped Rachel gets the Knorr cubes from the cupboard over the sink. “The could always rent a car or take a taxi like normal visitors do.”

“Taxi ke?” Rachel said, and then snapped her fingers and swung her arm over her head. “God forbid!”

Half-an-hour later all the food was cooking. Rachel and Lanre once again heard heavy, but this time higher pitched footfalls descending the stairs. Kayode breezed into the kitchen. Gone where the street clothes. Kayode stood dressed in black dress shoes, gray slacks, a white shirt with a blue tie, and a blue blazer.

Rachel smiled and then nodded. “Sharp!” Then she caught his earring. “That will have to go.” She pointed to his left lobe.

“Naw, naw, that’s my trademark,” Kayode protested.

Rachel rebuffed him. “Unless you want my father inquiring about your sexual orientation for the rest of your life, take it off.”

“This is ridiculous,” Lanre interjected. “You’re acting like your parents are some dinosaurs from Jurassic Park. I know some of their ideas are outdated, but this is 2006, even in Nigeria. My grandmother uses a GSM phone and just about ever Mister Bigg’s or Tantalizers has a satellite TV with music videos from all over the world.”

Rachel replied, “You are correct. My parents are from Jurassic Park, from the back part.”

Kayode nodded in resignation. “I’ll take it off.”

“Thank you,” Rachel said.

“Can I have your keys?” Kayode asked.

“They are in my bag, in the sitting room,” Rachel said. “Take ten dollars for tolls, and parking, just in case.” Kayode walked out of the kitchen, and then a minute or so later Rachel and Lanre heard the front door slam.

“If Kayode is gone, who’s going to help you with the cooking?” Lanre asked.

Rachel stood there for a moment staring at Lanre as if he had three head. “What is the problem, all the food is cooking?” Rachel asked.

“Okay, okay,” Lanre replied. “I know how much this means to you that’s all. I’m going to take a shower and change,” Lanre said, and then walked out of the kitchen.

Rachel called after him, “Remember you are a banker!”

“Yes, I know, a banker at Goldman Sachs!” Lanre said. “I’d rather be a driver, there’s dignity in that!”

“You are very stupid!” Rachel yelled after Lanre. She walked in the sitting room and watched Lanre head up the stairs. Suddenly, all the tension and exhaustion in her bore down at once. Tiredness overtook her and she decided to take a nap on the couch.

An hour later she woke up to the sound of thumping down the stairs. “Rachel, the food!” Lanre yelled. He streaked by in black slacks and a blue dress shirt. In a snap Rachel was on her feet and in the kitchen. Faint white smoke had already began to fill the kitchen Larne shut off the cooker controls. The smell of burnt rice filled the air.

“Oooooohhhhh, no!” Rachel brought her hands to her head. She pulled two potholders out of the drawer next to the cooker and uncovered a burned pot of rice, and then a singed pot of vegetables, followed by a crater of pepe stew. “I am in serious trouble. What am I going to do?” Rachel turned to Lanre and began to shudder as she walked towards him. Lanre had no way of knowing if it was the stupid look on his face or his silence, but Rachel broke into tears. Lanre awkwardly put his arm around Rachel to console her.

“What am I going to do Lanre?” Rachel asked again. “My parents will be here in another hour.”

Lanre forced a smiled and then got Rachel some napkins from the dispenser on the kitchen countertop. “When the going gets tough, the tough order out.” Rachel looked up at Lanre in utter confusion. “I know a great Puerto Rican restaurant. Their food is very similar to Nigerian food.” Looking at Rachel, Larne expected an argument or at least a protest about real Nigerians not eating oyinbo food. Instead Lanre got a simple nod of agreement from Rachel.

After Lanre placed the lunch order for Rachel they practiced being a couple by exchanging in some sweetheart banter and recalling some facts about Rachel, like where she worked, how long she had been working there, her favorite color and so on. After an hour into the dry run of their farce, the doorbell chimed.

“It’s probably the food,” Lanre said, and then jogged to the door. He opened the door to see a young, lean man in his late twenties, on the doorstep holding three large shopping bags with Sabor written on each.

