BREW & BLOOM
VLOGMAS DAY 3
The Okafor family home in Ikoyi was the type of place money built when it had something to prove—four floors of white marble, crystal chandeliers, and the kind of cold perfection that made interior designers weep and children grow up quietly.
Amara stood in front of her old bedroom mirror, now repainted, redecorated, and repurposed, practising the smile she reserved for family gatherings. The one that said:
I’m fine, I’m whole, I’m thriving, yes, I’m still single, no, it’s not a tragedy.
Her phone buzzed.
Dubem: Sorry, can’t make it tonight. Crisis at the factory. Rain check?
Relief washed through her so intensely that she had to sit down. She’d invited him as a buffer, as an emotional human shield… now she would be facing everything alone.
“Amara!” her mother’s voice sliced up the stairs. “Are you coming down or should we start without you?”
The dining room could seat twelve. Tonight it seated five.
Her father at the head.
Her mother beside him.
Chuka and Kemi, opposite the empty chai,r Amara walked toward.
“Finally,” her mother said, eyes glancing from Amara’s hair to her shoes. “We were about to send a search party.”
“I was just upstairs.”
“For thirty minutes. Doing what? Your hair looks the same.”
Amara smiled tightly and sat.
Chuka smirked at her with the confidence of a man who had made one irreversible life decision and was now being praised for his ‘responsibility.’ Kemi, visibly exhausted and four months pregnant, gave Amara a sympathetic glance.
Dinner was served: jollof that glistened, plantain fried with precision, chicken grilled to perfection. The Christmas décor around the dining room sparkled faintly: white lights, silver garlands, an elegance curated for Instagram.
“So.” Her mother’s voice cut through the clatter of cutlery. “Where is this Dubem? Your father said you invited him.”
“Work emergency.”
“Hmm.” Her mother’s ‘hmm’ had the density of a sermon. “That’s the third time he has cancelled.”
“Second.”
“How convenient.”
“Mom—”
“I’m simply saying: a serious man shows up.”
Her father focused on his food. Chuka poured wine. Kemi looked away. Amara breathed.
“Dubem runs a multi-million naira factory,” she said.
“So does your father. So do you. Busy is not the same as unavailable.”
The air thickened.
Chuka jumped in, too casually: “When I decided to propose—”
“You proposed because I was pregnant,” Kemi said quietly, then looked like she wanted to disappear.
Silence.
Her mother recovered first. “You proposed because you are a responsible young man.”
Then her gaze swung toward Amara.
“Unlike some people who are thirty-two and still exploring their options.”
And there it was, the grenade.
“I’m being intentional,” Amara said.
“You’re being picky.”
“Is it wrong to know what I want?”
“No. But you don’t know what you want. You only know what you don’t want.”
Amara inhaled deeply. “So you’d prefer I just marry anyone before my eggs dry up?”
“Amara,” her father whispered.
“No. Let her talk,” her mother said, voice icy. “Let her explain how she’s too perfect to settle. How her little café job and important banking career make her above us.”
“I never—”
“You didn’t have to.”
Her mother leaned forward, eyes bright.
“You walk around trying to curate the perfect life, perfect body, perfect relationship history. You judge everyone but refuse to admit you’re afraid.”
The words hit something raw.
“At least your brother made a choice,” Adaeze continued. “Is it perfect? No. Is it messy? Yes. But he committed. What do you have? A list? A 25-day elimination schedule? Your father told me.”
Amara’s head snapped toward her father.
“You told her?”
He coughed. “Your mother worries—”
“Your mother sees.”
Adaeze’s voice softened. “Baby, when last did you let someone actually know you? Not polished, Amara. Not efficient Amara. Just… you?”
Amara opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
“I don’t know how.”
The confession fell like glass shattering.
Kemi chose that moment to stand. “Excuse me, the baby is sitting on my bladder.”
Chuka followed her out.
Only the parents remained.
Her father cleared his throat. “Your mother is harsh. But she isn’t wrong.”
“So what do you want me to do?” Amara whispered. “Just pick someone and hope for the best?”
“No,” her mother said.
“I want you to stop running from yourself. Because until you deal with your fears, every man will feel wrong.”
There was no anger left in her voice, only truth.
An hour later, with dessert untouched and the air still heavy, Amara stepped out into the December night. The Christmas lights around the mansion glowed softly, too soft to warm anything.
She sat in her car, breathing in and out until her chest stopped feeling like a cracked wall.
Her phone vibrated.
Malik: You busy? Just finished a piece and I’m riding this creative high. Want to celebrate? There’s this suya spot in Yaba…
She should go home.
She should journal.
She should cry or pray or do something therapeutic.
Instead, she typed:
Send me the address.
With Maliks, she never knows how to say No.
To be continued…