The Men in Her Life

Hyacinth missed Brian’s first call on Christmas Eve. The second time he called, she was finishing a plate of moi-moi at a rear table in a large banquet hall. The hall was windowless, and while this was a deterrent to most groups, it was a favorite venue for the members of the Okenye Igbo Cultural Association because the uninvited could not disturb them and all those seated within had a feeling of being removed from the world. When bare, it was little more than an aging box with linoleum floors and beige wallpaper, but with white fabric draped from ceiling to floor, round tables staggered throughout, and streamers of green and red, the hall looked festive and stuffed. Hyacinth was stuffed in it—a fact she was aware of and only mildly disliked.

Next to Hyacinth sat her mother, powdered, perfumed, and gele-pinned. The rest of the people at the table were middle-aged couples, church people she had known since childhood.

She had wanted to skip the annual Christmas Eve Dinner and Masquerade, as her twin brothers had, mostly to avoid seeing her tablemates. In the two years since she’d moved back in with her parents, she’d been careful to avoid their friends and, by doing so, to avoid questions about her life. And just now—as her phone vibrated within her purse—there had been questions. But if she had worried that someone would ask, “Art? You’re studying drawings?” or pull her aside to say, “You know, my dear, a woman’s beauty is like a flower. It blossoms but only for a time,” then she was quickly relieved to find the table largely disinterested. To the few questions aimed in her direction, she stuttered only once and then remembered to begin with, “Once I get my degree.” Her bashfulness felt so much like nostalgia, but then the ugba salad was served, and her mother deftly switched the conversation to another woman’s child.

Hyacinth was not so unhappy about being there after the questioning was over. At any rate, she had not had the option to refuse the dinner. This year, her father was on a two-week trip to their village in Nigeria and her mother never attended social events alone.

At the front of the hall, two lines of men emerged from behind the white curtain. Hyacinth had seen real masquerades in the village, and the difference, even from the rear of the hall, was always clear. In the village, there were spirits with carved facemasks, much larger than a human head, that demanded awe from the people, and textiles of all kinds, some of which Hyacinth did not know the English names of. But in the hall, there were simply men standing in brown linen pants and long-sleeved tunics. They had masks of brown and black—the type she had bought at arts and crafts stores for school projects—and carried white, anemic canes. Hyacinth thought it was something that would’ve entertained Brian for all the wrong reasons.

Someone started the cd player and the drum beats began. It was not another tongue but a steady downbeat. Dom-dom-dom-dom. The two lines began to move in opposite directions. In one line, there was a lawyer, an accountant, and two doctors. The other line had a string of engineers. Her father had acted in this masquerade before, many years ago. She was just a girl then, and one given to daydreams, but it had been hard for Hyacinth to believe that her father, a pharmacist, was a spirit. To her, he was always just a man.

Dom-ba-ba-dom. The beat changed. The spirits spread throughout the hall. They were chanting something, but it was hard to hear above the drum beats that occasionally skipped on the stereo. Then each spirit began cutting diagonals in the air with his plastic cane, stopping his weapon near a shoulder or torso. The canes were a far cry from the wooden staffs of the old tradition, but still, everyone was pleased with this action. Some of...