The assistant in the general handbag section is a blonde with a well-rehearsed smile.<\/p>\n
\u201cCan I help you?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI think so.\u201d<\/p>\n
She points at a black, leather tote bag with a crisscross weave.<\/p>\n
The assistant widens her eyes. \u201cOh, I love that bag! I wish I could afford to buy it…\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMe, too,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n
Another assistant may not have been as candid, or may even have ignored her. With her skinny jeans, cropped T-shirt and hair weave, she could be any twenty-something black woman. There is no way of telling that she works for a Big Four accountancy firm as a consultant and provides advisory services to Fortune 500 companies. Or that she earns a six-figure salary, even as her credit score has recently dropped because she has maxed out all her cards. Her first name, Grace, grants her a generic black pass as well, but not her Yoruba last name, Oladimeji.<\/p>\n
The assistant strokes the bag before handing it to Grace. Grace cradles it and runs her hand over the weave patterns. The texture of the bag tingles her fingers and the smell of new leather gives her a sensation similar to a head rush.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s beautiful,\u201d the assistant says.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt is,\u201d Grace says.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt will stay with you forever.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt will.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWould you like me to wrap it up for you?\u201d<\/p>\n
Grace clutches the bag. \u201cPlease give me a moment to think about this.\u201d<\/p>\n
The assistant flops her wrist. \u201cOh, take your time, honey. You have plenty of time. Walk around for as long as you want and I\u2019ll be here. I\u2019m not going anywhere soon and it\u2019s all right to have second thoughts. Buying a bag like this is a lifetime commitment.\u201d<\/p>\n
Grace hands the bag back to the assistant who perhaps meant to say investment instead of commitment. She could invest the money she is about to spend on the bag, but she can\u2019t be committed to one bag when she has others. Besides, she will soon see another, obsess over it and might even travel this far to find it.<\/p>\n
\u201cThanks,\u201d she says to the assistant. \u201cIt won\u2019t take me long.\u201d<\/p>\n
She would like to think she and the assistant have had a genuine connection. She would even want to believe the assistant would be partial to her if another shopper comes along and wants to buy the same bag. She panics as she walks away, hoping it will still be available when she returns.<\/p>\n
She prefers to shop online. Shopping online gives her some degree of anonymity and control.<\/p>\n
She can also return an item she is not satisfied with simply by filling out a form and arranging a UPS pickup. But she uses her debit card to shop now, which might be a problem if she goes back to the convenience of shopping online. She can\u2019t help herself. She will only further ruin her credit.<\/p>\n
She heads for the shoe section and ends up at the sales racks, where she chooses a pair of black-and-white-striped Italian-made flats. She crouches as she struggles to put them on and nearly tumbles over when an assistant in a tight-fitting black suit approaches her, his dreadlocks pulled back in a bun.<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you OK there?\u201d he asks.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d she says, sounding breathless as she straightens up.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou could sit, you know.\u201d<\/p>\n
She smiles apologetically. \u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n
He studies her feet. \u201cThey look kind of snug to me. You might want to go a half size up.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThey\u2019re my size, actually.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe fit is narrow.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m all right with that.\u201d<\/p>\n
He lifts his forefinger. \u201cWell, if they\u2019re comfortable on.\u201d<\/p>\n
She pulls off the shoes by their heels as he walks away. For a moment she considers leaving them on the floor in retaliation, but she picks them up and returns them to the rack. She has worked as an assistant in a shoe store before and would get mad whenever customers left shoes they\u2019d tried on lying around.<\/p>\n
She was born in Nigeria. She and her mom immigrated to America when she was two years old. According to her mom, they left Nigeria because her father became a polygamist after he received a chieftaincy title. He married a second wife who had a son by him, and from then on neglected Grace and her mom, even though he could afford to take care of both families.<\/p>\n
