People/Life
Does The Absentee Parent Belong to The VIP Table?
Part II: Jordyn’s ex fooled, manipulated, and then dumped her. After a few decades, he appeared at the VIP table during his daughter’s wedding.
The stranger, Efa, called the following weekend, and we spoke for about twenty minutes. We talked a few dozen times and got to know each other. He sounded like a layback man with a few words and less personality.
Read part 1 here.
He introduced himself as the first son of his famous mom, although he was not well known. He briefly explained that he owned and ran a construction and accounting business, and a few people worked for him. He was a college graduate and lived in the US for about two decades. He never married or had any children.
I asked why he had not found someone to marry in the US. He seemed honest and explained that he tried, but it did not work out. He added, “I was frustrated and told my mom, and she suggested I find someone in Nigeria.”
He seemed honest with some of his life story, but he was too reserved on the phone, which was uncommon for older men. However, younger men tend to talk more about themselves when they want to court a woman.
Second, Efa was more interested and excited about my pharmacy degree and explained that healthcare jobs were always available in the US, and I would not have problems getting a good job. It seemed he knew more about me than himself.
Before I knew it, he emailed me professional licensing information in TX. Our discussion was more about me, not him, and I sensed low energy from him, but I kept my fingers crossed.
We spoke many times, and he asked me to marry him. And I said, “Yes.”
Within a few months, our families met, and we set all the dates and times for the wedding. I felt anxious and overwhelmed getting ready to marry at twenty-six to a thirty-seven-year-old man I did not know or meet face to face.
I was second-guessing myself and worried that I had not gotten to know Efa as I wished. We talked on the phone for only a few months. My mom reminded me that arranged marriages still worked more than romantic marriages. “You’ll get to know each other,” she advised.
Efa, the man.
Efa arrived before the wedding date. Unfortunately, the day he arrived was rainy, major roads flooded, and his car got stuck on the muddy road, which was stressful for him and everyone.
Later, he and his family came to our home to meet my parents, and I did not like his energy, as I suspected. He was quite different from his parents and three younger siblings. I guessed it was because he had been away for a long time.
His parents left, and he stayed behind for us to go through all the events and other things. He was frank and told me he had less than two weeks to visit. Surprisingly, after spending a few hours with Efa, his behavior seemed aligned with the dated traditions even after living in the US for about two decades.
Immediately after he left my home, I had a discussion with my mom, and she pushed it aside and counseled, “You can’t live like an Englishman because you lived in the UK. Listen, you can’t say no now. You can leave the marriage if it doesn’t work. FC is my third husband, and he’s the best human being. I’m still with him because he is a good person. Understand me, Maette.”
Awful.
At that time, mothers ruled my culture. They can make anything happen to their children, husbands, and siblings. Some of the mothers were the “Devil” in a good way. They have so much power that they fool everyone into believing they have less power.
I accepted my mom’s counsel and moved on with the marriage. I promised myself not to be like those mothers who wielded oppressive power. However, apples rarely fall far from the tree. I caught myself challenging my mom and being like her too often.
We married in a beautiful ceremony; everyone thought he was rich because my parents and I spent less than we budgeted. He bankrolled most of the things.
We spent our honeymoon at the Obudu Cattle Range and a few days in my flat. He was a little unsettled in my flat and wondered what would happen to it. I told him that it belonged to my mom. I added, “ I only pay her rent. My older brother lived here before he bought his house.”
“Your mom owned the flat?”
“Yes.” I thought, ‘Yeah, my mom was a troublemaker because she owned things and divorced twice.”
My mom was the only woman who owned flats in the complex then. She bought them before meeting my dad, still in her name.
Efa left for Sugarcane, TX, after thirteen days in Nigeria. I saw him off at the airport, and he was unsettled but reminded me to be safe and that the visas would be ready within a few months. He added if it takes longer, he will visit again. We kissed, and he departed.
I went back to work, and frankly, I felt off and did not miss him much, but I was hopeful that could change when we lived together. I told my mom, who encouraged me, “Aya mfon, it’s normal because you are still strangers until you live together for about a year or more. No worries. aya mfon.”
Part III
I agreed with Mom, and I hoped we would be okay. Soon, I got the visa and flew to Dallas to join my husband. The trip was smooth, and the people in the US immigration airport office treated me like a VIP — my experience with immigration officers was different from the hundreds of horrible stories I heard from other Nigerians.
He picked me up at the Dallas airport. He told me that the area has a robust Nigerian community, everyone was helpful, and I would get to know some of them.
