Sola Adebayo lingered in her bedroom to avoid her family. As Brent Faiyaz crooned in her ears, she watched the ceiling fan swirl into blurriness and smelled dinner creeping into her room, making its way to her nose. Sola was ready to live on her own. Her mother nagging her to pick up the clothes on the bathroom floor and both parents inquiring about her whereabouts were no longer things she wanted to deal with. She wanted to be in her own space, to be free and spread her wings. She thought about what she would do if she had her own place: walk around naked, let her small, saggy breasts flop with abandon, blast Burna Boy, dance on top of the couch like a madwoman, have a pint of salted caramel ice cream for dinner without anyone judging her. That was the way she wanted to live.

Tonight, Tina stood over a hot stove, preparing a meal that reminded her of home — fufu, spicy tomato and okra stew with assorted meats, suya, and dodo. Fragrant spices and the smell of stockfish left a permanent stench around the house. When Sola was growing up, she hated bringing her school friends over to her home because it reeked of African spices and goat meat. Sola preferred sleepovers at her White friends’ houses because their homes smelled like fresh baked cookies; their parents never cackled loudly into the phone; and their siblings didn’t act like fools. Her friends had normal homes.

“Oya! Food dey ready!” Tina shouted. Her voice was as clear as day even through Sola’s loud music. Sola paused her R&B playlist, removed the AirPods from her ears and went into the dining area.

Sam, her father, was seated at the table, reading glasses hanging from his bulbous nose as he flipped through the newspaper. Sam was a tall, hefty man with a protruding belly full of pounded yam and Guinness beer. There was a burn scar on his left forearm marking the spot where hot water was accidentally poured on him as a child. His dark, shiny head was completely bald, hair having escaped him once he reached his mid-thirties.  Sola could never relate to girls who had good relationships with their fathers. Sam was an old school Nigerian man who believed he was meant to be the breadwinner and dictate how the house should run. He believed he was responsible for providing for the house and guiding his family while the wife did domestic work and the children obeyed and listened to the parents.

Sola sat across from her dad, who continued flipping through his paper. Her sister, Chima, strode in and sat next to Sola. She wore an oversized faded black t-shirt with J Cole’s face on it and black leggings, her blond box breads in a messy bun. Chima had rich, dark skin that was fresh and clear thanks to her genes and her religious skincare routine. Her doe-like brown eyes were framed by wispy lash extensions. Her gap-tooth smile was slightly yellow and crooked, a flaw she was insecure about. Tina would always reassure her that her gap was a sign of beauty in Nigeria, but Chima couldn’t see it. In America, her gap was a deformity.

Without the assistance of anyone, Tina balanced dishes of food in both arms, setting them down at the center of the table. A bowl of oily, spicy stew with an array of meats swimming inside. A greasy plate of fried plantains with a paper towel underneath to capture excess oil. Well-seasoned beef on kabob sticks with sliced cucumbers on the side. Individually saran-wrapped, pounded yams on a serving dish. In front of each chair there were already plates, tumblers, and small bowls of water for washing their hands. Sam slapped his paper down and lunged for the serving spoon, piling his plate with fufu, dodo, spicy stew with shaki, fish, and chicken drums. The others silently piled their plates with food.

Sam rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, dunked his hand into the bowl of water, and tore himself a piece of fufu, dipping the sticky dough into the stew. He inhaled his food, making a loud, wet popping sound after licking his soiled fingers. Tina threw him a dirty stare.

“Must you eat without first thanking God for your meal?” Tina said in Yoruba.

“Oya! Praise Him then!” Sam snapped back in Yoruba. Tina kissed her teeth and forcefully grabbed her husband’s rough hand, closing her eyes. Sola and Chima followed suit as Tina blessed the food.

“Our Heavenly Father, we thank you. We thank You for the food You provide for us every day and every night and for allowing us to be fortunate enough to put food on the table. We ask Father that You bless this food we are about to eat and let it nourish us, and that You continue to guide our family towards prosperity and peace. We give You all the praise. In the name of Your Son Jesus Christ we pray, Amen.”

“Amen,” murmured the others, in unison.

Sola dipped the tips of her manicured fingers into her bowl of water, flicking off the excess, and sinking her fingers into the soft pounded yam. She drenched her fufu in the spicy stew and popped it into her mouth. The spices of the stew tickled her throat, causing her to cough.

Everyone ate in silence, as the space filled with the sounds of smacking and swallowing. Sola pulled out her phone with her clean hand, mindlessly scrolling through Instagram as she ate.

Sam peered at Sola from the top of his reading glasses. “Put your phone away at the table. We are eating.”

Sola sighed and shut off her phone, slamming it face down on the table. Sam dropped his ball of fufu on the plate. “What’s wrong with you?”

Sola took several beats before saying in a low voice, “Nothing.”

“It’s something,” Sam pressed on. “You would not be disrespecting me if it weren’t so.”

“I’m not disrespecting you. I’m just tired.”

Tina glared at the side of Sam’s head, willing him to stop. Chima bit into a piece of beef, her eyes trained down at her plate.

“So, it is not disrespectful that you slammed your phone down?” Sam inquired.

Sola was growing tired of her father pushing the matter and wished he would let it go. “It was an accident.”

“An accident, ke?” Sam let out a loud cackle.

“Sam, leave it alone,” Tina hissed at her husband in Yoruba.

“Jo!” Sam exclaimed, his anger bubbling over. “Don’t allow this girl to disrespect me. I am her father.”