The man with curly, black hair, dressed in a droopy shirt and designer jeans, sized Lanre up. “You, Larry?” The delivery person asked.

Lanre eyes thinned. “Lanre,” he said.

The delivery person shrugged and replied, “Is this you?” He looked down the street as he showed Lanre the order sheet with the bill attached to it. Lanre could read the name written down was “Larry.” “How much?” Lanre asked the delivery person.

“Forty-seven fifty,” The delivery person replied.

“I’ll be right back.” Lanre went back in the house and returned with a wad of cash. Rachel strolled out behind him and grabbed the bags from the delivery person before he could protest. Lanre paid the delivery person exactly, forty-seven fifty.

“Aww, brother. That ain’t right,” the delivery person complained. “Don’t be like that.

“What’s my name?” Larne asked.

“Larry!” The delivery person answered.

“Sorry, that’s incorrect,” Lanre said.

“That’s what the paper sez,” the delivery person protested.

Lanre spun around to follow Rachel. “Have a nice day.”

The delivery person called after him. “Nah, nah, nah.” He grabbed Lanre’s shoulder. “It’s land-ray, or something like that.”

Lanre grinned. “Which is it? Lan-re, or something like that?”

“Yeah, what you said, Lan-ray,” the delivery person replied. Lanre handed him an extra ten dollars and went back inside.

Rachel and Lanre began placing the assortment of rice, beans, plantains, chicken, fish, and beef into ceramic serving dished that they then put into the oven to warm. Rachel eyes caught Lanre’s “Eh, I know we do not always see eye to eye, but thank you for doing this for me,” Rachel said. Just then Rachel’s wireless phone rang. She listened for the ring several times to track down where she had placed it. She ran into the sitting room to find it still in her bag, on the couch.

Lanre strolled in behind Rachel just in time to see her looking at the phone and then to hear the phone cut-off mid-ring as the caller was directed to her voice mail. “Who was it?” Lanre asked.

“John,” Rachel replied with sadness in her voice.

Lanre came in closer toward Rachel by the couch, in turn she gazed at the clock. “So, are you going to call him back?” Lanre asked.

Ignoring Lanre’s question, Rachel began dialing. “They should be back by now. It’s almost three.”

Lanre walked in front of Rachel until they were face to face. “You keep blowing him off,” Lanre said, “and sooner or later, he’s going to want to know what’s up?”

“Once my parents leave, I will tell him everything,” Rachel said. “He will understand. She heard Kayode’s voice mail begin, so she ended her call. Then Rachel went to the window and peered through the blinds.

“You should just tell your folks, you’re in love with a white guy and end this cona-cona of yours,” Lanre said.

Rachel sucked her teeth. “My parents did not send me here and pay my school fees, just so I can tell them I am in love with an oyinbo man. They would disown me.”

“How do you know, if you haven’t told them?” Lanre protested.

Rachel turned around. “I’m not like you!” Rachel exclaimed. “I just cannot do what I want because I was raised in America. I am Nigerian. Nigeria is all my parents know. They have certain expectations of me.”

“Yes, I know, be a pharmacist, marry a doctor-lawyer-banker, have twin boys, and go through the rest of your life being the good little girl your parents want you to be,” Lanre shot back.

With a look of contempt Rachel replied in Yoruba, “Lanre, you have lost your way.”

The doorbell rang and Rachel and Lanre stared at the door. Neither moved, as if unsure the bell actually rang.

“Hellooooo?” A deep voice with a thick Nigerian accent bellowed.

By reflex Rachel replied, “Coming daddy!” She then ran to the door. When Rachel pulled open the door Kayode barreled through with a huge suitcase in tow. He looked like he had been tortured as he grimaced with each grunt required to get the awkward load into the sitting room. A short, robust and handsome man in his sixties with a head full of hair, smiled at Rachel.

“Good afternoon sa,” Rachel said in Yoruba, and then prostrate with a slight bend at her knee toward the ground.

“Have you put on weight my dear?” Mr. Okafor asked Rachel as he walked in.

“She is fine,” the lighter and thinner Mrs. Okafor behind him said. “It just means she has been taking extra care of herself.” Rachel ran into her mother’s arms.

