Chapter 1: Stranger Brother, Family Wahala

My brother na the quiet type—he never too like talk since we small. Everybody dey expect say na me go fit cure am somehow, but as e be—

You know say sometimes, the whole family go just dey look me with that eye, like say I fit use my mouth open my brother own. As if na magic. E no dey work that way for Naija house, abeg.

I wan try kunu (that fermented millet drink), but fear no gree me. The kunu dey smell sharp, like market morning—ginger and millet just dey rise for air. Na so I get sharp idea: I order big cup for am, come dey ask am with ginger, “Oya, how e be?”

For my mind, I dey hope say if I push am small, him go talk, maybe gist me, even if na to yab me small. But my brother just dey wave hand anyhow, panic catch am.

When my family begin pressure me about marriage, I vex, just yarn nonsense: “My brother don find eight suitors for me, I never choose one.”

I just throwaway the talk make dem free me. Dem no know say I dey find how to scatter their wahala. My brother face first red, then e come pale like chalk.

The bullet comments (all those WhatsApp group messages) begin fly for my front:

[Hahaha, this small sister dey use the main guy’s wahala like cheat code!]

[See as the main guy dey shake, e go soon talk!]

[Main guy: So na me be the family scapegoat abi?]

Even for that moment, I feel like say everybody just dey use us do comedy for back of their mind—like Naija family own Big Brother show.

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1

My brother don dey like this since e small. Because my parents no fit handle two pikin, dem send me—when I still dey suck breast—go stay with my grandma for village. That waka last seven years. Apart from Christmas holiday, we no dey see each other at all. Na when I reach school age, dem come carry me back house.

You sabi how dem dey do am for many Naija families, dem go just waka pikin for village make e learn sense, even if na hardship make dem run am. My own no different. Rain beat me for grandma place, but I still dey alive, abeg.

The day I return, na so I see one thin boy dey stand for door. He look like eleven or twelve, hair black and well-combed, skin pale, face fine—na only him eyes dey somehow empty. He just dey grip doorframe, dey look me small-small, like person wey dey fear. He shuffle leg for ground, toe dey draw line for dust.

E get as e be when you never see person for long—stranger inside your own house. E dey awkward die. The doorframe sef be like shield for am.

Mummy hold my hand, pause as she see am, come introduce us: “Morayo, this na your brother, Ifedike. Greet am, call am ‘brother.’”

I purse my lips, never even talk, next thing, sharp-sharp, glowing subtitles begin flash for my eye:

[Na here e start, the supporting sister wan begin fight for love!]

[Wuwuwu, see as the main guy don suffer, now him wahala sister go add join!]

[I no fit watch—she talk for their first meeting say, ‘I no wan call my brother,’ come wound the main guy!]

[…]

Sometimes, e be like all those Twitter people just dey for my head, dey analyze my life as if na reality show.

But nobody expect wetin happen next. As I see the boy eyes wey dey look me with hope, I smile, call am sweetly, “Brother.” Once I talk am, e eyes shine like bulb wey NEPA just bring light.

I notice say, as I call am brother, the air for the house just shift small. Even Mummy nod, small pride for her face. Ifedike own smile come like harmattan sun—soft but bright. Na that small thing fit break wall wey years build.