TORIA
London’s diamond sparkles on my finger and I feel a rush of emotions again. I am so in love with this man, it makes my heart hurt, literally. Whenever I look at the ring, I remember the proposal. He took me on his father’s private jet and said he had booked a weekend in Dubai for us. At the time, I secretly thought he could have done better because Dubai was overrated but then it didn’t matter because once we took off, here comes the paparazzi.
The beautiful Arabic flight crew dressed smartly in double-breasted two-piece red skirts marched out with various hors d’oeuvres on an incredibly long tray. The food spelled out Marry me? And it was so creative and overwhelming that I burst into tears.
London went on his knees in front of me and took out the most gorgeous diamond ring I’d ever seen and said in his American accent:
“I can’t imagine life without you, baby. Please, do me the honour of saying yes.”
“Yes, oh yes,” I gushed, hugging him to his feet. I am not big on large emotional expressions, but I found myself crying on this day.
I love that man so much it hurts. Sometimes I think about how I never thought I would find true love, of all the men that walked out of my life for one reason or the other, and I realize it was all worth it to be here with my London.
London and I first met on a flight to Paris. It’s interesting how our love story started on a plane. We were both seated beside each other in first class. I was heading to Paris for Fashion Week to represent my mother’s company while London was meeting his family for their yearly vacation in Paris. I thought it was sweet that their family still found ways to be together even though they were all grown and had their own lives.
My family disintegrated early and even though my parents are still together, I think they misunderstood the concept of family when they were starting one. After having my twin brothers, my mother had decided she was done having babies so it was an unpleasant shock to her when I showed up seven years later when they had built their empire and were about to settle into enjoying it.
My father says I am a blessing to the family, but I can tell he doesn’t really believe it. My mother doesn’t bother calling me a blessing, she never spent much time with me to begin with. It was like my birth was a hiccup in the journey of her life and she couldn’t wait to get over it and move on.
My brothers were never quite interested in me more so because they didn’t know what to do with a little sister who was too young to play the kind of games they were interested in.
My nanny – Missus Nancy was nice to me, though. She taught me kindness because she could have mistreated me and no one would know. I was a quiet child, I was told. Always brooding. I thought too deeply about things and stayed away from people. I wasn’t the bustling extrovert my brothers were, and I enjoyed time on my own.
This is why when I met Anya, I fell into that friendship without thinking. I’d spent the bulk of my early life alone and detached from people – my parents sent me to boarding school as soon as I turned ten and it was Missus Nancy who showed up on visiting days with food and money that my parents had sent along with her.
Anya was a charmer, and she still is. I was flattered at the time that she was interested in me, she thought I was brilliant. I didn’t know at the time what a con woman she was, but the closer we got, the more I saw her. What I saw should have made me hate her, should have made me cut her off, but no, I hadn’t had anyone in my life who wanted to be close to me before. No one depended on me for emotional and yes, financial support. I appreciated her ability to walk away from things she didn’t think were serving her – Anya doesn’t believe in suffering through anything, but she doesn’t want to work to have the lifestyle she wants. She prefers to latch on to someone as her prize bull. I learned this later on, but by then it was too late to end things.
She was like a drug for me. I, who had never had the emotional support I needed from my family finally found someone who craved my support. It made me feel like a god whenever she came around with another sob story. I listened and cleaned up her mess. We built a relationship that was co-dependent with me getting my fix whenever I solved her problem and her continuing to live her lifestyle.
It would have been a perfect arrangement, it was a perfect arrangement. I wouldn’t have minded that much, because no matter how much I gave her, it could never dent the money I had. Money was just a tool, it didn’t define me and I wish Anya knew that. I wish she knew that money went as easily as it came, that nothing was stopping her from making her own money and creating the life she wanted.
“You don’t understand,” she says whenever I bring up the subject. “You were born rich. I have nothing, nothing.”
Now, that’s a lie. I’ve done some investigation and I know that Anya’s family has more money than the average Nigerian family. I know she didn’t have to trek to school like she often says. I know.
She doesn’t know I know. She thinks I’m gullible and naive, she thinks I’m a dumb girl because I was born rich. I don’t tell her that I make quite a lot of money as a fashion influencer slash marketing specialist than she could imagine, that I took that free class five years ago with her and I did something with it unlike her who is too lazy to make something out of her life.
I like Anya, I do, but ever since I discovered what she’s been doing behind my back, I have felt nothing but a thorough dislike of the woman she’s become.
I cross my legs now waiting for her to return with our breakfast orders. I invited her out to breakfast to share the news of my engagement with her and I can’t wait to see the look on her face when she hears it.
“Whew. Everybody and their grandma are out for breakfast this morning,” she says as she returns with a tray of breakfast sandwiches, fries, and two large smoothies.
She places the tray in the middle of the table and takes out her share of the food before sliding my debit card over to me.
“So, what’s this news you wanted to share?” she asks after tossing some fries into her mouth.
“I’m getting married,” I say.
I watch her face and see the emotions pass through it. First, there’s surprise, then confusion, then a tinge of horror and finally she slips the mask on – the mask that says she is happy for me.
“Oh em gee, congratulations bestie!” she squeals, clapping her hands in feigned excitement.
This is another thing that is beginning to grate on my nerves: Anya is almost thirty, and yet she refuses to change her lingua, rather she pretends to be Gen Z and adopts slang and mannerisms that are younger than her generation.
“Thank you,” I say, with a smile.
“Where’s the ring? Lemme see…” she reaches across the table and I eye her greasy fingers. She gets the message and grabs a tissue from the tray. I stretch out my left hand when I’m satisfied she’s clean and I watch her gasp at the sparkling diamond.
“It’s beautiful,” she says, and it is perhaps the most genuine statement she will utter today.
“Thank you.”
“Wait, I’m mad at you, though,” she releases my hand.
“Why?”
“I didn’t even know you were seeing someone and that it was serious!”
“Well, I wasn’t sure how serious it was so we kept it lowkey.” I knew I was serious about London from the moment we met. He was different from a lot of men who moved in the same circles as me. He was kind, down-to-earth, the kind of man who didn’t have friends who hung out in private VIP lounges, he went to church and he saw me.
We were inseparable from our Paris flight and I could tell that this was something I wanted to protect. I knew the first person I needed to protect it from was Anya. Why, you may ask? Well, I recently discovered that Anya was responsible for every failed relationship I had in the past five years.