“Welcome mommy. I hope you both had a good flight?” Rachel asked She signaled with her hand for Lanre to help Kayode with the rest of her parents’ luggage. Mr. and Mrs. Okafor took a quick scan of the apartment and both nodded approvingly. “Will you eat?” Rachel asked the rhetorical question.

“One moment, one moment,” Mr. Okafor said as he sat down on the couch, where Mrs. Okafor joined him. “Shey, you will not introduce this young fellow helping your driver with all our portmanteaus?” Lanre took the cue and placed the third and final suitcase at the base of the stairs leaving Kayode to his own devices.

“Sorry, daddy.” Rachel grabbed Lanre by the arm as he came into the sitting room towards her. Kayode began lugging the first suitcase up the stairs. “This is Lanre,” Rachel said.

“Lanre what?” asked Mr. Okafor, looking directly at Lanre.

Putting on his best plastic smile, Lanre replied, “Lanre Dada.”

“Dada, dada?” Mr. Okafor repeated out loud. “I know a few Dadas, which Dada?” Mr. OKafor sat up, while Lanre took a seat, and waited for his response. Rachel’s forehead was already perspiring.

“Ilupeju,” Larne replied in monotone.

Mr. Okafor raised him eyebrows in recognition. “Taiwo and

Lekan?”

“My uncle and my father,” Lanre responded. Meanwhile Rachel beamed, happy that her father was satisfied with Lanre’s responses, so far.

“Lekan is your father?” Mr. Okafor asked for confirmation, and Lanre nodded. “I know Lekan, he was my senior at K.C.” Lanre let out a fake and patronizing laugh, and Rachel jabbed him in the ribs for it, but it was lost on Mr. Okafor. Finally, Mr. Okafor shook Lanre’s hand.

“Now that we know who you are,” Mrs. Okafor chimed in, “what is your profession?”

Before Lanre could respond, Rachel cut him off. “He is a managing director at Citibank!”

“Really?” Mrs. Okafor replied in a higher pitched tone and Lanre turned toward Rachel equally surprised. Rachel avoided eye contact with Lanre and continued, “Yes, o.” Lanre turned his attention back to the Okafors to see Mr. Okafor nodding.

“AH!” Mr. Okafor spread his arms out in front of him. “Lekan was head of my set at K.C., a born leader. He must be proud.” Rachel’s wireless phone rang again. She glanced at the caller ID to see that it was John, again. Rachel quickly pressed the END key.

“Do you have to take a call?” Mr. Okafor asked.

Rachel quickly reacted. “No, no daddy, just-- It was not important.” She got up and straightened her skirt. “Are you ready to eat?” Rachel asked again. Heavy footfalls and thumping echoed in the sitting room as Kayode finished dragging up the last suitcase.

Mr. Okafor rubbed his stomach. “Let us chop then.” Rachel led her parents into the kitchen with Lanre bringing up the rear. In the kitchen Rachel motioned for her parents to be seated. Lanre sat down last. Rachel began bringing the Spanish rice, which looked like Jollof rice, followed by some beans, and then fried plantains.

“This smells quite delicious my dear,” Mister Okafor said as Rachel went back to the oven and pulled out dishes of shredded beef, fried chicken wings, and fried tilapia. She placed them on the hot plates in front of Lanre, and Mrs. Okafor smiled.

“You have a good woman there, you know.” Mrs. Okafor said to Lanre.

Smiling nervously, Lanre replied, “Every night I’m reminded how great she is.” Lanre awkwardly reached out and patted Rachel on the back like a buddy would.

“Hmph.” Mrs. Okafor shot Lanre a mischievous look, which Mr. Okafor caught.

“You lovebirds do not have to be shy around us o!” Mr. Okafor started. “We know how it is with young love. I know normally you would be touching each other every time.” Rachel eyes widened in embarrassment. “Are you not going to feed your driver?” Mr. Okafor asked Lanre.

“My who?” Lanre asked, caught off guard.

Mr. Okafor returned a blank stare. “Your driver, the young man that picked us up from the airport.” Under the table, Rachel kicked Lanre in the shin.

