Chapter 7

As we approached my parents’ street, Mark and I walked hand in hand. I wore a favorite purple dress that complemented my love for the color, while Mark looked dashing in his crisp white shirt paired with navy trousers. He always took care with his appearance and today was no exception, smelling faintly of his woodsy cologne. In his free hand he carried a bouquet of flowers he had thoughtfully selected for my mother.

As we got to the front door, we looked at each other holding hands as I knocked on the door, for that brief moment as I heard my fathers heavy footsteps, I braced myself.

As the door swung open, Dad’s warm smile greeted me instantly. I returned his smile, genuinely pleased to see him after such a long time. Without hesitation, I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him in a tight hug, knowing he would never turn away his daughter.

Amanda: “Hi daddy,” I said softly as I embraced him.

David: “How’s my little princess?” he asked tenderly before kissing my forehead. My eyes stung with sudden tears at the familiar gesture of affection.

Amanda: “I’m good, daddy.”

Stepping back to make way for Mark, I introduced him with a proud smile. “Daddy, this is Mark.” As Dad extended his hand in welcome, I scanned his expression for any sign of disapproval or concern, yet his face remained inscrutable. Still, his mere presence brought a measure of comfort, it softened the anxious knot that had been tightening in my shoulders throughout the evening.

David: “Come in” me and Mark stepped inside, the familiar scent of the house I had grown up in always brought happy memories, as an only child this was my safe haven. I saw my mother come into view as I ran to hug her, she also embraced me.

Mary: “Darling, I missed you so much.”

Amanda: “I missed you too mummy, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Mark came forward and extended the flowers to my mother, who accepted them gracefully.

Mark: “It’s lovely to meet you.”

Mary: “Thank you, they’re very beautiful”

Mark turned to me, “you told me you were an only child,” I looked at him in confusion as I replied, “I am.”

Mark: “But surely this beautiful young lady is your sister, where’s you mother?”

David laughed heartily, his rich baritone resonating with genuine amusement. “Ha, you will definitely get in her good books with that remark.” I couldn’t contain my own laughter as my mother playfully warned me, “Amanda, go find a man of your own, this one’s mine,” stepping closer to Mark with a teasing glint in her eyes.

I looked at Mark as my eyes gleamed, already he had made a great impression, my father guiding us towards the kitchen dining area.

David: “Come you’re mother has cooked something”, from what I know from my mother, it wasn’t just something.

As we got to the dining room, seeing the table full of food, drinks was no surprise but Marks eyes widened as he saw the assortment of food. Mark turning to my mother.

Mark: “Are you expecting more guests this afternoon?”

Amanda: “My mother likes to be prepared Mark”

David: “Come Mark, sit and enjoy some special African food, I’m sure you’re food is a little bland.” Heat rushed to my cheeks at my father’s bold comment.

Amanda: “Daddy!!” I objected

My mother filled our bowls with steaming soup, then placed a basket of fufu in the center of the table. I noticed Mark glancing around appreciatively at the spread—a generous platter of jollof rice sat beside another piled high with golden fried chicken.

Mary: “Get stuck in Mark”

Mark: “It all looks so amazing, I don’t know where to start.” I gave him a Fufu from the basket.

Amanda: “Here, dip this in your soup.” I handed Mark a piece of fufu from the basket. He studied it for a moment before cautiously dipping one end into his bowl. Bringing it to his lips, he took a bite and began chewing slowly. As he processed the unfamiliar texture and flavor, a comical mix of surprise and delight played across his face—his eyebrows arched slightly, then softened into an appreciative gaze. The sight of his reaction was so endearing that I had to press my lips together tightly to keep from laughing aloud right there at the dinner table.

Mark: “It quite sticky”, My father looking at him and then me with a glance I couldn’t quite gather.

David: “I take it you haven’t eaten Fufu before”

Mark: “It’s very nice, I’m just getting used to it.”

Mary: “You shouldn’t chew it, you need to let it slide with the soup,” she advised gently. Mark flushed crimson as he turned to me with a sheepish grin.

Mark: “You could have warned me”, I burst out laughing.

