1: Freedom!

I've always dreamt of living alone.

This isn't because I don't like my family (they're the best); neither is it because I have something under my sleeves. It's because I love the picture painted on the internet. 

I like the idea of being the one to make decisions on what to eat, when to eat it and how to eat. I love that I could go out and come home whenever I wanted without being hassled upon my return; the freedom to embrace the cold air with my naked body. I love all the pros that come with living alone because this equals absolute freedom — something I've never really had the chance to experience.

Like most Nigerian parents, mine expect me to follow a set of rules without contradictions or refusal. Don't go to your friend's place or go out with them, they might be occult members scheming your initiation. Once you come home from school, it's straight to your homework and no staying out late — 6 pm is the curfew. Your friends can't visit because they're scared to the bones of your dad's killer glare. And the list goes on.

So, while I pack my bag, my heart flutters with excitement. I can't wait to be in my new house — even though it's temporary, it'll give me a break from this locked-up life and a chance to explore a little. 

Even my younger sister can't wait to get rid of me.

“I'll keep my books here." Joy squares her fingers as she pictures her stack of books on my table.

I turn from my wardrobe. “Which books?”

She pretends not to see me as she heads my way. “And maybe I'll keep my shoes down there.”

Slightly twisting around, I see she's pointing at the lower section of my wardrobe. “Joy. Joy. Don't let me hear that you put your nonsense inside my room. It won't be funny.”

“Humph!” She waves her hands around like she's clearing the air, her nose crinkled. “What's that smell? Whose mouth is smelling like that?”

I reach over and slap the back of her head.

“Ow.” She slaps my arm. 

“No o. Shebi, I'm a ghost. You weren't supposed to feel that na.”

She sneers at me and goes over to sit on the bed, resting her palms behind her. “Hope you remember what I told you yesterday?”

I return to taking out my clothes from my wardrobe. “What did you tell me?”

“You haven't even left here and you've forgotten already.” Her eyes widen as she sits up.

“If it was important, I'm sure I wouldn't have forgotten.” I fold one of my dashikis, bending to lay it on the neat pile of clothes in my bag.

“It's very important o.” 

I roll my eyes at her, a hundred percent sure that she's exaggerating. 

“I even gave you a list. Where is it sef?” She asks.

I glance over my shoulder to see her leave the bed for my drawer, which she begins to pull out one after the other. 

“Where did you keep it?” She asks.

Although I already remember what she's talking about, I ignore her and keep sifting through my hung clothes.

“Sister Deborah," she says, her frantic behaviour a part of the drama. 

“Don't scatter my stuffs o,” I tell her.

When she eventually realizes I've thrown her list out, she slams the drawer shut and I jerk forward.

“Madam, I hope you have money to fix it when you spoil it.”

She folds her arms over her chest. “You've thrown it away, abi?”

I shrug indifferently and turn back to my wardrobe.

She scoffs. “You're just lucky I know it by heart.”

“By heart ko. By heart ni. Oyinbo oshi. Instead of you to just say off-hand.” 

When I don't hear a reply, I turn to see her fishing out a book from my small pile on the table, which she turns to the back and then picks up a pen. 

“Number one: send five hundred naira card to Joy every week.”

Shaking my head, I laugh and bend down to force my clothes into my bag. I've barely packed anything and it's already full. 

“Number two: send allowance of... Let me just pity you and write 2k. Weekly allowance: 2k.”

The clothes won't fit in, so I decide to close the bag and sit on it. 

The door opens as Chioma runs into the room, giggling with a pencil in her hand. Her twin brother follows a few seconds later, a deep frown on his face.

“Big sis, tell Chioma to give me my pencil," Chima says, his small arms crossed over his chest.

Chioma and Chima are my youngest siblings, being nine years younger than Joy.

“Chioma, give him his pencil," I say from where I'm seated.

“I told him I wanted to borrow it, but he didn't want to give me,” Chioma turns to say to me.

“That's because you'll spoil it,” Chima says and tries to snatch the pencil from behind.

Chioma tightens her grip and they begin to pull from both ends, both squabbling.

Exasperated, I let out a groan. “Ooh, God! Chioma, give him his pencil na. Don't you have yours?”

“Number three...” Joy remains unbothered as she continues to make her list.

It's so like Chioma to collect Chima's stuff while claiming to be 'borrowing' it. But what I think is she's trying to get on his nerves and it always works. Unlike her nine-year-old twin brother, Chioma loves to play. She's an energetic kid who always wants to be the life of the party. Although it's good that she's a spirited character, she most times gets on my nerves because she doesn't know when to quit.

Sighing inaudibly, I'm glad that I won't have to witness this for a while.

Still seated on my bag and shouting at Chioma to let go of Chima's pencil, Mom enters the room and hurries over to separate the two.

“What is going on here?” she demands and glares at me. “And you, you're here watching them?”

“As if it's anything new,” I say.

“What is it now?” Mom demands from the twins.

“Chioma won't give me back my pencil.”