The idea of having a chief for a father was too remote for Grace to grasp when she was a girl, having never been back to Nigeria. Her mom had no photos of him, but once in a while would look at Grace\u2019s widow\u2019s peak and say, \u201cYou look just like him.\u201d Grace had watched Coming to America,<\/em> her only frame of reference for the customs of African royalty. She imagined her father dressed like Arsenio Hall in the movie, in a suit and a Karakul cap. Her mom referred to him as a businessman, which at first surprised her because she had thought his job was to be part of a king\u2019s entourage. When she was old enough to ask for details, she found out he imported electronic goods from England and sold them in Nigeria. He owned a storied shopping plaza in Lagos, and his electronics store took up the entire ground floor.<\/p>\n Grace and her mom had lived in Teaneck before they moved to Hackensack. She doesn\u2019t remember their apartment in Teaneck. She went to day care there while her mom worked in retail and studied for her nursing exams. She attended elementary school in Hackensack when her mom started working as a nurse. Once her mom bought a car, they would drive to the mall every weekend. She hated the mall back then. She would get bored waiting for her mom to browse stores, but she enjoyed the cinnamon buns and lemonade her mom bought her at the food court. She loved the lights in the mall at Christmastime, especially. Apparently, she was scared of Father Christmas, as her mom calls Santa Claus, but she doesn\u2019t remember that.<\/p>\n She didn\u2019t care for the mall until she was in middle school, where she was teased for being a nerd and having nappy hair. She would eagerly go to the mall with her mom, who would give her enough money to buy cheap, shiny trinkets. Her mom bought her her first music CD, The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill<\/em>, at the mall and they would sing along to it in the car. She started going to the mall on her own when she left middle school for a Catholic high school in Paramus. Sometimes she met her best friend, Ashley, there. Ashley\u2019s parents were from the Philippines and they owned a family grocery store. She and Ashley had a play rivalry over which moms were pushier, Asian or African moms. She was one of a few girls in school who were not dating. Her mom, as if to encourage her to stay that way, would give her money to buy make-up, perfume, jeans, T-shirts, anything she wanted from the mall.<\/p>\n There was a time in middle school when Grace was of the impression that shopping on weekends was the American way of life and all she needed to aspire to. In high school, she became cynical about shopping. She bought Kanye West\u2019s CD, The College Dropout,<\/em> and listened to \u201cAll Falls Down\u201d over and over, as if the lyrics were written for her: she was a single black female and she was addicted to retail. But the mall, for her, was more an escape from home now. She knew her mom took Prozac because of the stress of work. She could cope with her mom taking Prozac until her mom began to take Xanax as well.<\/p>\n She walks through the perfumery section, passing Herm\u00e8s, Ferragamo and Marc Jacobs perfumes on glass shelves. She wears Marc Jacobs\u2019 Daisy. She has never stopped to try Jo Malone of London perfumes, but the bottles always grab her attention. There is a display of samples labeled Citrus, Fruity, Light Floral, Floral and Woody. The perfumes range from clear to yellowy tones. A brunette assistant in a leopard-print dress and coral lipstick holds up a bottle of some other perfume, but Grace shakes her head and passes her.<\/p>\n The cosmetics section resembles a collection of giant artist palettes. Bobbi Brown has a few customers, MAC has more than a few. Chanel has a whole department, which is empty but for a middle-aged woman in a white linen pantsuit, and an assistant dressed in black. Kiehl\u2019s has a skeleton in a bow tie and a doctor\u2019s coat. Grace stops to try a hand lotion as she reconsiders buying the bag. She really doesn\u2019t need another bag, but having this one would say of her that she is stylish rather than fashion conscious. That she is confident enough not to care about making a fashion statement.<\/p>\n Her reasoning amuses her. How pathetic is that? she thinks, rubbing her hands together until the lotion is absorbed.<\/p>\n Her mom initially mixed with other Nigerians in America, but ended up falling out with them. The women were gossipy and competitive, she said, and the men would use and abuse women, if they could. Grace didn\u2019t meet many Nigerians her own age until she went to college. Most of them were American-born children of immigrants, a handful of whom had attended private schools because their parents were in law, medicine and other such professions. To her, the private-school kids were privileged and bound to end up in an Ivy League college, but they complained about not being eligible for financial aid, as she was. She also met Nigerians from Nigeria, who had been educated partly there and partly in English boarding schools, or \u201cpublic schools,\u201d as they called them. They had been all over Europe. They traveled to London in the summer and to Lagos for Christmas. They planned to return to Nigeria after they graduated.