There was the time before Monife, and the time after.
The time before was slow, dreary, but most of all, it had been so very lonely. Ebun had lived in the Falodun house with her mother, who would disappear for hours at a time in search of husband number four or selling imported jewellery to the wives at various upscale Lagos clubs, leaving her eleven-year-old daughter with a list of chores to complete and not much else. Ebun had been a thin, melancholic child, who would diligently follow the instructions she was given, then wait for her flamboyant, laughing mother to come home and regale her with her adventures. She had no friends, as she found the art of making friends laborious. And she didn’t have the creativity to entertain herself. Those hours waiting for her mother to return were spent in a state of inertia; she wouldn’t have been able to say what she had done with the time.
But all that changed the day Kemi’s sister arrived on their doorstep with her two children and eight suitcases in tow. Ebun watched from between the banisters of the east staircase as the sullen sixteen-year-old Tolu and the winsome fifteen-year-old Monife dragged their baggage into the Falodun home. She watched as her mum and aunt embraced, but she refused to move from her eyrie.
‘Ebun,’ her mum called up to her. ‘Come down now. Do you remember your cousins? Come and say hi.’
Of course she remembered them. They were the cousins that lived in England. They had crisp accents and a weird aversion to the heat. They had visited two years ago, and had been unable to hide their contempt for her home and for Nigeria. But here they were again. She had gleaned from her mother’s loud phone conversations that Aunty Bunmi’s husband had a new family and his old family had nowhere to go.
‘Ebun, don’t make me say it again.’
Ebun stood up, hesitated, one foot ready to step down, but instead she turned and ran off to her room. She could only hope that when she reappeared, they would be gone. She was accustomed to these ad hoc visitors at their home – her half-brothers, who made it clear her presence was unwelcome; her father, who showed up to fulfil all righteousness; and the odd suitor for Kemi, asking Ebun awkward questions about school. Ebun slid behind doors, huddled under chairs and beds, and waited until whoever was visiting had left.
But this time, when she came out of her hiding place, her cousins were still there. And they were there the day after, and the day after that.
***
The trauma of being abandoned by their father was plain to see in Tolu’s behaviour. He was curt and dismissive. He would lock himself in his room and only make an appearance for food.
But Mo, Mo was different. Mo was a candle in the perpetual gloom that had been Ebun’s existence, with her made-up games, and her penchant for rolling her eyes theatrically at Ebun whenever their mothers did something embarrassing – which was often. Then there was the way she would listen to Ebun with her head cupped between her hands, staring into Ebun’s eyes. For years, Ebun did her best to imitate Mo – her gravelly voice, her large cursive writing, the music she listened to and her effortless dancing. If Monife noticed her efforts, she chose not to say anything. Except ‘I always wanted a little sister.’
Monife had been the catalyst for Ebun’s heart to start beating again, so she hadn’t been prepared for the bursts of sadness that would hit Mo and plunge the whole household into a state of crisis. There was no way to predict when it would occur. Mo would become plagued with insomnia, she would stop eating, she would stay in bed and pull the duvet over her head, saying little and doing even less. Whatever unfathomable place she had gone to, Ebun would gladly have followed, but she was left on the outside.
And then as quickly as it had begun, it would be over. She would emerge from her bedroom as brightly as before, and she would love on Ebun, pull her into hugs, take her on outings, burst into the bathroom to gossip, ignoring Ebun’s attempt to hide her body as she grew hair between her legs and her breasts began to swell. It was Mo who provided her with a sanitary pad when she noted stains on Ebun’s knickers. It was Mo who stressed that their charcoal skin was a thing of beauty.
And it was Mo who told her about the family curse.
Twelve-year-old Ebun told sixteen-year-old Monife that she didn’t believe in curses. ‘That’s fine,’ said Monife, between the slow chewing of gum, ‘but what if the curse believes in you?’
NO MAN WILL CALL YOUR HOUSE HIS HOME. AND IF THEY TRY, THEY WILL NOT HAVE PEACE…
So goes the family curse, long handed down from generation to generation, ruining families and breaking hearts. And now it’s Eniiyi’s turn – who, due to her uncanny resemblance to her dead aunt, Monife, is already used to her family’s strange beliefs, as well as their insistence that she is a reincarnation. Still, when she falls in love with the handsome boy she saves from drowning, she can no longer run from her family’s history.
Is she destined to live out the habitual story of love and heartbreak, or can she escape the family curse and the mysterious fate that befell her aunt?
A triumph: bold, searing, and utterly original. From the first page, it grips with an electric pulse…. Impossible to put down.
— ABI DARÉ, New York Times bestselling author of The Girl with the Louding Voice.
Oyinkan Braithwaite is a Nigerian-British novelist and writer. Her first novel, My Sister, The Serial Killer, was published in 2018 to wide acclaim. It was a Sunday Times bestseller, longlisted for The Booker Prize, shortlisted for the Women’s Prize for Fiction, and won the Crime and Thriller Book of the Year in the British Book Awards 2020. She lives in London.
ISBN: 978-978-61117-5-9 (Paperback); 978-978-61117-4-2 (Hardcover)
Order link: https://www.narrativelandscape.com/product/cursed-daughters/
Page Count: 354 pages
