UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

NEW YORK CITY

8:30 a.m

My name is Zara Badmus. I found myself in the city of New York when I regained consciousness from the accident I had three years ago. I was a Nigerian and was a Melanie- brown skin girl.

Even with my complexion, I was still a black lady to the people over here. Sometimes, I felt belonged to the people here while other times, I felt out of place.

My adopted father made me feel among and ever since his death, I began to think of Nigeria more than I ever did. I wouldn't say I ain't enjoying New York but the frustration I feel from my adopted mother's yelling, wouldn't let me be.

I'm curvy and I like to hide it with my loose sweatpants and I'd stopped wearing fitted clothes long ago. Those assholes at Nichole's cafe wouldn't stop staring at me, making me conscious of the stupid shape mine.

Fucking perverts!.

Junior was indeed a stupid boy. He had forgotten how we started. He used to show me some much love and all of that was gone in a twinkle of an eye when father died.

What have I done to deserve that?

He taught me virtually everything, from eating hamburgers, eating fries, hotdog, and the rest of it when I first came down here. He taught me how to play baseball and even soccer. I got to know the names of some famous baseball players like Yogi Berra, Babe Ruth, Mickey Mantle, and others. We visited the Yankee Stadium and watched the players play baseball. We also visited Madison Square Garden, the Metropolitan Museum of Art where I was able to grab a little knowledge about artifacts and archaeology.

But now, we barely talk.

He ignored me and it hurt like shit.

We were never allowed to go out without our parent's permission.

Like my father used to claim. "There are some parts of New York that are very dangerous for kids like you."

"What part and why", I asked him.

"Some places like the South Bronx", he answered me.

I could remember how inquisitive I was when he was alive. But when he died, that part of me died with him.

His wife, on the other hand, wouldn't stop yelling whenever Junior and I had a clash. She didn't care about who was at fault. Her son was always right. I stopped calling her mom, ever since the change in attitude. Who would have believed she used to be a sweet person?

All she does now is scream her lungs out like a crazy person. It ain't her fault but the crazy hormones of being a Nigerian.

Typical Nigerian!.

Did I just say 'typical Nigerian? Is that how Nigerian women yell like fish wives?

I doubt it.

I concluded that she was a special typical Nigerian. If every Nigerian woman were like her, I'm sure a lot of kids wouldn't pray for a mother. I can't even see a good thing about her anymore. She frowns her face like a she-devil. I wonder how father got to find her attractive with this stupid attitude of hers.

Everything I do pisses her off. Well! I'm not bothered anymore because the feeling is mutual. She even asked the maid to stop coming over to the house. I'd have to wake up very early in the morning and do all the house chores, except cooking. I guess she is scared I would eventually poison her.

I dislike her.

I doubt if my real mother could ever yell at me as she did. I was very sure that my real mom was a calm person.

Though I still couldn't recall all of my past, I couldn't figure out how my mother and even my father looked, but I could feel a bit of their personality. The memories I recovered were sometimes blurry and whenever I tried to remember or force myself, I always ended up with headaches or unconsciousness. I had to jot down some things whenever they came and it was accompanied by several flashes.

Within a blink, the memories were gone again and everything became blank.

Well, I have had enough of the yelling. When I'm gone, I am sure she is not going to miss me. Who cares? She could go to hell for all I care. I knew the feeling was mutual.

She could now yell at her stupid, fucking son. I doubt she would do that. Junior was the apple of her eyes, whereas I was a threat.

I should have known they hated me, even before dad died, but I was so stupid not to have noticed. I was blinded, but now, the blindfold was off and I could see the reality of it all, glaring at me wickedly in the face.

Mom was a jealous woman. She was concerned about the attention I was getting from her husband. They were both concerned that I was getting more attention than necessary. They were scared of me. Mom was scared of me stealing her husband's love while Junior was scared that I would steal his father away from him.

Fucking brainless Nigerians!

I couldn't deny that I was a Nigerian too but I was much more sensitive than they were.

I thought I had found a real mom when I was introduced to her as my mom. Even though they didn't want me to find out that I was adopted at first, I fucking loved her.

My memories helped me out, even before dad revealed them to me. But then, I was glad she was a Nigerian, just like my parents. I thought I had found a real mother and I was no longer bothered about knowing who my parents were. But now, I could not help but wonder.

I was going gaga!.

It was high time I leave this fucking solitude and go leave with Amy. It was the right time to take action. Junior was in school and wouldn't be back till noon while his mother was at work. She was a personal chef and made about $50,000 annually. Junior schools at Manhattan International High School.

I have to get out of here. I stood up from the window I have been sitting in, viewing the balcony of the James, picked up my iPhone which dad got for me before he died, and dialed Amy's number. She lived in Boston.

Amy was my friend who just moved to live with her brother in Boston and she had been pestering me about coming over. She promised to make me Àkàrà* if I ever reconsider. She knew my weakness. She knew my love for àkàrà was out of the world. Mom rarely makes it at home because she hates the smell of beans.

Typical Nigerian!, I mused to myself with a smirk.

I was sure she was a lover of bean porridge back home in Nigeria, but she was tushed up here and was claiming she didn't like the smell of beans. What the heck? Who does that? She was missing a lot because the taste was heavenly.

Amy picked at the second ring and her high-pitched voice jerked me out of my thoughts.

"Hey babe, when will you stop being lousy? You are such a fish wife, just like mom", I said feigning annoyance.

"Fuck you!."

"Fuck you too."

"What's up?" She asked excitedly.

"I'm cool. I missed you badly. I wish you were here to kill the fucking boredom in this fucking house."

She laughed richly. "I miss you more, baby. How is your mom?"

"Mom" I groaned, rolling my eyes.

"Always yelling as usual. I'm fed up. I think I will have to come over today."

"What?!", she squealed happily, making me cringe.

"Is Boston far from here? I don't want to get sick on the road."

"Of course not, it's just a four hours drive. I'm gonna prepare àkàrà for you before you get here. You have no idea how excited I am. We're gonna rock Boston together babe. Yeeeeeeeeep!".

She couldn't pronounce the Akara as I did. She called it A..ka..arra. I smiled to myself. Even if I correct her, she would still repeat the same thing.

"I wish I could kill you. Can't you be quiet for a while. What if mom hears your loud voice?".

"Is she home?".

"Of course not. Just pulling your legs."

"Alright, then, I will be expecting you. Do you have some cash with you?"

"Even if I don't, I will gladly steal my stupid mother's money just to get out of this hell hole. You know what? I'm already on my way. This place is pissing me off."

"See you soon, baby girl."

"Yeah", I said and disconnected the call.

I kept my phone on the armchair and rushed to pick up a few things. I wouldn't want any of them to meet me while still packing. I rushed to my bathroom, picked up my brush, and rushed back into the room. I picked up my bag and flung the toothbrush into it. Then, I jam-packed a few of my loose clothes, two shoes, my credit card, my AirPods, my diary, my lotion, and a head tie, zipped it up, and flung it to my back.

I wore my shoes and stood upright. I'm good to go.

"Boston, here I come", I beamed excitedly.