F.A.T-Chapter Three

After a sweaty workout session, I stretched for the eleventh time, bones popping in protest. Wrapping a towel around myself, I paused the YouTube exercise video and dug into a bag of cheese-flavored chips while scrolling through my contacts.

“Pick up, Funke,” I muttered as I dialed.

"What’s popping?” came her cheerful voice. I laughed. “Someone’s happy.”

“Yea, gist me, joor.” “About what?”

“I’m coming over.” “Fine, bring your history notes. We’ve got catch-up to do.”

She groaned dramatically. “Ah, nerdiest nerd of them all.” I laughed heartily and hopped into the shower.

    

Minutes later, the doorbell rang. I sprinted downstairs before Mum could get it. My smile froze the moment I opened the door.

“What’s he doing here?”

Alfred grinned like the troublemaker he was, pushing past me into the house as if he owned it.

“Why did you bring him?” I hissed at Funke.

“Don’t blame me. You know Alfred,” she said, hands raised in surrender.

Of course, I did. Alfred’s persuasive charm was how he became one of Desmond College’s most influential students.

“Mum, I’m home!” he called, smirking. Mum appeared, paint smudged on her hands from her latest art piece. “Hey, hon,” she greeted, leaning forward for a peck.

“Mum, Alfred isn’t the nice kid you think he is,” I muttered. She chuckled knowingly and returned to her brushes. As one of the city’s most respected artists, she was used to observing people deeply, and still, she welcomed Alfred like family.

“Why do you hate me so much?” Alfred teased, reaching out to ruffle my hair.

I ducked out of reach. “Because you’re you.”

Upstairs, we spread across my bed. Alfred snatched my history notebook and held it out of reach. “Hey! Give it back!”

He winked. “How annoying can I get?” “You know,” I muttered, smacking him on the head as I snatched it back.

Funke rolled her eyes. “Please, quit it already. Let’s actually study before you two kill each other.”

We dived into the mountain of work assigned by Mrs. Jamgbadi, the kind of woman who could make one question spawn into three textbooks worth of answers. Funke groaned after the third reference book. Alfred, on the other hand, looked like he was having fun. Nerd disguised as cool kid that was Alfred. I had no doubt he’d end up valedictorian.

Two hours later, my stomach growled. The heavenly aroma from the kitchen drifted upstairs, pulling us out of our misery.

“Your mum is the best,” Alfred murmured, rubbing his eyes.

“Finally!” I dropped my pen. “This assignment better take us to heaven.”

As we wrapped up, Alfred tried to peek at my answers, only to be hit with a full thirty-minute sermon from Funke, complete with biblical references, on why cheating was a sin. I laughed so hard I nearly cried, but quieted when Funke shot me a glare. Poor Alfred looked like a scolded puppy.

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“Lunch is served!” Mum announced as I opened the door for her. “And I’ve got your mango juice, Alfred, just the way you like it.” Her eyes softened at his unusually solemn face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, ma’am,” he muttered. “Just got a sermon from Funke.”

“Oh,” Mum said knowingly. Everyone knew Funke’s sermons, they could leave you in tears, pride, or chills depending on the day.

Her second call got us moving when she threatened to remove the large meatballs from our plates. We bolted downstairs. The table was a feast: sauced fried rice piled high with thick meatballs, fried prawns, pepper soup with tender goat meat and bits of catfish.

Alfred’s dreamy eyes made Funke and I burst into laughter. Between bites, he sighed and told my mum, “If I had been alive in your time, I would have married you.”

Mum chuckled softly, replying, “And I would have gladly said yes.” Alfred’s face turned the color of ripe tomatoes, and we all laughed until our sides hurt.

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As I arranged the chairs, I felt him. I didn’t need to turn, my body already knew. Sometimes your senses just recognize someone, even without explanation.

“What do you want?” My voice was flat, void of politeness. The last thing this man deserved was civility.

“Ada Ada.” He called me by my favorite nickname, the same way he had, years ago, before he kissed us goodbye and walked into another woman’s arms.