<\/p>\n One of them asked why her name was Grace. She asked why he wanted to know. He said his housegirl in Nigeria was called Grace, and only housegirls had names like Grace, Mercy, Patience, Comfort and Joy. \u201cI am Catholic,\u201d she said. She ignored him after that, but she made friends with other Nigeria-Nigerians who were on her business program. They were called Tara, Lali, Kit and Zak. Their names had been shortened: Tara was Omotara, a Yoruba name. Lali was Alali, a Kalabari name. Kit was Akitoye. He, too, was Yoruba. Zak was Zakaria. He was Hausa, but his name was Arabic. She would have dinner with Tara and Lali now and then, but when she suggested they all go to a Senegalese restaurant for dinner on Nigeria\u2019s Independence Day for an African night out, Kit said that was un-Nigerian. \u201cWe don\u2019t do the motherland thing there,\u201d he said. \u201cYou lot here are setting us back.\u201d<\/p>\n She warmed to them because she was a Britophile. She read British literature and watched British movies. Kit was like a Nigerian Oscar Wilde because he had that cutting-wit persona going for him. Tara\u2019s posh English accent reminded her of Agatha Runcible\u2019s in the movie Bright Young Things, though Tara denied it. They all walked around as if they belonged wherever they went. She wasn\u2019t ashamed of being Nigerian, but she wished she had their worldliness and unconscious pride. During Thanksgiving break, she asked her mom, \u201cHow come you didn\u2019t tell me about Nigerians like them?\u201d Her mom sniffed, as if they were beneath her. \u201cI never mixed with Nigerians like them.\u201d<\/p>\n She takes the escalator to the second floor and looks down on the fine-jewelry section. She has a pair of diamond stud earrings, but other than that she doesn\u2019t wear jewelry. Her mom used to buy gold jewelry, earrings, necklaces and bracelets, though her mom often said 14-karat gold was American and Nigerians preferred 18-karat gold.<\/p>\n Upstairs she passes a male assistant with spiked hair talking to a teenage girl with a purple rinse.<\/p>\n \u201cYour hair color will go with anything,\u201d the assistant says.<\/p>\n \u201cYeah,\u201d the girl says.<\/p>\n \u201cLook at it this way,\u201d the assistant says, with a laugh. \u201cIt has to.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah,\u201d the girl says, smoothing her hair back.<\/p>\n Grace thinks about the assistant in the handbag section who had won her over the same way. Their selling method is like indoctrination. She has recently been paid, so she has enough money for the bag, but she won\u2019t have much to spend after she\u2019s paid her rent, car lease, credit-card payments and other bills. She definitely won\u2019t be able to eat out this month if she buys the bag, and eating out is all she ever does to socialize these days. Spending nights at home watching television would be miserable. She wishes she had a dog. She has always wanted a dog. A small, cute dog like a Lhasa Apso or a Yorkie. But at the same time she\u2019s glad she\u2019s never had one. She can\u2019t imagine having to give a dog away because she is in a financial mess.<\/p>\n When she was in college, she was sometimes too broke to go out with Tara and Lali. They would eat at restaurants she couldn\u2019t afford to eat at. She did odd retail jobs on the weekends to make extra money. Tara and Lali didn\u2019t work. They didn\u2019t have to, and they had visa restrictions. Her jobs gave her reasons to turn down their invitations, but whenever she had enough money, she would go out with them. All she\u2019d ever heard about Nigeria on the news was that it was a country with email scammers and corrupt leaders. By her mom\u2019s account, Lagos was the same filthy, congested city it was when they left, and if they returned, they would be robbed of their belongings and blown up by Boko Haram.<\/p>\n Tara and Lali just talked about the Nigerian social scenes in Lagos and London. In London, there were Nigerian hangouts. She found it weird when they referred to Nigerian students there as rich kids. Perhaps those students were children of billionaires. Tara\u2019s last boyfriend was one. His mother was an oil dealer. He was sweet in private, Tara said, but she broke up with him because he was embarrassing in public. He would reserve tables in clubs and order champagne like some hard hip-hop mogul when he was just a spoiled brat who had never taken public transportation. In Lagos, there were one or two clubs, but they went out of fashion pretty quickly, so friends got together, hired halls, Afro hip-hop MCs and sold tickets. Afro hip-hop was huge in Lagos, but once in a while American hip-hop MCs and R&B singers flew in for concerts. Chris Brown and Rick Ross had recently been there.