“Femi, please. I can change. I promise.”
“You are right. You will change. You will change your location.”
“Are you calling the police? Please. Nigerian prisons are bad, but Finnish prisons, I will freeze.”
“I am not calling the police. That is too easy. I am sending you back to the very people you tried to impress.”
The journey back was a blur of misery. Femi did not drive her to the airport. He hired a silent, large taxi driver to take her. He bought her a ticket, but not a direct one. It was a three-stop flight with long layovers, a punishment for her.
Two days later, Olamide arrived at the Lagos airport. She looked like a madwoman. She was wearing the thick winter coat because she had no other clothes, sweating profusely in the Nigerian heat. Her makeup was smeared. She did not have money for a taxi. She had to beg a lorry driver to take her to Ibadan.
As she walked down the street leading to their compound, sweat poured off her like rain.
The local market women saw her first.
“Ah-ah. Is that not Olamide? Why is she wearing a duvet in this heat? I thought she went to London to marry Prince Charles.”
The mockery followed her like a shadow.
“Welcome from abroad!” the okada rider shouted. “Where is the snow? Did you bring it in your pocket?”
Olamide kept her head down, the heat roasting her skin, the shame roasting her soul.
When she entered the compound, she saw them.
Her parents were sitting on the veranda looking stern, and sitting between them, looking radiant, was Olamiposi. She was dressed in a simple ankara jumpsuit, but she looked like royalty. Beside Olamiposi sat a man in a sharp suit. He looked expensive. He held a briefcase.
Olamide collapsed on the dusty ground, the winter coat suffocating her.
“Mama, Papa, sister—”
“Don’t call me sister. A sister does not drug her blood. A sister does not lock her twin in the darkness.”
“It was the devil. I am sorry.”
The man in the suit stood up.
“Madam Olamide, I am Barrister Tunde, Dr. Femi’s cousin and legal representative. I have instructions to press charges for kidnapping, identity theft, and fraud.”
She screamed.
“No! Papa, beg them.”
“You wanted a soft life. In jail, they will give you free food and accommodation. Is that not soft?”
Olamiposi approached the lawyer and placed her hand on his arm.
“Barrister, wait. Wait.”
Then she faced her sweating, weeping sister. The resemblance was striking, but the difference was clear. One was gold, the other was gold-plated lead.
“I will ask Femi not to press charges.”
“Thank you. Thank you, Posi.”
“On one condition. You will work. You will pay back every kobo of the flight ticket Femi wasted on you. You will work in the hospital laundry, washing bed sheets, washing uniforms, until the debt is paid.”
Olamide looked at her soft hands.
“Laundry? But I am an influencer.”
“You are debtfluencer now.”
Olamide nodded, defeated.
“I will wash. I will wash.”
Three weeks later, a sleek black SUV rolled into the compound. The neighborhood held its breath.
Dr. Femi stepped out. He was not wearing the parka. He was wearing a white, expensive kaftan. He looked like the billionaire heir he truly was.
He walked past the laundry area where Olamide was sweating, scrubbing a stained bed sheet. She looked up, her eyes wide with regret. Femi did not even pause. He did not see her. To him, she was just part of the scenery.
He walked straight to Olamiposi, who was waiting on the porch.
“I am sorry it took so long. I had to resign from the clinic. I’m moving back to Nigeria. I have been offered a position in a research center in Abuja.”
Olamiposi smiled.
“Welcome home.”
And the sun seemed to shine brighter.
Olamiposi and Femi were married in a grand ceremony. Olamide was there, but she was not on the bridal train. She was at the back serving food to the guests.
And every time someone asked her, “Olamide, when are you going abroad?” she would shake her head and say:
“My sister, leave that abroad matter. Nigeria is sweet. There is no snow in Ibadan.”
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