Later that evening, Folarin pulled his Mercedes into Chuka's garage and parked. It had been a long, frustrating day. His scene mate for one of the most vital scenes kept messing up his lines and they'd had to do so many takes that exhaustion had set in and it had started to affect Folarin's delivery of his own lines. So, the Director had called it a day and now they would have to do the whole thing all over again the next day. Folarin was pissed. He hated working with amateurs. When would Nollywood finally run as a meritocracy, for fuck's sake?
As he got out of the car, his phone rang. It was his mom.
"Mommy! E kaale ma.", Folarin greeted, half bowing even though she couldn't see him. Force of habit.
"How are you my darling? Ba wo ni ise nlo?"
"I'm okay, ma. Work is fine. It was just a stressful day today. We have to reshoot a lot of the scenes we did today again tomorrow so I'm just a bit annoyed."
"Ah ah. Nobody should stress my son o!"
Folarin laughed. "It's okay, Mummy. It's a big budget production so they're paying well. It's allowed."
"Even though. They should not kill my child for me abeg."
Folarin rolled his eyes as he opened Chuka's front door and walked in like he owned the place. His mother could be so dramatic. Ki la so de be nsi?. What have we said that's that deep? "Mommy she e wa okay? Is everything alright" Folarin asked, wondering if there was a reason she'd called.
"Oh yes, my baby. I just called to say hello since you don't ever remember that somebody gave birth to you." She said, her voice fake-cracking like she was about to fake-cry. They had literally talked two days ago.
When he said as much, Mrs. Ishola replied, "Oooh okay so you have a timetable for calling me abi? Once every six months. Abi, Mofolarin?"
Folarin shook his head. He knew African mothers were known for drama, but he wondered if anyone else's mom was THIS dramatic; he wondered if other mothers weren't coming to HER for lessons. "Okay mommy ma binu. I'll call more often. She gbo?"
"Mo ti gbo. Nkan to ma ma so ni yen. That's what you always say."
Chuka saw Folarin roll his eyes as he entered the living room and laughed. "Mommy?" he mouthed.
Folarin nodded and put his phone on speaker so Chuka could endure with him.
"Mummy e kaale ma." Chuka greeted in fractured Yoruba, with yet another half-bow she couldn't see.
"Is that Chuka?"
"Yes, mummy. Good evening ma", he repeated in English.
"Omo mi. How are you?"
"I'm fine, mummy. How are you? How is work? I hope you're not doing too much."
"I'm fine, my dear. Only that you boys don't come to see your mother again. Is that good?"
"Ah mummy no nau. It's not like that. You know how set life can be. It's morning 'til night. Okay, we will come as soon as we wrap this Folarin's new movie. Prepare for premium flexing."
Mrs. Ishola laughed. "Okay o. I will be expecting you both."
"And mummy, are you taking your medicines? Folarin said you're not taking your medicines." Chuka asked, his voice taking on a mildly scold-ey tone. He looked over at Folarin, who was busying himself with the covered dish on the dining table, grinning at the contents.
Mrs. Ishola let out a longsuffering sigh. "This boy went to report me sha.", she mumbled. "I am taking them o! I am taking them.", she exclaimed. "I just forgot that one time."
"Three times." Folarin chimed in, mid-chew.
"Just those three times."
Chuka sighed. "Mummy, please o." Chuka said, his voice thick with worry. "Please."
Mrs. Ishola immediately understood. "My baby. I know Isioma's death still hurts. But you still have one mother left and she is not going anywhere. Mi o lo bi kan! Sho gbo mi?"
Chuka smiled, a wave of grief washing over him in spite of himself. It had been five months since he had lost Aunty Isioma but it still felt fresh. Fuck Cancer. "You better not o!" Chuka said. "You don't have permission to leave us until you clock 100."
"Aaah! Rara o! 100 ke. Who will be carrying me around? Mi o fe. 87 ti wa okay. 85 gan."
"80-what? Don't even try me mummy." Chuka said, with exaggerated anger.
"87 ti to mi. I don't want to be a burden to my boys."
"Who complained?" Folarin asked, mouth full.
"Oya, mummy put something on top, let it be round figure." Chuka said, in his best market-haggling voice.
Mrs. Ishola laughed heartily. "Eyin omo yi, e ni kpa mi."
She paused then continued. "But on a serious note, Chuka I hope you are not angry I didn't come for the burial. Ma binu si mi, omo mi. I still don't know how I missed that flight."
"Ah ah. Mummy. Of course, I understand. I know you loved her too and you would have been there if you could."