<\/p>\n Of course, she, Tara and Lali talked about guys. She learned that Nigerians like them didn\u2019t have random hookups because they had to be careful about their reputations. Everyone knew everyone and parents talked. They asked what sort of guy she was into and she said, \u201cHe would have to be black and he would have to be smart. Sorry, but I can\u2019t deal with a dumb pretty boy.\u201d Lali asked, \u201cWhy does he have to be black?\u201d Lali had an angular face with a permanently inquiring expression. \u201cI don\u2019t look at other races that way,\u201d Grace said. \u201cWhy not?\u201d Lali asked. \u201cI just don\u2019t,\u201d Grace said and shrugged.<\/p>\n Lali was always involved in organizing panels on student diversity and student rights, perhaps because she\u2019d had some schooling in America. She went to a boarding school in England called Wycombe Abbey, but her parents, who had attended college in America, wanted her to get into the American system of education sooner, so she left Wycombe Abbey for Exeter.<\/p>\n Tara had only dated Nigerians, but she had all these standards they had to meet. They had to be well-educated and well-spoken. They couldn\u2019t be too Nigerian. She couldn\u2019t take too Nigerian. Tara had dated Yoruba guys, mostly. She did not date other Africans. She would definitely not date an African-American or a West Indian. \u201cThey would probably not want to date you because you\u2019re African,\u201d Lali said. Tara\u2019s accent immediately turned Nigerian. \u201cAnd so?\u201d<\/p>\n Tara had dimples and one of those likeable faces that, no matter what came out of her mouth, you forgave her. She kept saying, \u201cAnd so?\u201d as Lali repeatedly called her stuck-up. Grace laughed so hard she was in tears. She had never met anyone as unapologetically prejudiced as Tara. Lali would date anyone. She had a thing for Chinese guys with tans.<\/p>\n With Kit and Zak, Grace became their go-to person for insights African-American. They both thought Americans were overly preoccupied with racial issues. Kit said racism was clearly a sign of stupidity so it ought to be ignored. Zak couldn\u2019t understand the fuss about the N-word because it was used freely in rap. They refused to listen to any talk about charity in Africa, though. Once, when she brought up a charitable cause relating to Africa, Kit called charity a racket and Zak said he was sick of celebrities using Africa to improve their image. Kit could be arrogant and Zak was a bit on the quiet side. They were both into European girls. They didn\u2019t think that was a big deal. Grace didn\u2019t either. She didn\u2019t want them, so anyone could have them, but she did wonder why, if they were so international, they only went for European girls.<\/p>\n She reaches the casuals section on the second floor and admires the view as if it is an architectural design. There are rails of black and white clothing, rails of clothing with muted colors like beige and gray, and others with striking colors she guesses are called citrus yellow and peacock green. Why is she ashamed of shopping? Why does she see shopping as a senseless activity? The signs for Splendid and Theory labels remind her of poetry and philosophy. The perfume and cosmetics sections downstairs reminded her of chemistry and art, and the Louis Vuitton department of language and history, when she saw the vintage malle cabine.<\/em><\/p>\n I\u2019m so fucked, she thinks.<\/p>\n In college, she met a guy called Peter who was in his second year of engineering. Peter\u2019s parents were pharmacists and they were from Nigeria. They were Bendelites. He explained that meant they were from somewhere in the midwest of Nigeria. They had immigrated to America in the 1980s and Peter was born and raised in Mississippi. His family was messed up, more messed up than hers, so messed up she could tell him about her mom taking pills. His parents were strict Catholics and Republican. They voted for George Bush, supported the war in Iraq and were convinced President Obama was Muslim.<\/p>\n She was too scared to ask if they were Birthers, but from what Peter told her about them, they were the sort of African immigrants who considered it a privilege to be seen as good blacks. To her, they were patronized. Peter must have thought so as well because he rebelled against them. He\u2019d played baseball in high school until he got too friendly with some blue-eyed cheerleader whose dad found out. The man threatened to shoot him. Instead of reporting the man to the police, Peter\u2019s parents asked if Peter had fornicated with his daughter. \u201cI mean,\u201d Peter said, \u201cwhat happened to thou shalt not kill?\u201d<\/p>\n His parents never reported the incident because the man worked for the mayor\u2019s office. They hoped Peter would stay out of trouble for the rest of high school and get a baseball scholarship to help with his college fees. Instead, Peter stopped playing baseball and started wearing \u201cthug-like apparel,\u201d as his dad said, \u201cand speaking in a ghetto-like manner.