“I just want to borrow it. I won't take long.”

“Don't you have your own pencil?” Mom asks Chioma.

“It's not sharpened.”

“And don't you have sharpener? I bought you sharpener last week.”

Chioma lowers her head. “I can't find it.”

Mom thins her lips in disapproval. “Sharpener that I just bought for you last week, you've lost it. Do you think money is falling from heaven here? Oya, give your brother his pencil.”

Her head snaps up. “But I want to use it.”

“So? Is it your own?”

Grumbling, she throws the pencil at Chima and stomps out of the room.

I roll my eyes as I stand up to use my hands and press the clothes down.

Chima picks up his pencil and also leaves the room.

“Chioma eh,” Mom says as she straightens. “Nwanne gị nwanyị na-ewe iwe maka ihe ọ bụla.” She stops a little behind me. “What are you doing?” 

Frowning, I straighten with my hands to my back. “I don't know why, but the bag can't contain the rest of my clothes.” 

“Number six: buy me new clothes," I hear Joy say and look over to see she has already pulled out my chair to sit on as she writes.

“What's this one doing?” Mom nods her way.

“Don't mind that one. She thinks I'm going to meet Dangote in school, so she's writing a list.”

“List for what?” Mom nudges me aside and opens my bag. “Look at. Just look at the nonsense you're packing.”

I peer over her shoulder. “Ah-ah. What happened to it?”

“How will you know what happened, when it's your bum-bum you're using to pack clothes.”

“That's not what I was doing.”

“Ka m nu ihe.”

“Number seven: by the time you've reached 200 level, you should've saved enough to get me a laptop.”

Mom looks at Joy, who feels her intense gaze and turns. A sheepish grin causes her to flash her teeth as she begins to cancel out the request while I remain where I am, snickering.

***

“Deborah,” my dad calls. 

“Sir,” I answer, my stare flickering from his intense facial expression to my mom's.

“Deborah," he calls again and I answer him.

If he calls me a third time, I'm as sure as anything that I'm about to receive a talk of a lifetime.

“Deborah.” He makes it a third time, causing me to bite the inside of my cheek before I answer. “Be careful.” He pulls his left ear. “What did I say?”

“Be careful.”

“Be careful. Tomorrow, you'll be resuming school and you won't be living with us until you finish. This means your mother and I," — I glance at my mom, her expression a bit neutral, though I know she shares his thoughts — “Won't be with you at that place. After dropping you at your hostel, you won't see us again until you come home during the weekends or holidays. Now, I don't want you to see this as an opportunity to invite the whole world into your house or do nonsense. You are being sent there to read your books and pass your exams. This is for your future and not mine or your mother's. If you like, go there and mess up. You'll be the one to bear the shame.”

It's about my future, yet I'm not the one making the choices or calling the shots.

“Yes, sir,” I simply reply.

“You know you're still a virgin,” he adds and I gulp. 

I mostly have this kind of talk with my mom — never with my dad — so it causes me to shift my weight from one bum to the other, my soft foam suddenly feeling like needles as my butt grows sore.

“Stay that way until you get married," he says. “Boys your age will come; there's no... There's no saying they won't. They will come. It's only left for you to hold yourself. You know it is a very big disgrace for a woman to lose her virginity before marriage.”

Although not disputing or disagreeing with this statement, I always wonder why it's never a disgrace for the man to lose his virginity. I mean, the female gender was never solely addressed when the issue of virginity was mentioned in the Bible.

But of course, I'll never say this out loud, unless I'm ready for a factory-resetting slap, coupled with long hours of boring speech and sermons. 

My dad keeps going on and on about the dos and donts that I must abide by when I move into my hostel. Even though he won't be there with me, he expects me to remain as though he is. That's my dad for you. A totalitarian, a word I discovered that best describes my dad. He always believes he's right, expecting every one of us to bow to his supremacy with no questions asked.

I love my dad. Although he can be very annoying and controlling, he's a good man with good intentions. He simply has a terrible way of projecting his sincere feelings or wishes.  

“Hope you heard me?" I catch him saying and I'm grateful that I did, if not...

“Yes, sir,”

“Eberechi,” my mom calls me by my Igbo name — an unbreakable habit that I only find annoying when we're outside the house because my mates tend to make fun of it.

When I look straight at her, expecting a recap of all dad has said, she shocks me with a five-word sentence: “Remember whose daughter you are.”

...

Words/phrases and their meaning:

* Shebi: I thought

* Dashiki: a loose brightly coloured shirt or tunic, originally from West Africa.

* Abi: right

* Oyinbo oshi: Oyinbo means a white person. The Yoruba phrase is a kind of insult for people trying to behave differently, mostly in a sophisticated manner.

* Oya: is a Nigerian slang that has no definite meaning, however, it is used in a given context which could mean come, let's go, start or basically just an endearment to begin something or respond.

* Nwanne gị nwanyị na-ewe iwe maka ihe ọ bụla: this your sister easily gets annoyed for nothing

* Ka m nu ihe: let me hear word/something