Does the Absentee Parent Belong to The VIP Table?

Jordyn Story.

Jordyn's ex fooled, manipulated, and then dumped her. Then, he appeared at the VIP table during his daughter’s wedding.

I am  Jordyn. My name was June, and I changed it to Jordyn after secondary school.

               I was born and raised in Port Harcourt, Nigeria. PH  is one of the riverine areas of Nigeria where all multinational oil companies drill oil and make trillions of dollars. However, the local communities tend to have nothing to show for their God-given natural resources.

         I went to the Amandu Bello University in Kaduna, did my Youth Service in Lagos, and became employed afterward. I dated a few men but was never in a long-term relationship because I chose not to. In my generation, many women with high skills and income had the freedom to play around without getting stuck in a stupid marriage.

I planned my life and set up to marry at 29 if I met a good human being. I learned from my mom, who married three times. I didn’t want to marry early and divorced many times. That was how I planned my life.

          One night, while having fun with friends at a concert, I got a call from Mom, and I told her I needed to call her back. I got home when all the streetlights were dead and the roads deserted. I did not call back because I figured she might be sleeping by now.

            The following morning, I ransacked my brain about why she called. She did not call unless it was an emergency. I am always the one to call because that worked for us.

I called Mom, and she told me that a family friend’s son would like to talk to me about marrying him. It was not strange for mothers to make that kind of connection, but my mom, Abasi, did not belong to any clique. Why? She was the only woman I knew who had married three times. 

My dad, FC, was her third husband and the only one she had children with. My parents were outliers, and many people did not like them because of their unconventional marriage. However, I believed their marriage worked better than what I saw with so-called perfect marriages.

                Although this was a family friend, I did not know the man she was talking about, but she told me he left for the US as a teenager. I told her, “Okay, that's fine, he can contact me.”

               The stranger, Efa, called the following weekend, and we spoke for about twenty minutes. We talked a few dozen times and got to know each other. He sounded like a layback man with few words and less personality.

He introduced himself as the first son of his famous mom, although he was not well known. He briefly explained that he owned and ran a construction and accounting business, and a few people worked for him. He was a college graduate and lived in the US for about two decades. He never married or had any children.

 

I asked why he had not found someone to marry in the US. He was honest and explained that he tried, but it did not work out. He added, “I was frustrated and told my mom, and she suggested I find someone in Nigeria.”

He seemed honest with some of his life story, but he was too reserved on the phone, but that was not uncommon for older men. However, younger men tend to talk more about themselves when they want to court a woman. 

Second, Efa was more interested and excited about my pharmacy degree and explained that healthcare jobs were always available in the US, and I would not have problems getting a good job. It seemed he knew more about me than himself.

               Before I knew it, he emailed me professional licensing information in TX.  Our discussion was more about me, not him and I sensed low energy from him, but I kept my fingers crossed.

               We spoke many times, and he asked me to marry him. And I said, “Yes.”

Within a few months, our families met, and we set all the dates and times for the wedding. I felt anxious and overwhelmed getting ready to marry at twenty-seven to a thirty-seven-year-old man I did not know or meet face to face.

I was second-guessing myself and worried that I had not gotten to know Efa as I wished. We talked on the phone for only a few months. My mom reminded me that arranged marriages still worked more than romantic marriages. “You’ll get to know each other,” she advised.

               Efa arrived before the wedding date. Unfortunately, the day he arrived was rainy, major roads flooded, and his car got stuck on the muddy road, which was stressful for him and everyone. Later, he and his family came to our home to meet my parents, and I did not like his energy, as I suspected. He was quite different from his parents and three younger siblings. I guessed it was because he had been away for a long time.

               His parents left, and he stayed behind for us to go through all the events and other things. He was frank and told me he had less than two weeks to visit. Surprisingly, after spending a few hours with him, his behavior seemed aligned with the dated traditions even after living in the US for about two decades.

Immediately after he left my home, I had a discussion with my mom, and she pushed it aside and counseled, “You can’t live like an Englishman because you lived in the UK. Listen, you can’t say no now. You can leave the marriage if it doesn’t work. FC is my third husband, and he’s the best human being.  I’m still with him because he is a good person. Understand me, Maette.”

Awful.

At that time, mothers ruled my culture. They can make anything happen to their children, husbands, and siblings. Some of the mothers were the “Devil” in a good way. They have so much power that they fool everyone into believing they have less power. 

I accepted my mom's counsel and moved on with the marriage. I promised myself not to be like those mothers who wielded oppressive power. However, apples rarely fall far from the tree. I caught myself challenging my mom and being like her too often.

