Olamide, of course, was jealous.
“I don’t know what you are doing with that man. Video call this, video call that for six months, and not even a phone. He is a doctor abroad and he is video calling you while you are wearing that ragged wrapper.”
“It’s comfortable.”
“If it were me, I would have asked him for an iPhone 15 by now.”
“Olamide, Femi is a good man. We talk about the future, not phones.”
“Future does not buy wigs. You are wasting a golden ticket.”
But Olamide did not know how golden the ticket was until the courier package arrived.
It was a Tuesday afternoon when the DHL van pulled up to their compound. The delivery man handed a thick envelope to Olamiposi.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“This is from London.”
“Yes. Go ahead. Open it.”
Olamide watched like a hawk as Olamiposi opened it. Inside there was a passport with a fresh visa, a plane ticket, and a letter.
“He has done it. Femi has arranged everything. We are getting married next month. The flight is for this Saturday.”
“Saturday? That is in two days.”
“He paid for everything. Spousal visa.”
“Olamiposi, do you know how much this cost? You are going to the UK.”
“He lives in a very quiet place. He says it is peaceful. I can’t wait to be his wife.”
Olamide looked at the passport. The photo was Olamiposi’s, but because they were identical twins, it looked exactly like Olamide. A dark, wicked thought planted itself in Olamide’s mind.
Why should Olamiposi, who has no fashion sense, go and enjoy the Queen’s land? Olamiposi would just go there and be cooking soup. I am the one made for the soft life. I am the one who knows how to dress for winter fashion. I am the one who deserves the dollars and pounds.
“Congratulations, sister. We must celebrate. I’ll handle dinner. Don’t worry. You need to rest before your journey.”
“Thank you, sister. That is very kind.”
If only she knew that the kindness was a trap.
That evening, Olamide ordered jollof rice, since she could not cook. She also ordered Olamiposi’s favorite drink, zobo, chilled with plenty of ice. But inside Olamiposi’s cup, Olamide had crushed four powerful sleeping tablets she had bought from the chemist.
“Drink, sister, to your new life abroad.”
“To our family. When I get there, I will make sure I send for you.”
You will not be sending for anybody because you are not going anywhere.
Thirty minutes later, Olamiposi was slumped on the sofa, snoring heavily.
Olamide moved quickly. She dragged her sister into the storeroom at the back of the house, a room they rarely used, filled with old yams and dusty boxes. She laid Olamiposi on a mat and locked the heavy padlock from the outside.
Then the transformation began.
Olamide went to Olamiposi’s room. She packed the suitcase Olamiposi had prepared. She took the passport. She took the ticket. She even took the engagement ring Femi had sent.
She looked at herself in the mirror. She washed off her heavy makeup. She tied her hair back in a simple bun just like Olamiposi. She wore Olamiposi’s modest dress.
“Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the new Mrs. Femi? It is me. It is me.”
She told their parents early the next morning that Olamide had gone to visit an aunt in the next village to cool her head because she was jealous. Their parents, used to Olamide’s drama, believed the lie.
They hugged the fake Olamiposi and blessed her journey.
“Go well, my daughter. Greet Femi for us.”
“I will, Mama. I will enjoy Femi very well.”
At the international airport in Lagos, Olamide was nervous. When the immigration officer looked at the passport and then at her, her heart hammered against her ribs.
The officer asked, “First time traveling?”
“Yes,” Olamide said, lowering her eyes shyly, mimicking her sister.
The officer stamped her documents.
“Safe journey.”
Olamide wanted to scream with joy. She was through. She walked to the boarding gate like she owned the place. She took a selfie but did not post it yet. She did not want anyone to track her until she was safely in the white man’s land.
She looked at the boarding pass. The destination code was H-E-L. Hel.
Maybe that was short for a city near London. Or maybe Helsinki. That is in Europe. Europe is Europe. As long as there is snow and dollars, I am fine.
She boarded the plane. It was a long flight with a connection in Frankfurt, Germany. Olamide drank the free wine. She ate the plane food like a queen. She dreamt of the shopping she would do. She planned how she would tell Femi that she had changed a little bit, that she was now more outgoing and fashionable. He would just have to accept it.
At Frankfurt, she had a three-hour layover. She found the gate for her connecting flight. The screen said destination Helsinki-Vantaa. She boarded the second plane. This one was smaller.
As they flew north, the clouds below turned white. Olamide smiled.
Snow, the sign of wealth.
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