The Death of Vivek Oji - Akwaeke Emezi Page 0,31

she hadn’t been one of the few whose children were around, Kavita might not even have asked her over. She wondered what rumors Rhatha had heard. “He’s doing all right,” she said. “We just wanted to give him a little break from school since he hasn’t been feeling well.”

Rhatha leaned back in the sofa and regarded her. “You know,” she said, “Eloise was at the glass factory the other day when Vivek came to pick up Chika. She said he was looking quite run-down. It must have been serious if you pulled him out of school.”

Kavita frowned. “Why was Eloise at the factory?”

“She was picking up some sculptures. You know they did that program recently with the local artists, for her children’s ward? Their work is quite ugly, if you ask me, dreadful vases and whatnot. Chika was holding one for her. He didn’t tell you?”

“Yes, I remember,” lied Kavita. “Of course, the sculpture.”

“You should take Vivek to the teaching hospital if you need to get him checked out. Eloise is there a few times a week.”

“I know. But he’s fine, really. He just needs some time. He was always sensitive, even as a child.”

Rhatha nodded knowingly. “Nerves,” she said. “You always have to watch the sensitive ones. They wear out so easily, and the last thing you want is a nervous breakdown.”

“Exactly,” agreed Kavita. “Better he have some time off now than break down at school.” She knew there was a chance Rhatha would run around and tell everyone Vivek was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, but it was better than admitting that the breakdown had already happened.

“I thought that military school would have toughened him up,” said Rhatha.

“That’s what Chika was hoping when he sent him,” replied Kavita, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice. The other Nigerwives knew the whole story—she’d vented to them about it years ago when Chika first made the decision, despite Kavita’s objection that the boy was too young to live so far away from them.

To her surprise, the Nigerwives had supported Chika. “You have to allow him to raise his son the way he wants to,” they said. “We’re overprotective because this isn’t our country, but Chika knows what he’s doing. You trusted him enough to stay here instead of going back home, so trust him with your son.” So Kavita did; yet every holiday she waited with a tight chest until her son was back in her arms, safe and browned from the harsh sun.

“I hear it’s so hot there you can use the water from the tap to make garri?” she’d asked him, during one of his first holidays back home.

Vivek had laughed. “Yes, Amma. It’s Jos. You can grow strawberries up there.”

She had been worried that he’d be targeted for being Igbo, but her neighbor Osinachi had laughed when she heard that. “He looks Hausa,” she said. “Or even Fulani. He will be fine there. The boy doesn’t even hear Igbo like that.” Osinachi was an architect whose husband worked in Kuwait. She had lost her oldest child in a car accident years ago, and their surviving son, Tobechukwu, had grown up to be—as Osinachi put it—a bit of a tout, a troublemaker.

“Kavita?” Her mind had been drifting, but Rhatha’s voice drew her back.

“Sorry,” she said.

“I was saying that maybe the military school idea wasn’t the best. He might have had to repress his natural sensitivity, so it’s breaking out now.”

Kavita barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes. “How are your girls?” she asked instead, and Rhatha preened. The only thing she loved more than prying into other people’s lives was talking about her two darlings. She went off on a glowing monologue about how wonderfully the girls were doing with this time off, how they were exploring their artistic sides, how Somto’s swimming was bordering on extraordinary. Kavita smiled and nodded, tuning out most of Rhatha’s words. They had some tea and biscuits, and after an hour or two the girls came out of Vivek’s room carrying a tray still full of cupcakes.

“We should have baked something else,” Olunne said. “I forgot he doesn’t like these.”

“Isn’t he coming out?” asked Kavita, making to stand up.

“No, Aunty,” said Somto. “He got very tired and he said he’s going to sleep for a while. But we had a nice time. Thank you.” She put the cupcakes on a side table. The mothers were expecting them to say more about Vivek, but it was as if somewhere