“OH!!!” The Okafors were startled. “Kayode!” Just then Kayode walked into the kitchen looking like he had just run the Boston Marathon in his suit, as sweat poured from his forehead. Everyone turned to Kayode as he skipped the pleasantries and grabbed the spare chair in the corner and pulled up between Lanre and Mrs. Okafor.

“Are you not going to wash--” Mrs. Okafor began, but stopped when Kayode flashed her a look of death. Rachel then changed the subject.

“Daddy, can you pray for the food?”

“Thank you my dear, of course,” Mr. Okafor said, and then began praying. Thirty minutes later, Lanre was dosing off, and Kayode was irate with hunger. Finally, Mr. Okafor ended, “…in Jesus’ name. Amen.”

Lanre and Kayode both reached from the rice, but Rachel swiped the bowl from their grasp and passed it to her father, who smiled as he smacked his chops. “You did a wonderful job my dear,” Mr. Okafor said as he heaped rice, beans, chicken, beef, and plantains on his plate.

“Of course, she’s my daughter,” Mrs. Okafor chimed in. “How did you get the Jollof rice to smell like that? How did you get the texture on the beans? I can not wait to taste it!” Mrs. Okafor asked.

Rachel stammered as she though up a response to her mother’s inquires. Luckily, Rachel’s wireless phone rang again. It was John’s number again on the caller ID. She pressed the END key, promptly sending him to her voice mail.

After Mr. and Mrs. Okafor served themselves, Lanre and Kayode followed, shoving food from the bowl straight into their mouths, it seemed. Rachel’s phone rang again.

“You are a popular person o!” Mrs. Okafor mused. Without looking at her phone Rachel knew it was John.

“It is better if I shut it off so it does not interrupt our meal,” Rachel replied with a placating smile. Suddenly, the front door open quickly and then closed just as fast. Rachel glanced to Kayode who was staffing his face with plantains.

“I wasn’t the last to come in!” Kayode said, glaring at Rachel.

Mr. Okafor almost choked on his chicken. “You let your driver speak to you in that manner?”

Just then a burly, thirty-something man, with red hair, wearing shorts and a U2 T-shirt, stormed into the kitchen. “I’ve been calling your phone all weekend.” His gaze fixed on Rachel.

“Oh baby! I--” Rachel turned pale as she caught herself. Lanre wished he could disappear into the chair. Mr. and Mrs. Okafor looked at the White man who had just stormed into the kitchen.

“What is the meaning of this?” Mr. Okafor demanded. “Who are you, and what are you doing in our daughter house?” Mr. Okafor got to his feet; with Mrs. Okafor trying to pull him back down.

“I’m John, Rachel boyfriend,” John replied.

“Wait a minute,” John and Mr. Okafor said simultaneously. “You’re Rachel’s parents?” John asked, and then looked to Rachel.

“I though Lanre was the boyfriend?” Mr. Okafor looked to Lanre who shook his head and pointed to John. Kayode, amid the shock, grabbed his plate and crept out of the kitchen.

“Rachel!” Everyone said at the same time. Rachel sat dumbfounded

“Oluwafunmialafia Rachel Okafor!” Mr. Okafor finally spoke. “We demand an explanation.”

Slowly, Rachel rose out of her chair and walked towards a perplexed John. She then reached out and held his hand. “Mommy, daddy, this is John, my boyfriend. We have been dating for the past two years.” Rachel then pointed to Lanre. “Lanre is my flatmate, Kayode also.” She held her head down, staring at the table but at nothing in particular.

“Why the charade?” Mrs. Okafor asked. “Are you so ashamed of us, that we could not meet your gentleman?”

Rachel shook her head. Lanre crept out of the kitchen grabbing his plate. “I was afraid you would not approve of my dating him,” Rachel said.

“I am disappointed you have such little faith in us,” Mr. Okafor said.

“I am so sorry daddy,” Rachel said. “I just didn’t know how to tell you and mommy about such a wonderful person that happen not to be Nigerian.

Mr. Okafor managed a smile, and then held his daughter’s free hand. “My dear, you just did.”

THE END