We married in a beautiful ceremony; everyone thought he was rich because my parents and I spent less than we budgeted. He bankrolled most of the things.

We spent our honeymoon at the Obudu Cattle Range and a few days in my flat. He was a little unsettled in my flat and wondered what would happen to it. I told him that it belonged to my mom. I only pay her rent. My older brother lived here before he bought his house. 

                             “Your mom owned the flat?” 

                          “Yes.”  My thought, ‘yeah, my mom was troublemaker because she owned things and divorced twice.”

Yes, my mom owned the flat before she married my dad, and it is still in her name.

               Efa left for Dallas, TX, after thirteen days in Nigeria. I saw him off at the airport, and he was unsettled but reminded me to be safe and that the visas would be ready within a few months. He added, if it takes longer, he will visit again. We kissed, and he departed.

               I went back to work, and frankly, I felt off and did not miss him much, but I was hopeful that could change when we lived together.  I told my mom, who encouraged me, “Aya Mfon, it’s normal because you are still strangers until you live together for about a year or more. No worries. Aya Mfon.”

I agreed with Mom, and I hoped we would be okay. Soon, I got the visa and flew to Dallas to join my husband. The trip was smooth, and the people in the US immigration airport office treated me like a VIP—my experience with immigration officers were different from hundreds of horrible stories i heard from other Nigerians.

 He picked me up at the airport and told me that the city has a robust Nigerian community, and everyone was helpful, and I would get to know some of them.

My first shocker was my husband's apartment. It was a little larger than the size of my flat and smaller than his parents’ home library. I later discovered our apartment complex was sought-after and in a high-end community.

The second shocker, he left the night I arrived because he had a business meeting to attend— a business with money on the line.

I needed clarification. However, I remember things were more expensive in the US; people worked long hours to pay bills.

Everything was strange except my career plan. I was excited because I could get a pharmacy license within a year. Our community women visited and helped me get to know the city because Efa worked all day and often at night. I didn’t feel at home with many of them because they all bleached their skin red and wore heavy wigs that didn’t make sense at that time. However, most of them were kind with their time. Later on, i felt ashamed for judging the women without knowing much about them and the American culture in person than the one i saw on TV.

I communicated with Efa, but he did not want to talk much about his job but mine. True, he worked long hours and provided all the needs and, sometimes, wants.  I was grateful and worked on making the home by moving a few things and setting up the dining table. He did not like to eat at the dining table but in front of the TV.  I let it go, but I told him I preferred to turn off the TV during dinner.

After a few weeks of trying to learn basic things about my husband, but all in vain, I launched an investigation and searched the apartment to find out who this person was. I discovered he had a bachelor’s degree in business and an associate degree in nursing. He was a registered nurse and a Nursing Union Board representative.

Efa was once an investment banker and a traveling nurse and owned a rental luxury two-bedroom apartment in a sought-after gated community. 

Then I saw a decade-old tax record he kept neatly under the kitchen cabinet over the refrigerator. I took the time to examine it—he was a taxi driver for about ten years and made a decent annual income. He had no debt, hearty savings, investments, and a landlord.

Everything about him was remarkable, but why the lies? It was not an accounting or construction firm he claimed he owned, and he did not have anyone on his payroll. Maybe his cooperate partner, the United Nations, regarded him as an employer—the United Nations rented his apartment to their non-resident temporary employees?

Maybe.

Being a taxi driver was not the point, but the lack of self-acceptance and unnecessary lies were troubling. Would I have married him if he had told me, “I’m a taxi driver?” No. Would I marry him if he explained who he was behind the wheel instead of trying to play the status quo game? Yes.

One of our neighbors, Nicka, was a taxi driver, too. She told me how she left her nursing job to drive taxis, and her monthly tips usually pay her mortgage. She confessed to making more than she used to make in a fancier private clinic.  Now, she had freedom, paid less taxes, and had decreased stress.

My point is that Efa lied.

As I reflected on his lies, I remembered his mom, Lola, was a well-known architect in Nigeria in a male dominated industry. She made her mark in the field being savvy and rudderless. Efa left as a teenager for the US to study architecture. He made a living driving a taxi in the US, and if his mom knew, all hell would have broken loose. 

Then he was thirty-seven and his own man. Why lie about what was likely to be found out?

I noted the dilemma and confronted him. Efa did not take it kindly or listen to me. He was furious and lectured, “It doesn’t matter. What matters in the US is paying your bills and caring for your family.” I agreed with him but let him understand lying made me feel cheated and manipulated.

