Everyone has that auntie. To say you like her is no small thing. Her eyes are a glowing black and when she laughs other people stop to listen. When you were small, she would grab you and shout, See my namesake, whenever she came to the house and even now, she sneaks you little pieces of caramel. She features so prominently in your life that you track her changing styles and the growing of your cousins—as her children are called—and eventually the disappearance of her husband, who slips off somewhere beyond the America you have and the America you have always dreamed of.

~

Then, one day, she calls in the middle of the night.

You should be asleep, but you are not. You are watching the shows that you are not allowed to watch while your mom is working the nightshift, and your dad is sleeping for the dayshift as he should be. You make your little sister answer the phone.

It is your auntie. She is yelling all sorts of things in all sorts of languages. The words you can understand are Put your mummy on the line! Your sister tries to explain that My mom at work but your auntie keeps yelling. She is becoming a concern, for you especially. You send your sister to wake dad.

When your dad is awake and dressed, the three of you load into the car, drive through the empty streets which are drowsy with fatigue and rain. By the time you arrive at their apartment block, your sister has fallen into a child’s slumber, sucking in wet breaths through a mouth still greedy for its thumb. Your dad says, you people should wait in the car. I won’t take time. But you’re not staying in a car with a sleeping girl—you’ve seen what happens on television!

At the door, there is a malformed jack-o-lantern, even though it is early December, and the ammonia stink of cat piss. Your dad knocks. It is the last-born who opens—he is five and you remember that when you last visited, he was being carried like a prince through the halls by his father. He has something growing under his nose or crusted there and when he smiles, it spreads across his skin. Your dad shakes his hand, and you wave, not wanting to touch him.

Inside, though everyone is not yelling, it sounds as if everyone is yelling because your auntie is yelling. Your dad tells you and your sister to wait in the living room. The lights are on, so it isn’t scary. The TV is on, so it isn’t boring. But the room is too alive. It is as if a fat closet threw up. There are things everywhere: store circulars, a laundry basket, plastic bowls, a McDonald’s cup, a legal pad covered with Hang Man games. The two middle sisters—who are older than you—lay across the carpet with their faces inches from the TV. Though you greet them by name, they don’t turn around. Your sister settles into the couch next to the last-born. You pretend to watch and then slink away.

In the hall, your auntie is banging on the bathroom door where Ijeoma is hiding. You’ve seen a lot of late-night movies but nothing like this. Your auntie is a different person. She is still yelling into the phone. She is also yelling at your dad and sometimes no one at all. You press your back into the crayoned wall and learn that At the age of 16 Ijeoma cannot contribute with simple soup. She is Lazy and Wicked and Why am I suffering? Your auntie is confused. Your dad sees you and tells you to go watch TV.

Sometime in the night, you, your sister, and the last-born fall asleep. When your dad wakes you, Ijeoma is standing with him. She is coming to stay for a while. As you all leave, you hear the two other sisters shaking cereal into bowls in the kitchen.

With Ijeoma at your house, you enjoy. She cooks coconut rice, she fries plantain, she even prepares akara and pudding. Your mom says, Ah ah Ijeoma, you’ve tried and your dad says, See Ijeoma is a big girl now—Ọgọ, do you see? You nod as you eat, because, yes, you see all types of things. Later, you take pens and graph paper from his leather bag and mix them in with Ijeoma’s things because you know, after your mom goes to work, after the others go to sleep, after everyone stops watching, Ijeoma creeps downstairs, sits on the couch, and draws.

~

Ijeoma stays for only two weeks. Without her, there is no one to bathe the last-born or read to him. There is no one to see about the laundry and the middle sisters can cook only plain white rice—not coconut rice, not jollof, not stew. Even in Houston, Texas, this is no way to run a household.

But before returning home, Ijeoma must offer her mom a formal apology and the only way to do that is to apologize to her mom’s people. You had thought you were her mom’s people, but no, your auntie is bringing her relatives—ezi na ulo ya, your dad says. You make a face, and your dad laughs—House and compound, my dear, house and compound. But these words mean nothing at all and as for your auntie’s people, you cannot call their faces to mind.

~

When the apology day arrives, you help everything along. You do what you are told. You wear what you are told. You stand where you are told and pull your sister beside you.

Then the whole thing goes like this: Your auntie speaks. Ijeoma apologizes. Then someone recites a proverb. Your auntie speaks. Ijeoma apologizes. Then someone recites a Bible verse. You have been watching Matlock and this is not what you expect. When you are not called as a witness to your auntie’s shouting or to Ijeoma’s rice, you remember that We are Igbo people—ndi’Umuchi—we are all foreigners here.

Your auntie begins speaking again. She repeats everything Ijeoma has done, which is wicked and reminds everyone that If you see how I am managing you will know how to pity me. Her relatives can only shake their heads and sigh, so she has to try again. Honor thy father and thy mother so that thy days on earth shall be long. Is that not what the Bible says? Her relatives agree that that is what The Bible says. The only commandment with a promise! Her relatives agree that that is the only commandment with a promise.

Ijeoma is staring at the ground. She looks as though she is trembling but only a little. Your dad looks around and says something in Igbo, then, Let us ask Ijeoma if she understands what the Bible says as I think she will agree.

Your auntie gives your dad a look and begins talking again. One of her relative’s interrupts. Let us hear Ijeoma again.

Ijeoma apologizes like she has never apologized before. She kneels on the ground and a hum rises from the relatives to indicate that this is good. Even your dad nods. This is how a girl apologizes, you see, and wonder how Ijeoma knew all along. She apologizes to each and every person. They are accepting her apology and she is crying silently. They are piercing tears; you know because they hurt you too. Your sister has turned her back to everyone.

Finally, it is over. You dry your face. The men leave first, with only a few words to your dad and their heads hanging. Ijeoma will leave soon, too, but she is listening to a woman speak to her quietly. This woman has the look of a schoolteacher though none of your Igbo people are schoolteachers. You take your chance. You go over to Ijeoma, and when the woman’s words release her, you reach for a hug.

Your auntie catches your arm. Ọgọ, please, this is a family affair.