There are three things everyone should know about having African parents.

My dad was the one who texted me during the dinner with Nathan Cowe, and I ignored the text for as long as I could. But the truth is there is only so long you can ignore your Nigerian father for when he calls.

Last night, I got a message from him, it was one sentence, but it was enough to pass across the message, “Adira Emiade Arogundade, I want you at home tomorrow.”

The fact that he summoned me wasn’t the issue, it was the fact that he pulled out the full name card. I had no other choice but to obey.’

I immediately sent a text to Marissa telling her that I wouldn’t be coming into work the next day and for her to answer all my important calls. By 10 a.m. I was out of my house and driving to my parent’s place.

They live in a pretty small house. It’s a four bedroom modern cottage styled house with a beautiful garden at the back that my mom tends to, a pretty decent driveway, white walls and a blue zinc roof.

My dad always said that he never saw the need to have a big house when it was just the three of us.

I even wanted to buy him a larger house when I started making my own money, but he told me point blank that he loved his house and wasn’t interested in moving.

I secretly think that it is because he didn’t want to let go of the memories.

My mom opened the door before I even got out of the car and rushed over to give me a hug. She barely reached my shoulders but that didn’t stop her from squeezing me so tightly that I almost stopped breathing .

Her graying hair was braided all back and she had a blue wrapper tied around her body. Her hands felt greasy against my back and I let out an involuntary shiver at the thought of her leaving stains on my top.

I gently pulled away from her, “Good morning mom,”

“I missed you so much,” her hands went to my face and I jerked back lightly, “Sorry, I was making stew when I saw your car. I forgot to wash my hands.”

“It’s fine,” I assured her as I discreetly used the window of my car to check for stains on my shirt. When I was satisfied that there was nothing I turned back to her, “Where’s dad?”

“He’s inside,” she gave me an encouraging smile as we started to walk towards the house, “He missed you and was worried that you were overworking yourself.”

I hummed in disbelief, “I guess that explains why he sent a text using my full name.”

Mom just shook her head and gently nudged me into the house.

The inside hasn’t changed since I was sixteen.

The walls are still painted the same beige color, it s the brown chairs that I sat on growing up.

The dining table is the same; even the chandelier is the same.

My family doesn’t exactly do well with change.

She locked the door behind her and left for the kitchen. She didn’t need to show me where my dad was, I already knew.

There are only few possible places my dad could have chosen to be; his room, his study or the living room.

Considering that I was standing in the living room; that obviously wasn’t the right answer.

His room would have been the next option but it is almost 11, and he is always up as early as 5 a.m. The only reason he would be in his room is if he is sick or he went to pick up something. That left his study.

I made my way there and knocked on the door softly. I heard his voice as clear as day telling me to enter and I gently pushed it open.

My dad was sitting in front of an open laptop. His fingers flew across the keyboard and his eyes were fixated on the screen. Even as I stepped in, his eyes didn’t move from the screen once but I knew he could see my every move clearly.

He was wearing a simple orange polo shirt. I am sure he paired it with shorts as usual; his round rimmed glasses were perched on his nose, and every few seconds, he would adjust it and then take a sip from the mug of tea next to him.

I gently shut the door and went on both knees, “Good morning sir.”

“Good morning Adira,” he still didn’t look up from his laptop, but he gestured for me to sit on one of the chairs opposite him, “How are you? How is your show coming up?”

“I’m fine, thank you sir. As for the show, it’s- I'm working on it” I sat in the chair and he finally looked up at me, “How is your work going?”

“Clients are being frustrating as usual, but we got a new deal to flip a house in Yonkers.”

“That sounds exciting, does it pay well?”

“If it doesn’t, do you think I will take the job?” his sarcasm made me laugh, and he finally shut his laptop screen.

He did it slowly, almost as if he had all the time in the world, and it put me on edge. I know my father well, and the preciseness in his actions led me to believe that his next question might make me a little uncomfortable .

Just before he could start speaking, the door to his study opened and my mom poked her head in.