\u201d His parents were worried he was taking drugs. Peter didn\u2019t do drugs; he also studied hard. He felt he owed his parents for paying his tuition. He was determined to pay them back as soon as he could. He was resentful of Tara and others, who could take their parents\u2019 support for granted. He called them the native bourgeoisie. He had read Fanon\u2019s The Wretched of the Earth.<\/em> \u201cI thought you were bougie,\u201d he said. \u201cThey\u2019re like bougie beyond belief.\u201d<\/p>\n He would deliberately interrupt Kit and Zak when they were talking and say, \u201cWait, what?\u201d as if he couldn\u2019t understand them. They, in turn, would exaggerate their English accents to suggest he was parochial. Grace didn\u2019t always understand the English slang Tara and Lali used like \u201cplonker\u201d and \u201cprat,\u201d but it wasn\u2019t that hard to figure out what they meant: Zak was a plonker and Kit was a prat. Peter didn\u2019t believe they were into girls at all because of the pastel-colored Oxford shirts they wore, even though she argued they looked no different from preppy African-American students. \u201cYeah, whatever,\u201d he\u2019d say. \u201cThey gay.\u201d<\/p>\n Peter was the first guy she hooked up with in college, and they continued to hook up now and then until he graduated and moved to Texas to work for an oil company. But he was too much of a jock for her. He had to be on the winning team. She would be lying in bed with him, telling him she was feeling low, and he would tell her to get up and go for a run. He called her hardheaded whenever they argued. She called him stupid. After college, they messaged each other on Facebook a few times, but she eventually thought there was no point. He got married early anyway, to a woman named Monique. Her parents were from Haiti and she was a CPA. She had a self-assured and capable look about her. She was a Michelle Obama fan, but OK with his parents\u2019 views. She was Catholic as well, which was perfect. Grace got an invitation to their wedding, but she didn\u2019t go because she thought it would be awkward.<\/p>\n She notices a security guard in uniform and badge watching her. He might just be making the usual tribal eye contact. There are other black shoppers in the casuals section, a woman with long gray braids and a man in a Hawaiian shirt and a straw Panama. She has been watched and followed in stores before, but she has never been stopped. Even if she were, she would still shop. Only when she is pressured by overenthusiastic assistants does she feel inclined to walk out of stores.<\/p>\n She ought to get the bag instead of wandering around, she thinks. She makes a show of looking for the down escalator in case the security guard is suspicious of her.<\/p>\n The more Xanax her mom took, the more Grace came to the mall. The first time she maxed out a credit card she bought a leather jacket. Her mom was careful with money, even while taking her pills. She and her mom did not have the same sense of style. She went for simple and understated; her mom preferred embroidery and other embellishments. She never tried to advise her mom on clothes, but her mom found her taste expensive. Her mom was a hoarder. She was not. She gave away what she no longer used to charity.<\/p>\n She still does, but has become manic about making sure her wardrobe remains trim. Every year, she donates clothes. Every month, she keeps up with her credit-card minimum payments because she is paranoid that debt collectors will call her at work. She can\u2019t tell anyone about her bills. Not her mom or her work colleagues, who would probably think she is dumb to get into so much debt.<\/p>\n She once overheard a client talking about an article on how much basketball players spent. \u201cIt\u2019s low self-esteem,\u201d he said. \u201cIf you think about it, who spends the most on clothes and bling? Women and \u2013 uh \u2013 see what I\u2019m saying?\u201d What offended her most was his use of the word \u201cbling.\u201d<\/p>\n She reaches the ground floor, her heart rate increasing as she heads for the handbag section. She doesn\u2019t see the bag when she gets there. She doesn\u2019t see the assistant, either.<\/p>\n \u201cThere you are!\u201d the assistant says, behind her, causing her to jump.<\/p>\n She pats her chest. \u201cIs it\u2026still available?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOf course it is. I put it aside for you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou did that for me?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI saw how much you wanted it. I\u2019ve seen that look before. Here.\u201d<\/p>\n The assistant retrieves the bag from behind the counter. The bag seems to have shrunk and it could be a two-hundred-dollar bag. Why does she want it so badly?<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m addicted to shopping,\u201d she cries out.<\/p>\n The assistant laughs. \u201cOh, honey, we all are.