It was true. Mrs. Ishola had grown very fond of the tall, lovely lady Folarin had introduced as Chuka's guardian. She had taken an almost instant liking to the girl. Who were these delightful Igbo people Folarin was suddenly flooding her life with? Why was he trying to rob her of her beloved bigotry? Isioma had been the last-born child of Chuka's grandparents, married to an ugly brute who beat her and was repeatedly unfaithful to their marriage. During the nine years they had been married, they had not been blessed with children and Isioma suffered much physical and psychological torture because of it. Mrs. Ishola had proudly been a strong influence in Isioma's decision to divorce the bastard. She had been glad that their long chats in Mrs. Ishola's fabric megastore in Lagos Island market, where Isioma often spent her free time, had resulted in a positive step in the right direction. She had been willing and ready to help the still-relatively-young and beautiful woman start her life afresh. She was only in her early forties. Why this horrible disease had to spring up out of nowhere and ruin everything, still boggled the mind. It was so unfair. No-one deserved it less than Isi.
"Please don't worry about it." Chuka was saying. "I sent your love when I said my goodbyes. Besides, Folarin brought everything you sent. Your presence was well felt, mummy. Thank you, again."
"You're such a darling. I've been feeling so guilty. Thank you, my dear." She paused. "And Folarin nko? I hope that boy was helpful to you."
Chuka looked over at Folarin. Had he been helpful? If she meant in the way that any other friend would have been - greeting guests, helping with errands, cleaning up - then he had been absolutely useless. Nobody did 'lazy' like Folarin. He'd turned 'soft life' into an art form. "This is why we pay people, Chuka. Don't stress my life.", he would say when the subject of any kind of manual labour came up.
And yet...
It was Folarin who had kept a comforting hand on his back at the grave side, as he watched yet another mother be covered up with sand. While Lisa and everyone else tiptoed around the subject of her, it was Folarin who had shared funny stories about their escapades during her visits to Lagos and how they'd nearly punctured her lungs with laughter. It was Folarin who had dragged him out of the house the morning after the burial, and gave him a fake, made-up tour of Chuka's own village just to get him to laugh. And laugh, he had. Almost to tears. And then later, it was Folarin who had sat quietly and rubbed his back as he wept into his hands. Yes, Mrs. Ishola, he was more than helpful. Not that he would ever say it out loud but Folarin had actually been his lifeline.
"Yes, ma." he said out loud, laughing. "He wasn't completely useless."
Mrs. Ishola replied with laugh of her own. "Two of you, ehn. Okay. That's good." She paused. "And how is that your wife?"
The flippancy was unmistakable. Mrs. Ishola wasn't the biggest fan of Lisa's and she never bothered to hide it. She found her ingenuine, ill-mannered, and annoying and didn't know why a nice boy like Chuka would pick a girl like her. She often joked that Folarin should have been born a girl because they would have been perfect together.
Folarin, who had been processing yet another mouthful of okpa, looked at Chuka and paused mid-chew, as soon as he heard her question. He made rapid swiping motions at his neck, signaling Chuka to say nothing about the impending divorce.
"Lisa is fine, ma. We're doing well." Chuka responded, as he walked over and snatched Folarin's cutlery and forked a big piece of okpa with fish into his mouth before Folarin could react.
"Okay, my son. Good night, ehn. You boys behave o."
Chuka laughed with his mouth full as Folarin carried his plate and moved from the dining area to the sofa, eating it directly off the plate in one hand while wielding the fork as a weapon mid-air with the other. "We will, mummy. Have a good night, you hear? Sleep o!" He admonished, as he walked towards Folarin to hand his phone back to him so they could say their goodbyes.
"Good night, mommy." He shouted into Chuka's hand, instead. "Sleep well, yeah? I'll call you tomorrow, I promise. Love you."
"Love you too, omo mi." Mrs. Ishola said and hung up.
"Anu mpama", Chuka insulted in Igbo, dropping Folarin's phone beside him, already feeling much better since his arrival.
"Charles! Charles o!" Folarin called out towards the kitchen door, ignoring Chuka. Ordinarily he would have responded with an insult of his own in Yoruba but filling his stomach was a matter of much urgency. The set caterer had called in sick that day and her replacement had cooked a steaming pile of trash. He'd barely touched it.
Chuka's cook poked his head out from the kitchen first, before his body followed. "Oga Folarin. Welcome sa."
"Charles-Charles." Folarin hailed. "My mainest gee. E still remain abi?" He asked, as he scraped the last of it into his mouth. "You cook plenty abi? I know sey you no fit chop my eye."
Charles laughed. It had always baffled and impressed him in equal measure that Folarin was just as funny and charming as he was in the movies, despite being so striking in appearance. In his experience, beautiful people rarely had much of a personality. "Yes, Sir. E remain."
"My guyyy!" Folarin exclaimed, raising both arms in the local salute. "Charley for Local Government Chairman. Oya na. Bring more come abeg." He said, pointing his plate towards Charles. "With chilled beer. Chilled. I know say beer no dey finish for this one fridge."
Chuka scoffed. Folarin already knew Chuka was more of a spirits guy and all that beer was really for him.
His eyes on the TV, Chuka flipped through Netflix for something to play, because Folarin liked to watch something while he ate.
Charles the cook took the empty plate, shaking his head with a smile on his face. These two were something else. "Okay, Sir." he said and went back into the kitchen to fetch enough okpa and beer to quench Folarin's ravenous appetite.