Amanda: “I wanted to see your face”

David: “Mark what work do you do?” I knew my father was in interrogation mode. Mark trying to swallow the rest of the Fufu stuck in his mouth.

Mark: “I work as an Analyst in the stock market”

Amanda: “Mark studies companies and markets and produces reports for them”, I chimed in trying to explain.

David: “What does that mean?”

Mark: “I study companies — their finances, how they’re run, where they’re headed. Then I write reports telling investors whether the stock is worth buying or not. Basically I spend a lot of time trying to figure out if a company is worth more than people think it is.”

Amanda: “He’s very good at it”

David: “Where did you guys meet?” I sensed a shift in my father’s demeanor, his tone carried an edge I hadn’t noticed before.

Amanda: “At our Tennis club, Mark’s a very decent player.”

David: “Doesn’t Mark have a voice of his own Amanda?!”, his irritation palpable as he cut me off mid-sentence. I immediately fell silent, recognizing that familiar tone. Mark, too, seemed to grasp the subtle shift in my father’s demeanor and I wisely chose not to interrupt further.

Mark: “We’ve played in many matches together, Amanda is simply an incredible Tennis player, the best our club has ever seen in years”, my father nodded but didn’t seem too surprised.

David: “I know, I coached her from an early age.”

My mother remained silent, and I sensed she shared my father’s reservations about Mark. I hoped the warmth we’d felt upon arrival was genuine and not merely for show. Then my father dropped the bombshell.

David: “And what exactly are your intentions with my daughter.”

Mark turned to me, noticing the slight tightening of my brow. He offered a tender smile before gathering his thoughts.

Mark: “Mr Johnson, I love Amanda deeply. I think you deserve my honesty more than a rehearsed answer. But what I feel for her isn’t new, and it isn’t something I arrived at lightly. I’ve known her long enough to know exactly who she is. Her strength, her determination, the way she moves through the world — I didn’t fall into this. I walked into it with my eyes open.”

My breath caught in my throat as Mark spoke those heartfelt words. They resonated deep within me, he had articulated everything I felt, leaving no room for doubt. As his gaze met mine, a comforting warmth spread through my chest, confirming what I already knew—this was the man I wanted by my side. Nothing my parents might say or do could ever change that truth, no one else could ever take his place.

My father sat motionless, the silence around the dining area thick with unspoken tension. The weight of Mark’s declaration hung heavy in the air, and I watched as my father’s expression shifted from stern to contemplative. He studied Mark intently, his dark eyes searching for any sign of insincerity. The ticking clock on the wall seemed to echo through the stillness, each second stretching out like an eternity.

Amanda: “Daddy, I feel the same way about Mark, I love him.” My words hung suspended in the charged silence as my father’s gaze locked onto mine. He peered deeply into my eyes, his expression unreadable yet intense, offering no immediate reply to my heartfelt confession.

David: “Love is easy my little princess, love doesn’t get you through this world alone.”

Amanda: “It has to start somewhere, I mean didn’t you love mom?”

My father looked towards my mother as he spoke, his eyes never leaving hers.

David: “I knew the first time I saw your mother at her uncles house in Kumasi, I knew she was the one. I went to my uncle. My uncle went to her family. We came to her father’s house properly — with schnapps, with our elders, with respect. Her father looked at me the way I am looking at Mark now. And I had to show him not just that I loved his daughter — any foolish man can love a woman — I had to show him that I was worthy of her. That my family was worthy of his family. That she would not be leaving her people for nothing.”

For some reason I felt this slipping from my grasp, how naive I had been to think that I could possibly sway my parents to embrace Mark. For a moment I doubted my father would be moved until Mark chimed in.

Mark: “Sir, do you believe I am not worthy of your daughter?”

I watched my father’s gaze lock with mine, sensing the turmoil raging within him. As his thoughts churned beneath his calm exterior, I realized this struggle transcended mere cultural traditions—it was entangled with something far more visceral, something rooted deep in his identity.

David: “Amanda, your mother and I journeyed to America seeking a brighter future. Yet what awaited us was relentless prejudice—not merely for being foreign, but simply because we were black. Our kindness, our compassion toward others, mattered little. We were never granted the same dignity afforded to others.”