“Rice is ready,” she said then turned to me, “Come and set the table so we can eat.”

I turned to my dad, but he shook his head. I knew I wouldn’t be finding out what he wanted to ask right now. I followed my mom to the kitchen and took out the plates from the cabinet where they’ve always been.

I set three spots at the table, and she brought in the serving dish filled with jollof rice. This added to my earlier suspicion; she knows I love jollof rice, so the fact that she made it probably means they’re trying to butter me up, the real question now is why.

After we finished setting up the table, she went to call my dad. The dining table is a four seater; we’re not a big family and mom always liked to make a big deal out of meals. She said it was a time for us to leave the stress of work and school and bond like a family.

She came back with dad, and they took their seats next to each other with dad at the head of the table and her by his right side. I saw them discreetly hold hands under the table and I smothered a smile.

They’ve been doing that as long as I can remember and honestly I don’t know why they hide it, I have always seen them. It also helps that dad is left handed, so it never raises suspicion as to why his right hand is not on the table.

Mom prayed over the food, served dad and herself, then I served myself. I was two bites in when she spoke.

“When is your show? I’m not sure if it’s July or August.”

“It is two months from now; so that is ending of July. ”

“Is Joseph going to be there?” she asked it very casually but out of the corner of my eye, I could see the way she looked at me, almost as if she was anticipating a nervous breakdown.

I should have known my dad would tell her that we broke up, and honestly I should have known that she was going to ask.

“No he won’t” I answered after a beat of silence, “He’s a lawyer, he has nothing to do with the fashion industry.”

“He would be coming to support you?”

“That would be weird considering that we broke up,” Her gasp almost convinced me that she didn’t know, “Besides, it would be a long and wasteful trip if he came to New York just for a fashion show.”

“What do you mean ‘came to New York’. I thought he lived in Manhattan.”

“He did, he moved about ten days ago.”

Even my dad looked surprised to hear this. They both dropped their utensils and stared at me with concern and sympathy.

“I’m so sorry,” mom said, “I know how excited you were to get married. I’m just glad that you hadn’t started the wedding planning.”

I didn’t correct her on that. I had started planning, I had called florists and designers, I had even picked out the store that I was going to get my dress from.

As soon as he left my house after breaking the news to me, I had to call them all and cancel.

It’s ranked up there among the most difficult things I have ever had to do.

I had to endure their fake sympathy and apologies, as well as their probing questions as to why we were deciding to cancel all the wedding preparations. Especially from the designer for the dress, she seemed very excited to work with me, and I had to let her down .

“I’m not sorry,” my dad’s admission shocked me. I turned to him in confusion and he just gave me a shrug and continued eating his food.

“That was mean,” my mom whispered to him and he shrugged again as if he didn’t care- which, knowing him, he didn’t.

“I never liked him.” He said casually, as if it was the easiest thing in the world. I had to sit up in my seat. That’s the first I’m hearing of it.

“You didn’t like him,” I repeated and he nodded, “But you were going to let me marry him.”

“You’re old enough to make your own decisions,” he said simply, “And you were the one marrying him; not me. All that mattered was that you liked him. How does my not liking him concern you marrying him?”

“You used to invite him over for dinner.”

“Because he was your boyfriend; I had to get to know him. Or would you have preferred if I didn’t make an attempt to know him?”

I was still confused, “Why didn’t you like him?” I asked finally, “And why didn’t you say anything?”

“He never gave back what you gave him,” I was about to ask what he meant when he continued, “He never attended your shows; he was always ‘busy’. And don’t forget the awful jewelry he gave you on your twenty-fifth birthday. You don’t even wear jewelry.”

“He was busy,” my voice was quiet. We both know he’s right, but a part of me felt like I had to defend him.

“Too busy to come to the birthday dinner that Olivia organized for you,” his tone was sarcastic, “I saw the pictures online. And while we’re talking about pictures, he never posted pictures of you. ”

“He wanted to keep things private.”

“Have you checked his profile recently?” dad asked, and when I didn’t respond, he took out his phone and slid it over to me.