\u201d<\/p>\n Grace hands over her driver\u2019s license and debit card after the assistant wraps the bag carefully in tissue. Her card is unlikely to be declined, but she is nervous anyway.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m not even going to try and pronounce your last name,\u201d the assistant murmurs.<\/p>\n She drives to her mom\u2019s apartment thinking about her father. She has never thought of him as her dad. Her mom once told her his other wife had used juju to lure him and would use juju to stop anyone from getting close to him. She was still curious enough to want to contact him. She tried to Google him, but her hands trembled so much she kept misspelling Oladimeji, then she couldn\u2019t hit Enter. Her heart pounded so loudly she thought her ears might pop. She was sure that if she saw an article on him or a photograph of him, she would pass out.<\/p>\n She has given up on the idea of contacting her father. He will probably turn out to be as uncaring as her mom said he was, and deny or reject her. She doesn\u2019t want to be one of those women who, having been abandoned by their fathers, follow the rest of the script, forever searching for substitutes in other men. She has no time for nonsense when it comes to men. Any type of bad behavior and it\u2019s, \u201cBuh-bye.\u201d<\/p>\n Her ex-boyfriend, Courtney, a Jamaican financial planner who had a knack for coming up with platitudes at the wrong times, with a lilt and pauses in between, said she was scared of committing to relationships because she was broken. She was broken inside. She was broken inside because of her father. Because of her father, she was unable to make herself vulnerable. Vulnerable to other men. Courtney would sulk as if she had deprived him of his right to hurt her. As far as she was concerned, Courtney just couldn\u2019t accept the fact that she was as uncommitted as he was, so he dumped her.<\/p>\n She parks her car on the street adjacent to her mom\u2019s. The last time she saw her mom, her mom accused her of not visiting enough. She walks to her mom\u2019s block wondering what kind of mood she will find her in today. Her mom\u2019s metallic-gray Honda CR-V is on the street, which means the parking lot behind the block must be full. She steps on a pavement crack she religiously avoided when she lived there.<\/p>\n Her mom\u2019s neighbor, Mrs Murphy, a widow who gave her a ladybug pin for good luck when she was a girl, and who has since moved to Florida, would say to her, \u201cStep on a crack, break your mother\u2019s back.\u201d In college, she found out the original saying was, \u201cStep on a crack, turn your mother black.\u201d<\/p>\n She presses the buzzer. When her mom answers, she says, \u201cIt\u2019s me,\u201d and walks up the stairs remembering when she was brave enough to jump down each flight.<\/p>\n \u201cI called you,\u201d her mom says, opening the door.<\/p>\n \u201cWhen?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cJust now. I even called you at home. Several times.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou did?\u201d<\/p>\n Grace checks her cell phone. Her mom is in baby-blue velour sweat pants and a matching T-shirt with crystal studs. At home, her mom wears a black silk scarf to preserve her hairstyles. She wishes she had thick hair like her mom\u2019s. Hers is thinning around her temples because of her hair weaves.<\/p>\n She has a few missed calls. \u201cHey, you did call!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy didn\u2019t you answer?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI was driving.\u201d<\/p>\n She wants to confess she was at the mall. She would like to tell her mom she has a shopping habit, and blame it on her, but that wouldn\u2019t be true, or fair. Her mom has evidence of past shopping escapades all over her apartment. In her bedroom, there are bags full of clothes with tags. In her kitchen, there are opened boxes of unused electrical appliances: a food processor, a robotic vacuum cleaner. In her bathroom, there are tubs of creams and bath salts. Her mom rarely buys clothes anymore, especially if they\u2019re made in China.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m going back to Nigeria,\u201d her mom says, lying on the sofa in the living room.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat happened?\u201d she asks.<\/p>\n She doesn\u2019t ask why. She\u2019s heard this before. Something happens at work or elsewhere and her mom says she is going back to Nigeria for good, even though she can\u2019t afford to. She does a good job of hiding her pill habit at work, but at home she is lethargic and negative.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m tired of this country,\u201d her mom says. \u201cThey work you too hard and they\u2019re too racist.\u201d<\/p>\n Grace sits in a chair. \u201cYou\u2019ve always known that.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m getting older.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI won\u2019t be able to visit you in Nigeria.