Basquiat.

chapter five.

•••

Masika

Drips of sweat glazed my forehead as I continued to stir the pot of stew that I was preparing for my dad.

Ever since my mother died, I had taken on the everlasting work load around the house.

"Be fast Masika, my colleague's should be here very soon," my father called after me.

"I'm almost done daddy," I merely whimpered due to my slight headache.

Oh how I missed my mother, her warm embrace, touch, the very sound of her voice.

"A woman's duty is to keep a cleanly home and keep her husband happy."

My mother's words rang in my head like a bell.

I hated the sexist, biased, and unreasonable treatment African women received.

We've become so immune and unphased by it that it's passed on to our younger generation.

Cook. Clean. Wash. Repeat.

I wanted more than to make someone other than myself happy. Didn't I deserve it? Wasn't I worthy? Or was I nothing but a woman?

I juggled college, my father, church, and my job.

A job that my father had yet to find out about. I told him that I attended bible study during the evening, but in reality that was a bold faced lie.

I worked at a bar.

Probably one of the most unholy places you could think of.

And the daughter of the former Nigerian Chief Mbanefo was working there every weekend.

"Masika they are here. Go inside, and fix yourself up. You're not looking presentable," He snarled.

I looked at him for a long while contemplating my next action.

"Sure daddy, I will be down soon."

"Wear the dress I had tailored for you and cover yourself completely. Your modesty is very important, cover your head and body."

I nodded my head.

"Carry on."

--

As I walked downstairs, each of my father's friends stared at me lustfully as they sought out a common prey, me.

These men could all be father's to me, yet could care less about that or their wives at home.

"Hello to you all," I waved from the stairwell.

My father, unpleased with my greeting, gave me a stare that could turn a man to stone. He wanted to to come down and greet each of them individually.

"Masika, you've grown to become a beautiful young woman," one said.

"She resembles her mother," another said.

"How old are you now, my child?" My father's best friend, Emeka questioned.

"21, sir."

"Ah. Mr. Mbanefo, why isn't she married? She is a woman now."

My father stared at me and rubbed my shoulder roughly.

"She will be wed very soon, my brother. Isn't that right Masika?" He said while gripping my shoulder tightly.

I faked a smile and slightly chuckled.

"Yes daddy."

"My son is looking to get married soon, the two of you should get to know one another," Another man said.

"Uh I-"

"She would love to meet him," my father intruded.

"Great."

Yeah great... Just great. Kill me now.

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