“Are you sure about this?” Jemila asks as her shoe clicks the marbled walkway leading to Nne’s house.

With a hand planted on the small of her back, guiding her as a gentleman, I can’t read her body’s expression. The last few weeks have me learning more about her and knowing I am one of the few who can decipher her emotions, in and out of bed. She’s done a pretty job burying her emotions from view, making it hard for others to know the real her.

“Come on.” Chiding her for not trusting my judgement. I know how these things work. I’m not wet behind the ears. Besides, this is America. Bringing a friend home for Thanksgiving can mean a million things and nothing. “I would never have invited you if I wasn’t.”

She sighs as we get to the door, adjusting her thigh-length brown gown that has a sash or belt, whatever ladies call them, in the midsection. Her knee-high cream boots put ideas in my head better left for private moments. And those private moments, since the first time, we’ve had a handful of them in-between my place and hers. In all these times, she has only ever slept over once—Halloween night—and that was with much persuasion. It is strange having a woman since her stay over, but with Jemila, it seems right. Just like I pray with all that’s in me that I’m right about visiting Nne together.

Pressing the bell, we wait for what seems like hours and I quickly send a message to Nne, in case she’s busy and didn’t hear the bell ring.

“You don’t think we are rushing this? Seeing your mother when we’ve barely known each other for less than three months?”

“It’s no biggie, you’re my friend.”

Jemila had no plans for Thanksgiving, and I volunteered to handle that. Her friend, Ronke, whom she told me is her best friend in Nigeria advised her it wasn’t a bad idea. Besides getting naughty with every opportunity we get; I’ve come to know who matters and who doesn’t in her world. Those that matter are few. So far, I’ve heard of her great friend, Clive, and only spoken to Ronke over the phone once.

“It is.”

Instead of arguing with her, I openly admire her pert cleavage highlighted by her gown’s décolletage.

“It is… when your idea of making plans is to take me to your mother’s house.”

Why is she making this out to be more than it is? Dragging my gaze to her worried face, I speak in hushed tones in case Nne is standing on the other side of the door. “Thanksgiving is about being thankful. For one’s family. The things they have.” With one arm around her waist, I draw her closer. “I’m thankful for you.” Landing a soft kiss on her cheek.

Looking away, a small smile splays across her lips. “Alright. School me on Thanksgiving.”

“I really would love for you to meet my mom.” Slightly bumping my hips with hers to get her full attention. “And I want to know what you think about her.” Pushing it, I add, “Maybe she can become your dear mother-in-law?”

Gasping, she withdraws from my embrace in a flash. “You joke too much.”

Too bad. I was beginning to feel the warmth from her embrace in the chilly November evening. “Whatever makes you happy.” Using her favorite catchphrase on her.

She winces.

“I’m catching up.” I grin.

I should have stuck to hosting her at mine, just the two of us, like Halloween, but this is like killing two birds with one stone. Since I arrived in the USA in summer, I keep procrastinating visiting Nne and on calls, she doesn’t let me hear the end of it. Now I have the reason to.

They have fixed the court hearing for December and once that is over, I can fully commit to what is happening here. I don’t have to be in Nigeria for that, but I really would love to see Adaobi—my favorite blood relation in the world. She has been asking questions, like when she can come visit. It’s just been so frustrating with the whole charade going on.

And if spending Christmas with Jemila is something that might not happen, why not use thanksgiving to introduce her to Nne?

I’m only just realizing I really want her to like Nne. I don’t care if Nne doesn’t like her. Nne doesn’t like anybody. It’s an eccentricity we’ve come to accept. Okay, except for her grandchildren, whom she hardly sees, only gushes about them in pictures.

***

“What did you say you do again?” Nne asks the moment we finish the thanksgiving prayer, digging into our food.

She really went all out, embracing the American culture, using one full turkey amidst small bowls of mashed potatoes, salad, jollof rice, vegetables, fruit, and fried plantain. Who is going to eat this thing when our party of three is done? The said turkey is the first thing I bite into, and my taste bud comes alive. Nne hasn’t lost her touch.

“I’m a grad student.” Jemila says between delicate bites.

“Not that. Before grad school, some people work. And while in grad school, people work. What do you do?”

I should have known Nne would try this. What’s her business if Jemila is working or not? Isn’t being a student good enough?

Jemila briefly turns a worried face at me before facing Nne with a forced smile. “I—I was a volunteer for the VSO in Abuja. And I am currently applying for positions in WHO and—”

Nne drops her cutleries, leaning back on her chair. “So… you don’t have a job right now?” an incredulous look on her face when her gaze lands on me.

Pursing my lips, I watch as the drama unfolds, hoping Jemila has what it takes to put Nne in her place. I’ll only intervene if Nne is becoming overbearing.

“Not at the moment.” At Nne’s exaggerated sigh, Jemila adds, “But I did something during the summer. I managed the school’s library.”

A brow ticks on Nne’s face as Jemila’s response seems to satisfy her because she resumes eating, but returns to firing questions like a drill instructor. “How much does that pay per hour? Don’t tell me you rely on your parents or my son to take care of you.”

Okay mom. That’s it.

Before I utter the words on the tip of my tongue, Jemila’s resounding “Excuse me,” and the clatter of her cutleries hitting Nne’s fine ceramic dish resounds in my ears.

“My dear,” Nne begins, like she didn’t just drop a loaded insult on her guest, “I am not trying to get into your zone or how do you children of this day say it? I just want to know what type of entrepreneurial spirit you have and if you are the type to sit around, waiting for this one to provide for you.”

Proper Nne. I snort. “I’m this one?”

She hisses. “You are my son, but you’re still a man.”

A tiny, pained smile flashes on Jemila’s face. “I do fine by myself, ma. Thank you.”

We resume eating, and I make sure the discussion moves to mundane, non-threatening or insulting things.

“So…” Nne please, ask a normal question. She’s just a friend. Don’t scare her away. “How old are you?”

“Nne… She’s my friend.”

“Ah. I’ve been asking this young man to visit me, but he has refused. Only for him to call that he is bringing a guest for thanksgiving. If you’re the one that has been keeping him busy all this while, I need to familiarize myself with you so I can call you to check up on him. It’s that simple. Eh? You even look too young to be hanging out with him.”

Oh fuck. Nne… “Nne, you can always ask me these questions. No need to make her feel uncomfortable.”

Nne makes a clicking sound with her tongue, turning to Jemila. “Adanne, do you feel uncomfortable?”

Forcing a tight smile. “No ma’am.”

“Good.”

“Just slightly unprepared.” Placing her elbow on the table, Jemila asks, “What about you? Why don’t you live in Nigeria?”

Oh… Someone is dishing exactly what they’re getting. What game is she trying to play now? I’ll recommend leaving Nne and her dramatics alone.

“I prefer this place. There is security. I have peace of mind knowing… knowing I can call 911 if I have any health emergency. Besides, Jidenna’s father is a stupid man.”

What a wonderful thanksgiving dinner this is turning out to be. Nne chooses to be her blunt self. Onyekachi will not let me hear the end of this. Shebi I tell you say make you no carry the babe go, is what he would most likely say.

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