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGod forbid I die in America. I beg you, whatever you do, don\u2019t bury me here.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMom, you\u2019re too young to talk like this.\u201d<\/p>\n She can\u2019t bear her mom talking about death. She can\u2019t bear her mom talking to her about men, either. Recently, her mom has been nagging her about finding a nice Nigerian man in America. She doesn\u2019t let her mom finish her sentences. \u201cMom,\u201d she says over and over, getting louder until her mom says, \u201cOK, I\u2019m just telling you.\u201d<\/p>\n She was in her final year of high school and suffering from senioritis when her mom started taking Xanax. She had already been admitted to college via an Early Decision application. All she wanted to do was go out with her friends and go on a date for once. A really cute guy in school called Demetrius asked her out to a movie. He played soccer and so badly wanted to get into Rutgers University. \u201cIs he Greek or what?\u201d her mom asked. \u201cHe\u2019s African-American,\u201d Grace said. \u201cThese people and their funny names,\u201d her mom said. \u201cWhat people? What funny names?\u201d Grace asked. \u201cWhat do his parents do anyway?\u201d her mom asked. Demetrius\u2019 mom was a nurse and they weren\u2019t in contact with his dad. \u201cI don\u2019t like single parent set-ups,\u201d her mom said. \u201cWhat are we?\u201d Grace asked.<\/p>\n Her mom went down her usual checklist of the dangers of teen life in America: sex, drugs, alcohol. \u201cStick to Americans like Ashley,\u201d her mom said. \u201cMom, you don\u2019t know Ashley,\u201d Grace said. Ashley drank and smoked weed. She was going out with a guy called Luis her parents couldn\u2019t stand. She would tell them she was meeting Grace at the mall and meet Luis there. Grace didn\u2019t say any of this, but she argued with her mom until her mom said she could go on the date with Demetrius.<\/p>\n Demetrius was the first guy she made out with. She never watched the movie. She pulled an Ashley on her mom from then on and spent time with him at the mall until she went to college. She cried when they broke up \u2013 actually, she cried because he cried, but their break-up was still traumatic. But before that, she noticed her mom was sleeping longer than usual and becoming increasingly irritable. She would ask her mom, \u201cWhy are you yelling?\u201d or \u201cWhat are you yelling for?\u201d Her mom would tell her to shut up or threaten to slap her. She could not mention the pills; instead, she Googled them to check that they didn\u2019t interact and researched their side effects. She would sleep with her bedroom door open so she could hear her mom breathing. One day, when her mom started whining about America again, she asked her mom, \u201cWhy did you come here, then?\u201d Her mom said, \u201cI did it for you.\u201d Grace said, \u201cI was only two. I had no say.\u201d Her mom said, \u201cLook at you. You\u2019re not even grateful.\u201d<\/p>\n Today, her mom tells her why she is tired of America. A Nigerian woman showed up at the hospital\u2019s Emergency Room in labor and the hospital called her mom in to translate.<\/p>\n \u201cThe foolish woman claimed she couldn\u2019t speak English. She said she could only speak Yoruba so they called me in, in my free time. She had no record of pre-natal care. No record whatsoever in America, and she was telling me her records were in Nigeria. She had pre-natal care there. Worse, she was having twins. So she put her life and children\u2019s lives at risk so they would be born in America. She had no insurance and no intention of paying her bills. Hah! Nigerians!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2019re special,\u201d Grace says.<\/p>\n \u201cActually,\u201d her mom says, \u201cI can never go back to that country.\u201d<\/p>\n Grace laughs. \u201cMom, will you make up your mind?\u201d<\/p>\n It is a good visit. Or at least, she leaves in an OK mood. Perhaps she timed her entrance and exit perfectly this time. If she left too early her mom would have been pissed. If she left too late she would be pissed.<\/p>\n Her mom had already had lunch, but she ate some of her mom\u2019s chicken stew with rice and fried plantains. When she was younger, she couldn\u2019t understand why her mom wouldn\u2019t just go to Pathmark to buy her ingredients. Instead, her mom, in her free time, would go all the way to Paterson to get fresh chicken, habaneros and ripe plantains, as if they lived somewhere in Nigeria. Now, she knows why. She has never been able to replicate the taste of her mom\u2019s chicken stews.<\/p>\n They almost, almost got into an argument when her mom asked, \u201cHow\u2019s your friend Ashley?\u201d Grace said, \u201cMom, will you please stop asking me about Ashley?\u201d Her mom said, \u201cI just want to know. How come you don\u2019t see her anymore?\u201d Grace said, \u201cWe\u2019re in touch on Facebook.