Mark fell silent, his gaze fixed on his plate, shoulders slumped in quiet defeat. My chest tightened with sympathy, tears blurred my vision and I dabbed at my nose with a tissue, stifling a soft sniffle.

Mark stood up abruptly, his chair scraping softly against the floor as he excused himself to use the restroom. Watching him walk away with his head bowed, I sensed that same crushing weight of hopelessness settle over him too.

As Mark retreated to the restroom, a heavy silence descended upon the room. After a few moments, my mother turned to me, her expression softening with concern.

Mary: “Your father is right, these people will only end up causing you pain. I cannot bear the thought of you getting hurt.”

David: “I only want what’s best for you my princess. I fear you’re overlooking what truly matters.”

A single tear traced a path down my cheek. I had believed myself strong enough to weather this confrontation, yet deep inside I’d always known it would unfold exactly like this. But why did their words pierce me so profoundly? Were my parents truly right - would Mark inevitably hurt me? I couldn’t disregard the bitter struggles they’d endured, those hardships etched into their souls ... and still, wasn’t it time we attempted to dissolve this mutual prejudice?

As Mark returned from the restroom, he noticed my slumped shoulders and downcast eyes. He quietly took his seat again, his gaze lingering on me with quiet concern. I found myself unable to meet his glance in that moment.

Mark: “Mr and Mrs Johnson, thank you so much for your hospitality. The food was delicious. But I think I should make my way home.” He glanced at me, silently questioning whether I intended to accompany him.

Amanda: “I’ll see you to the door,” I murmured, my voice trembling slightly as I dabbed at my nose. Still avoiding his gaze, I escorted him through the foyer toward the entrance. At the threshold, he paused and reached out, gently tilting my chin upward with his fingertips until our eyes met. With a tenderness that made my chest ache, he brushed his lips softly against my forehead before stepping back. His voice was low and earnest as he added:

Mark: “If you’re still serious about us, then we can give it time. Because I’m not giving up on you” his eyes welled as I nodded and promised I will speak to him tomorrow.

I watched Mark walk away, his silhouette fading into the night. The space between us felt heavy, as though something vital had fractured. My pulse quickened as I closed the door, gripped by the chilling possibility that I might lose him forever.

On Sunday morning I found myself back in my apartment, having spent the night at my parents’. Their words about culture and our heritage echoed in my mind, a relentless chorus that left me feeling utterly defeated. I cursed myself silently for ever letting things progress so far with Mark, wondering if I should never have kissed him that first time.

I sank onto the sofa, acutely aware of the empty space beside me where Mark should have been. That void felt like a physical ache, twisting my insides as if I’d already accepted that being with him could only lead to more heartache. I sniffled quietly, pressing a tissue to my nose as tears threatened to spill over. I’d vowed to call him, but every time I reached for the phone, sobs rose in my throat, choking off my resolve.

The following day at work, I headed to the fourth-floor mailgirl locker room. As soon as I entered, I began undressing and stored my clothes in the designated locker. Outside, a commotion erupted—voices and movement that left little doubt someone was watching me through the two-way mirror. Ignoring their presence, I proceeded to shower and carefully shaved my pussy, removing the dark hairs that had started to become visible.

My routine was mechanical, devoid of any flicker of emotion—no shame, no embarrassment, just the numb acceptance of my reality as a mailgirl at GlobalCom. After drying off from my shower, I meticulously brushed my hair and applied a coat of lipstick. I paused to study my reflection in the mirror, observing every curve and contour of my nudity with detached indifference.

I regretted not calling Mark last night despite promising I would. My parents’ influence had seeped into my resolve, leaving me miserable and hollow. Leaving the locker room, I made my way to the center of the department and settled onto the designated mat. With my knees parted at shoulder width, hands resting on my thighs, back straight, and eyes lowered, I assumed the required pose. Countless eyes lingered on my exposed form, yet their stares elicited no reaction from me whatsoever.

A moment later Sarah knelt beside me, greeting me softly. “Good morning Amanda!” I remained perfectly still, keeping my gaze fixed on the floor. Sarah studied me intently, she could tell something was troubling me beneath my composed exterior.