I looked at the man I had once loved, cherished, adored as a father. Once, I had hated him too. But God had been teaching me: we are not saved to clutch onto past hurts or nurse old wounds. We are called to forgive and let go, even when it feels impossible.

“You are still my daughter,” he said softly.

I stared at him, baffled. “How is that even relevant right now?”

Before another word could form on my tongue, Mum walked in. Her palm met his cheek with a sharp slap.

“Get out. Right now.”

His hand twitched, as though he might raise it back, it wouldn’t have been the first time, but he stopped, perhaps remembering where we were. Even he respected the sanctuary of the church.

“After all these years,” Mum spat, “the best thing you could tell your daughter is that she’s still your daughter?” She scoffed, grabbed my hand, and led me away.

I made sure he saw the disappointment in my eyes before walking out.

The silence in the house was deafening. Lying on my bed, I stared up at the painted moon on my ceiling, Mum’s handiwork when I was fifteen. I had loved Frozen, so she’d surprised me with an icy half-moon mural, I’m sure she had professional help too, but it still felt like magic.

I whispered a prayer for forgiveness, for Mum, for me, for us. I knew Mum prayed for him, too. At first I’d thought it was sickening, her prayers for a man who had abandoned us. But eventually, I came to understand: that was the true meaning of forgiveness.

Lost in thought, I didn’t notice Alfred until he was already in my room. “Hey, can’t you knock?” I snapped.

“Chill your horse, Missy,” he said, hands raised. “I did. Would’ve broken my knuckles if I kept on.”

I glared. I needed to vent. “What if I was naked?”

He wriggled his brows suggestively. I burst out laughing despite myself. That was the annoying thing about Alfred, I could never stay mad.

“I’m sorry, Alfred,” I sighed. “My dad showed up at church today.” “I know.”

My brow shot up. “So you knew why I’m in a foul mood, and you still made me apologize?”

He smirked. “Same old sinner.”

Feigning piety, he added, “He who is without sin, let him cast the first stone.” I laughed, really laughed.

Silence stretched, then Alfred’s voice dropped. “I thought he was never coming back.” You’d think it was his father who had abandoned him.

“Hey, cut it out.” I nudged him, ruffling his hair.

Without warning, he pulled me close. I put up a token protest, “eww, get away, you stink” but he knew. He knew I was hurting. I nestled deeper into his arms, breathing in his scent. And there, safe against him, I finally wept.

Why had Dad come back? After all these years? After God had healed Mum, rebuilt us, restored us? He hadn’t even met Chinaza. He didn’t even know she existed. Mum had found out she was pregnant after he left, thought it was stress until I made her take a test.

“I’m okay, Alfie. I’m okay,” I whispered eventually.

He pulled back just enough to kiss me.

“Alfie, don’t—”

But he only smiled and pulled me closer. And for a few minutes, I let myself enjoy it. Then gently, I pushed him away.

“I thought we agreed not to do that again.”

“You called me Alfie.”

I felt the laughter bubble up from somewhere deep, unstoppable, rolling through me until tears blurred my vision again.

“You’re so… ughhh. Get away.”

He joined my laughter, pecking the damp trails on my cheeks.

“Get ready,” he said suddenly.

“For what?” I asked, confused.

“For Z. Stop asking questions and get your butt off that bed.”

“Don’t you dare talk about my butt.”

He raised a brow. “Fat butt.”

I shrieked and chased him out of the room. “Mum! Alfred called me FAT!”

“That’s a big lie!” he yelled back. “I said her butt is F A T!”

It took him a full second to realize what he’d just admitted, out loud, to my mum. Too late.

“ALFRED OSAREMHE!” Mum’s voice boomed from her art room. “GET YOUR BEHIND IN HERE AND EXPLAIN WHAT YOU JUST SAID!”

I collapsed onto the floor, laughing till my stomach hurt, as Alfred turned beet red and trudged toward his doom.