My first shocker was my husband’s apartment. It was a little larger than the size of my flat and smaller than his parents’ home library. I later discovered our apartment complex was sought-after and in a high-end gated community.
The second shocker, he left the night I arrived because he had a business meeting to attend — a business with money on the line.
I needed clarification. I was annoyed but reminded myself that things were more expensive in the US; people worked long hours to pay bills.
Everything was strange except my career plan. I was excited because I could get a pharmacy license within a year.
Our community women visited and helped me get to know the city because Efa worked all day and often at night.
My shameful confession — I didn’t feel at home with most of the women because they all bleached their skin red and wore heavy wigs that didn’t make sense to me at that time. However, many were kind with their time, energy, and money. Later on, I felt ashamed for judging the women without knowing much about them and the American culture in person compared to the one I saw on TV.
I communicated with Efa, but he wanted to talk less about his job, only mine. True, he worked long hours and provided for all our needs and, sometimes, our wants.
I was grateful and worked on making the home by moving a few things and setting up the dining table. He did not like to eat at the dining table but in front of the TV. I let it go, but I told him I preferred to turn off the TV during dinner.
After a few weeks of trying to learn basic things about my husband, but all in vain, I launched an investigation and searched the apartment to find out who this person was. I discovered he had a bachelor’s degree in business and an associate degree in nursing. He was a registered nurse and a Nursing Union Board representative.
Efa was once an investment banker and a traveling nurse and owned a rental luxury two-bedroom apartment in a sought-after gated community.
Then I saw a decade-old tax record he kept neatly under the kitchen cabinet over the refrigerator. I took the time to examine it — what was he doing in the US again?
Everything about him was remarkable, but why white lies?
Efa was a taxi driver for about ten years and made a decent annual income. He had no debt, hefty savings and investments, and a landlord.
Everything about him was remarkable, but why the lies? It was not an accounting or construction firm he claimed he owned, and he did not have anyone on his payroll. Maybe his cooperate partner, the United Nations, regarded him as an employer — the United Nations rented his apartment to their non-resident temporary employees.
Maybe.
Being a taxi driver was not the point, but the lack of self-acceptance and unnecessary lies were troubling. Would I have married him if he had told me, “I’m a taxi driver?” No. Would I marry him if he explained who he was behind the wheel instead of trying to play the status quo game? Yes.
One of our neighbors, Nicka, was a taxi driver, too. She told me how she left her nursing job to drive taxis, and her monthly tips usually pay her mortgage. She confessed to making more than she used to make in a fancier private clinic. Now, she had freedom, paid less taxes, and had decreased stress.
My point is that Efa lied.
As I reflected on his lies, I remembered his mom, Lola, was a well-known architect in Nigeria in a male-dominated industry. She made her mark in the field, being savvy and ruthless.
Efa left for the US to study architecture as a teenager. He made a living driving a taxi in the US, and if his mom had known, all hell would have broken loose.
After all, he was thirty-seven and his own man. Why lie about what was likely to be found out?
I noted the dilemma and confronted him. Efa did not take it kindly or listen to me. He was furious and lectured, “It doesn’t matter. What matters in the US is paying your bills and caring for your family.” I agreed with him but let him understand lying made me feel cheated and manipulated.
I left him alone, and he lived with his self-protection and promotion.
Our neighbor, Nicka, helped me get a job in a nursing home while taking a few required courses and preparing for the pharmacy licensing exam.
My husband was not thrilled I was working as an aide at a nursing home, and he was upset and proudly said, “I can pay you that money.”
So true; he could pay my salary, but his paycheck was not mine. Second, I never saw any woman being a housewife or without money. My mom always said, “Money is power; no personal money means suffering and selling your dignity.”
I did not want him to pay me to be a housewife for any reason. I was proud of the nursing aide job and thrilled with my hard-earned money, even if it was peanuts.
Our second serious argument came when I hired someone to clean our apartment before the holiday. He was furious that I could not clean the house on my days off. That was true; I worked three days in a nursing home, and cleaning houses was not my hobby.
He schooled me on how I was not a good woman. Good women cleaned their homes every hour and baked cookies every second, haha!
Where did that silliness come from? I wondered and bit my tongue.
I was shocked because none of our fathers would have ever said that to our mothers. They hired maids to clean after their wives. That is what I and Efa saw growing up.
I concluded if that came out of his mouth, the marriage would not last. However, I was unexpectedly pregnant!
Who is playing who, Efa or Jordyn? Join the conversation.
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