Sola knew her father resented her for wasting his hard-earned money on an art degree. These days, she spent her life sitting in a four-by-four cubicle talking to angry customers about overdue balances on their accounts. Working as a customer service representative was the only job she landed after graduating with a useless art degree. Her dad probably hated her even more for not using the degree. Like most Nigerian parents, Sam and Tina wanted their daughters to be doctors, accountants, and lawyers. They didn’t travel all the way to America for their daughters to live the same struggles they did.

Sam and Tina continued arguing in Yoruba – a language Sola and Chima never learned because their mother didn’t feel the need to teach them. As long as their native tongue was English, that’s all that mattered to her.

Sam slammed his meaty hands on the table, shaking everything on the surface, his anger growing stronger. Tina kissed her teeth and returned to the food on her plate, done with the quarrel. Their marriage was full of nonsense arguments, and love was never present in their union.

Sam returned to chomping in silence. Tension filled the space as everyone tried to get through dinner.

Because Sam wasn’t a man who could let things go, he said in a low, calm voice, “If you continue to disrespect me, I will kick you out.”

Growing annoyed with her father, Sola massaged her temple with the pads of her fingers. This was one reason she wanted to live alone. Dinnertime was meant for family to be together at one table and enjoy each other’s company. In the Adebayo’s house, dinnertime was a mere façade to act like they were one big loving family.

Sola was tired of biting her tongue, tired of caring what her father thought of her. Nothing she said or did was good enough for him.

Chima poked at her food silently, a tiny part of her grateful that their father’s wrath wasn’t upon her. Chima had made the mistake once by siding with her sister, and Sam took his anger out on her, claiming that his daughters were against him and needed to read the Bible so they could be reminded to obey their parents.

“I don’t care if you kick me out because I don’t want to be here anymore,” Sola said, the words spilling out of her mouth before she could stop them. Sam looked at her, his stare hard and menacing. Tina looked in disbelief. Chima poked Sola in the thigh, willing her to stop. Sola and Chima had never dared to talk back to Sam in his own home.

Fueled by the burning rage within her, Sola continued. “I know you hate me because I couldn’t be what you wanted me to be. You’re upset because I failed to secure a good career and thrive after graduation. I know that in your head you compare me to your friends, who have children who are successful doctors and engineers, and wonder where I went wrong.  Why can’t you just accept us as we are?”

Silence followed after Sola’s outburst. Finally, Tina cut through the silence and said, “Why we no fe have a good dinner?”

“I agree. Let’s just let it go,” Chima said, uttering her first words that night.

“But Dad started it!” Sola shouted. “I just simply put my phone down, and he thought I was disrespecting him!”

“Do not raise your voice in my house!” Sam exclaimed, slapping his hands down on the table.

“I’m tired of you resenting me! I don’t want to be here anymore!”

“That’s enough!” Tina shouted, silencing everyone with her words. “Stop this nonsense! Just eat and shut up!”

“Tina, you are the reason why these girls talk back to us,” Sam said.

“Me, ke?”

“Yes you.” Sam stabbed his index finger at his daughters. “You don’t know how to set them straight. Because of you, these two don’t know how to respect their elders.”

“What did I do?” Chima asked.

Ignoring Chima’s question, Sam and Tina started back up on their own argument, throwing insults at each other in Yoruba. Chima, used to their loud arguments, continued to eat like nothing was happening. Sola stared at the food on her plate, her appetite gone. All she wanted at this moment was to be as far away from her dysfunctional family as possible.

Once they were done with their screaming match, Sam cleared his plate, licked the leftover stew off his fingers, and stood up.

“Sola, I want you out of this house by the end of the week. I will not take any more disrespect from you,” Sam said.

“Sam—” Tina started.

“Don’t question me,” Sam snapped at Tina. “That is final.” Without another word, he grabbed his newspaper and went upstairs.

Defeated, Tina got up and grabbed her and her husband’s empty plate. Sola and Chima sat alone.

“Did that make you feel better?” Chima asked.

Sola scoffed. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, did it feel good to ruin dinner with your outburst?”

“I didn’t ruin dinner. All I did was stand up for myself. You should try it sometimes.”

Chima shook her head. “You know how Dad is. He’s never going to change.”

“But that doesn’t mean we have to tolerate his disdain for us.”

“I just wouldn’t have gone about it that way.”

“Whatever. You don’t understand,” Sola said. Being around her family depleted her energy. They could never just have a nice, normal family dinner. From this day on, she was done caring about meeting expectations.

“I do understand. I understand that you’re frustrated. I understand that you want Dad to see that you’re trying. I just think there’s a different way to go about it,” Chima said, tearing into a drumstick with her long black nails.

Sola tapped her nails on the edge of her plate, not responding to Chima’s statement. It was useless explaining something to someone who truly didn’t understand.

Once they finished dinner, they helped their mother with the dishes. They wiped the table free of stew drippings and vacated into their rooms. Sam — who had changed into his plaid pajama pants and ratty white t-shirt — lay in bed, reading the rest of his newspaper. Tina lay on the other side of him, nightgown and bonnet on, watching the 10 o’clock news on TV, its sound lowered to not disturb Sam.

 Chimah sat on the fuzzy beanbag in the corner of her room, listening to a guided meditation practice to cleanse her mind of the night’s debacle.

Sola, hoping to drown out thoughts of a dinner destroyed, popped her earbuds back in and listened to soft R&B music in her dark room. She wondered what it would be like if everyone in her family actually loved each other and worried if her father’s feelings would be the same tomorrow morning.