\u201d Ashley worked for a law firm in New York. She wanted to quit and move back to New Jersey to open a bakery. \u201cShe was such a nice, polite girl,\u201d her mom said. \u201cAsians are like Africans, you know. They raise their children well.\u201d Grace said, \u201cI\u2019d better go.\u201d<\/p>\n She can\u2019t tell how her mom really feels about America. Her mom is in a constant state of contradiction about America and Americans. She suspects her mom is envious of Nigerians in Nigeria. Maybe that was what her mom\u2019s reaction to the pregnant woman was about. Not that the woman would not pay her hospital bills, but that she would return to Nigeria with her twins.<\/p>\n She, too, was kind of envious when Tara and the rest returned to Nigeria. Tara was CEO of her own marketing company. Her clients were small and medium enterprises, like recycling companies and employment agencies. They were not cutting-edge start-ups, but they were relevant and profitable. Lali was director of her own non-governmental organization. She was trying to inspire young Nigerians to get more involved in the democratic process. She received a THISDAY award, which Bill Clinton, of all people, presented to her. Zak worked for his uncle, who was the wealthiest man in Nigeria. Or was it Africa? His uncle manufactured cement, anyhow. Kit was with a new telecommunications company. He was always on the move. The last time she heard from him, he was in Saudi Arabia. \u201cWhat the hell are you doing in Saudi?\u201d she asked. \u201cTrying my best not to get beheaded,\u201d Kit said.<\/p>\n She was just beginning to adjust to being a minority in her firm and the only black woman in her department. She got herself a small tattoo below her navel, a stamp saying, \u201cNigerian Made.\u201d After which, she imagined her tattoo stretching when she had her first child, and shriveling up as she aged.<\/p>\n As she heads back to Philadelphia, she considers returning the bag, but she passes the exit to the mall and keeps driving. The further she drives, the more difficult it is to turn back, until it is too late to. She glances at her shopping bag on the passenger seat. She knows better, she thinks. Why does she keep doing this? Perhaps she has an addiction gene. She read somewhere that addiction is hereditary. For a while she worries that she\u2019s inherited depression.<\/p>\n When she gets home, she puts her shopping bag in her television chair. There are several messages on her phone. She checks her incoming calls. Some are the calls her mom made; others, from numbers she can\u2019t identify, must be from the credit-card companies that keep calling her to apply for more credit. She presses the delete button twice and erases them.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The lighting in the department store reminds her of hospitals. She walks through the entrance ignoring the display, a Plexiglas table on top of which are vases in shades of orange, yellow and green. On both side of the table are white mannequins in floral summer dresses. She barely pays attention to them, either. She [&hellip<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":3689,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3],"tags":[183,165],"class_list":["post-3684","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-prose","tag-photo-by-petr-kratochvil-wikicommons","tag-public-domain"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3684","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=3684"}],"version-history":[{"count":10,"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3684\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3713,"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3684\/revisions\/3713"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/3689"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=3684"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=3684"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=3684"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}![\"nn,](\"https:\/\/narrativenortheast.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/09\/nn-sefi-atta-photo-011594-ap50.jpg\")
Sefi Atta was born in Lagos, Nigeria, in 1964. She was educated there, in England and the United States. A former chartered accountant and CPA, she is the author of Everything Good Will Come (2005), Swallow<\/em> (2010), News from Home<\/em> (2010), and A Bit of Difference<\/em> (2013). In 2006, she was awarded the Wole Soyinka Prize for Literature in Africa, and in 2009 the Noma Award for Publishing in Africa. Also a playwright, her radio plays have been broadcast by the BBC and her stage plays have been performed internationally. This year, a critical study of her works, Writing Contemporary Nigeria: How Sefi Atta Illuminates African Culture and Tradition,<\/em> edited by Professor Walter Collins, will be published by Cambria Press. She is currently working on her first American novel and divides her time between Nigeria, England and the United States.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"