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Published online by Cambridge University Press: 07 November 2020
The day she returned home was the worst day of your life. You were mad. Mad at her for despising you. Mad at her for taking off all these years and coming back at her convenience. You were mad at everyone who rejoiced at her homecoming; and you gave a fire and brimstone tongue-lashing. You hated her.
They begged and cajoled you to forgive her but you refused to budge from your high horse, where you perched like the mistress of the manor. They clasped and unclasped their hands; they pleaded with moist eyes and quivering lips but you were resolute.
‘Please, go and look at her,’ they implored.
You were mortified. No. You were enraged!
What gall!
‘Why would I want to look at her?’ you queried. I’ve not forgotten what she looked like!’
You recoiled at the memory. You hated her looks; not because she was unattractive. She was beauty in human form. You remembered they called her Omalicha, the beautiful one. She was the Akwanwa, the golden child. Imagine that! And what did they call you? Well, nothing significant.
You were embittered.
Oh, how you whined and complained. You desired to be the golden child, the Akwanwa. You coveted her beauty. You wanted to be the one they admired and fawned over. You disliked her comeliness. You wanted to be the beauty queen all the more because they were blind to Omalicha's arrogance. You saw her ungratefulness for her awesome beauty and you loathed her.
You remembered the dazed look on their faces the day Omalicha made her announcement. It was your eighteenth birthday anniversary. What insolence! Their eyes glimmered with fear as they pleaded with the beautiful one. You could have sworn they were overwhelmed with her beauty.
‘Are you out of your mind?’ they blustered.
‘You can't just decide to leave those who love you.’
‘Love? That makes me feel better and oh, I will miss you my sweet people,’ Omalicha drawled and rolled haughty eyes to convey her scorn.
You mentally blocked your ears to stop the sarcasm dripping from her voice.
Adjusting the ruffles adorning her high-end, boutique-shopped blouse, Omalicha produced a somewhat realistic-sound of sniffle, gathered her flashy belongings and with a click of her stiletto heels, she was gone from your lives without as much as a backward glance. Then you started hearing the long stories.
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