After School Hours

It was at Aunt Alice's house that Jimmy's mother got the slight. Picture it: Jimmy's mother in a powder blue organza kaftan that revealed a black skintight dress underneath, her fingers bedecked with agate rings, wrists almost swollen with bracelets and bangles as she chimed in on everything Auntie Alice and company brought up. Mrs. Alice Metu whom we called Auntie Alice, even though she was not really our aunt, but because our parents ordered so. Our parents had along with nudges and askance glances made it clear that we were to call every Nigerian adult, auntie-this or uncle-that. When we asked how they were an uncle, whether they were maternal or paternal aunts, the most they answered before ignoring us was, we are from the same place. At the Metu residence in North Bethesda, Auntie Alice threw a party where she and her friends peppered Jimmy's mother with questions. No, she had not been to that beach in the French Martinique, but she liked the one in Ocean City, Maryland. Auntie Alice's friends raised their eyebrows.

Yes, she would be working this summer to try again to finish building that duplex in Nigeria.

They smoothed their dresses. Did she say she had gotten her American citizenship? Was the Nigerian passport the only thing she travelled with? How many years did she say she had been in America again? They wanted to know.

We sat at the corner eating seasoned shrimps, dipping our chips into crab guacamole. We sat sipping our fruit punch. We sat listening and watching. Then Jimmy's mother pointed over to us, asking where their own children were. They can mingle as boys, said Jimmy's mother. Auntie Alice said hers were away. One of the friends wanted to know what school we went to first.

"The school system is very good where we live, and they're in magnet programs, even gifted and talented programs as well," said Jimmy's mother.

"Oh, good for them, but where do they go?" the women asked, fiddling with their champagne flutes, observing in them new light.

"More champagne," someone said, and like ducklings, Auntie Alice's friends careened away. Auntie Alice sensing an avenue, nudged a grinning Jimmy's mother and whispered, "Look, I don't want you to feel down, but look over there, right there." Auntie Alice pointed with her eyes towards the general area of the lanai, where some of our mothers stood picking through their finger food. Jimmy's mother without thinking too much went over to chat by the lanai. It was the other mothers at the lanai that made it clear to her that she was sent there because she was just a nurse. Did she not see Alice Metu's friends? Naomi, the wife of the Nigerian Ambassador, Ella, the former first lady of DC, Roberta, a cardiologist, Eugenia, the ex-wife of the former Mayor of Atlanta, Collette, who was a manager at the World Bank. Did she not see? Did she not see?

It pained Jimmy's mother. Over there by the lanai with the rest of our mothers. Gerald's mother, a nurse at Shady Grove Assisted Living facility, Louis's mother, a third-grade teacher at Weller Road Elementary, Benny's mother, an assistant manager at McDonalds, Adigwe's mother, a dental hygienist, Nna's mother, a social worker, Philip's mother who worked at the DC prisons, but never wore a uniform. It was there that Benny's mother asked if they didn't have eyes to see that all the other women at the soiree had their children in private schools? Our mothers took it in. The woman over by the wine cellar in red chiffon blouse and black pencil skirt had three children in St. Anselm's Abbey. The other over there whose husband was from Oklahoma, had hers at Georgetown Prep. School. Auntie Gill, who asked that we all call her Ms. Gill, had her children at Sidwell Friends. Auntie Bibi, childless, had a winter home in Palm Beach, Florida. Auntie Stella, also known as Auntie...