t?" "We're dynamite in bed." "Technically, we haven't gotten to the bed yet." "We're going there next." "You still haven't said please." They'd dated for three months before she realise

e both from Nnewi, and her father, a transport magnate, and his late father, had been friends. He admitted that they'd dated briefly, and while he'd never proposed, both families had taken to treating them like they were engaged. They'd broken up partly because there was little attraction between them, and because they'd quickly realised their relationship was more of a potential business merger to their families. His mother had refused to accept the breakup. They were still fighting in the car when he got to her house. There was no usual goodbye kiss when she came down. They didn't speak the next day, a Monday. He called on Tuesday, but she didn't take his call. Instead, she sent him a text saying she needed some time to think, and she'd contact him. On Thursday, she got a text from an unknown number: This is Mrs Umeh. We need to talk. Come and see me. Out of respect, she called Mrs Umeh, who was polite on the phone, and scheduled to see her on Saturday morning. On Saturday, she dressed purposely in an off-shoulder short romper, which was shorter than what she wore at their first meeting, and took an Uber to the house. She didn't see Uche's car in the compound. The staff let her in the living-room, and his mother came downstairs almost immediately. Her face was inscrutable when she saw Jide's outfit, but Jide hoped she got the message. She pointed to two high-backed chairs, facing each other in a corner. "Sit down, Jide." This time, she pronounced her name properly. "Let's talk, woman to woman. And I will speak honestly because in my experience, anything else is a waste of everybody's time. Besides, I'm old and I've earned the right to say whatever I want." Jide couldn't help but smile. When they'd settled into the seats and locked eyes, she said, "So, you reported me to my son. You said I don't like you, and I was tribalistic to you because you're not Igbo." "I didn't report you, ma. I only said how I felt. Like you, I believe in speaking honestly." It was her turn to smile. "Good. It is not that I don't like you. Ordinarily, I'd be indifferent to you, but you're with Uchenna, so, I'm forced to have an opinion." She shrugged. "My opinion is, I don't think you're the right fit for him. And it's not any fault of yours. Let me explain by telling you a story." She pointed to a framed almost-life-sized photograph of Uche's father, leaning on a small stretch of wall. "We met here in Lagos, but came from similar backgrounds-we had both lost our entire families and had been orphaned by the Biafran War, at a time we were old enough to never forget. We got married in Lagos. Together, we struggled at first, but slowly, we built a life, even bought this house. He sold auto parts from his shop at Ladipo, I was a schoolteacher. "Then, Nigeria killed him. 1992. Some students were protesting the military government. Some soldiers came and started shooting. My husband, going about his business, caught a stray bullet. In the typical Nigerian way, nobody apologised, and nobody was brought to justice. "Uchenna, our only son, was two. In our culture, bloodlines, legacies, and inheritances are fundamental to who a man is. So, it became my duty to raise a son, whose entire paternal lineage had been wiped out, and provide him with some sort of legacy and inheritance." She shrugged. "The inheritance was the easy part. I resigned as a teacher and ran the business. I grew it from one shop in Ladipo to four shops nationwide: in Onitsha Main Market, Asa-Nnentu in Aba, and Abuja. I diversified to high-end auto repair workshops in Lagos and Abuja. And during Uchenna's university days in America, we started our auto dealership arm, with him buying the cars and shipping to Nigeria for us to clear and sell. I've done my duty and handed over the businesses to him. His inheritance is secure. "Bloodlines and legacies are trickier, no? I couldn't resurrect the dead. But I did little things. I filled this house with his father's pictures. I talked to him about his father a lot. And I tried to convince him to marry from his father's people. That's why I prefer Adaobi. Uchenna thinks it's simply because of her father's money, but he's mistaken. "Perhaps, now you'll understand why I said, through no fault of yours, I don't think you are a good fit for my son. You can disagree and call it tribalism, and you may be right to an extent, but honestly, I don't care about your opinion. Your experiences may have given you the privilege to be detribalised. Not mine