Chapter One

Father always complained that Akunna was always undecided and not serious about anything. He complained she never gave anything much thought and concentration except make up and father was right. The only reason I didn't complain openly was because Akunna was older than I was with four whole years and talking when she was being scolded would be tagged disrespectful.

Akunna was rightfully named. Her name could be translated to mean 'father's property' for she was very beautiful and unlike all of us in my family, she was very fair and her very black hair added a beautiful contrast to her skin. She had legs as slender and straight as a ruler and her figure eight shaped body was an addition. Akunna was an embodiment of beauty and that was why father was worried.

Today Father was complaining again because mother was complaining of how she knew little or nothing when it came to domestic works. Akunna was hardly seen around and when she was around it was for eating and make up. Father had sent her to learn hairdressing in a church which gave free tutorials to people who wanted to acquire one vocational skill or the other and instead she had gone ahead to learn make up. Father was mad and had screamed his head off that I feared his heart would burst from the way the veins on his neck stood out like crawling earthworm digging their way into the soil. I certainly don't understand what is wrong with my sister but i can't ask or even as much as say anything or I would get on her bad side and be tagged disrespectful.

"What is the problem of this child? Did I offend anyone by giving birth to you? Why would you keep troubling me?" He was screaming while Akunna stood before him her head down and I was thinking if she truly was listening to Father or she had her mind on other things and couldn't wait for this repeated show to end. it ended the same way most times with Father telling her to get out of his sight and him asking why she couldn't be more like me.

"How many people go out to professional make up artists to get their faces made up in Nigeria especially in this recession we are in, how many people?" He asked like he expected her to answer but we all knew that Father's questions when angry were rhetorical and it was better you kept your mouth shut and showed remorse than trying to explain your actions.

Akunna was drawing invisible lines with her toes on the tiles, her hands were behind her back like she had been cuffed and her head was on the tiles maybe admiring the lines her toes were making which could only be seen by her.

"Akunna, you will not kill me. i didn't kill my parents so you can never kill me. How on earth did this passion for make up come about sef?" He was looking at me but I chose to ignore. "Ehn, how would one with a head on her neck choose make up over hairdressing when we all know you women value your hair so much that you can carry a piece of land on it called Brazilian Wig?"

"Some value their faces more." She said quietly but loud enough for him and me to hear.

"Will you shut up!" He exploded and made to stand up and she ran out of the house. Father sighed and sat back down. "Who did I offend?" he asked again. "Ama say something." I coughed slightly surprised that he would want me to talk in such a situation.

"Mother? " I asked clearing surprised and confused thinking maybe he was talking to my mother because we bear same name.

"No, you. Say something." His head was on the recliner of the couch and he was looking at the ceiling maybe counting them or just looking.

"Well, what if learning make up is not so bad?" I blurted and Father looked at me sharply.

"What?" He sounded like he hadn't heard me or he heard and didn't understand.

"Father, let's try to look at it from another angle."

"There's no other angle to this than your sister is just being her usual self, taking everything so flippantly even her life and future."

"We can't totally say. Make up isn't such a bad idea, there are professional make up artists who are well to do and comfortable..."

"They can never be as comfortable as professional hairdressers. Have you thought about how much money the hairdressers of the president's wife would charge or that of Mitchell Obama's?" Father interrupted.

"Those women you just mentioned wear make up too, Father and have you thought how much their make up artists charge?."

"They can never charge as much as a hairdresser." He said stubbornly.

"And these days, people don't do things for the monetary gain but for passion." I said.

"My dear, spare me that white man's talk. Does passion put food on your table? Who follows passion these days and leave the monetary gain aside?"

"A lot of people."

"A lot of people and that's why poverty is ubiquitous. After all was it not passion Osama Bin ladin followed that made him a terrorist?"

"That was a wrong passion."

"It's no different from what your sister is doing now."

I was starting to think Father didn't really want me to say anything, he was just looking for who to argue with and so I gave up silence reigned without an opponent.