I left him alone, and he lived with his self-protection and promotion.

My neighbor, Nicka, helped me get a job in a nursing home while taking a few required courses and preparing for the pharmacy licensing exam.

My husband was not thrilled I was working as an aide at a nursing home, and he was upset and proudly said, “I can pay you that money.”

So true; he could pay my salary, but his money was not mine. Second, I never saw any woman being a housewife or without money in my life. My mom always said, “Money is power; no personal money is suffering and selling your dignity.”

I did not want him to pay me to be a housewife for any reason. I was proud of the nursing aide job and thrilled with the hard-earned money I made, even if it was peanuts.

Our second serious argument came when I hired someone to clean our apartment before the holiday. He was furious that I could not clean the house on my days off. That was true; I worked three days in a nursing home, and cleaning houses was not my hobby.

He schooled me on how I was not a good woman. Good women cleaned their homes every hour and baked cookies every second.

Where did that silliness come from? I wondered and bit my tongue.

I was shocked because none of our fathers would have ever said that to our mothers. They hired maids to clean after their wives. That is what I and Efa saw growing up.

I concluded if that came out of his mouth, the marriage would not last. However, I was unexpectedly pregnant. I decided to keep the baby.

My green card arrived, and I passed the licensing exam.  I was so happy, and he was pleased, too.  He helped more around the house and mainly worked at night because he said the night paid more with less traffic.

We settled our differences, and I accepted him as he was. More importantly, I discovered my assumptions and looked forward to entering my pharmacy career. As my mom advised, I began to have strong feelings for my husband, and I did everything I could to focus on our family.

 I had the best pregnancy and no issues at all.  I had a baby girl, Ariana— lovely and calm. I stared at the baby and saw my mom’s eyes. We agreed to visit home with the baby. I could not wait to see my family again.

Efa got tickets for us, and I was surprised he bought one for himself. He purchased business class tickets. That was nice for a three-month-old baby. He said, “I can’t be separated from my family for long. I will stay with you for two weeks and leave. Then you come later.” That sounded good to me and thoughtful of him.

Efa joining us was another shocker. The original plan was for me and the baby to visit Nigeria for three months, and my mom would come with us to the US later.

We arrived in Nigeria, and my brother picked us up from the airport and drove us an hour to our hometown. Culturally, we should have headed to his parent's home, but he insisted on going to my family, which was fine. My brother dropped us off and went back to his family.

I was thrilled to see my family, and they were so happy to see their first grandchild and all the celebrations followed.

We were tired and went to bed. Early the following day,  Efa was going to see his good friend, Goodwins. He asked me to prepare to go to his parents' house in the evening. He left around eight in the morning, and at approximately noon, he was not back.

I felt terrible and checked my passport and green card. I did not see mine or the baby’s. I was startled. Then I realized he fooled me again. I kept quiet, but my mom picked up on my energy and wondered what happened to Efa after 2 p.m.

My dad wondered what happened to him. “Has he been kidnapped or had an accident in his friend's house?” he asked.

Hours passed, no show. I told my parents about the missing passport, and maybe Efa had dumped me and the baby. My parents were terrified.

My dad sent my youngest brother to Efa’s parents’ house. His mom, Lola, said, “Efa came in the morning and told us that he was visiting his business partner nearby, and he would be back with his family later in the evening. He only spent less than fifteen with us.”

My mother-in-law rushed to our home and saw me and the baby. Held the baby and said, “Where has he gone to?” Everyone was shocked by his disappearance, but I was not. He continuously blindsided me because I was not street-smart.

 Anyway, anyone can be fooled and manipulated. The worst was I had been out of the Nigerian workforce for a while. What could I do now?

I was stranded in Nigeria for about a year without hearing from Efa. To his parents' credit, they provided emotional and financial support to their granddaughter. They paid for a maid the first year and visited as often as possible. However, they did not discuss their son and what he told them. I heard that he called his parents weekly.

Why did Efa leave me and his daughter without an explanation? I kept asking myself what I did wrong and what kind of human he was. What was going on in his life?

According to what he told someone, “Jordyn was too much for me. I didn’t want her to stay in the US because I brought her here, so I  took her back.”

Many people called him a chicken and a coward. I called him a baby.

Efa was a small man. His parents were outstanding citizens of the community, and his siblings too. This apple fell millions of miles from the tree. I contemplated returning to the US or continuing my new job in Nigeria.

I got a police report for the lost passport and green card; I reapplied for new green cards. It took several months before I got them back. 

I chose to return to the US. I had an aunt who lived in Sugarcane, TX.  She asked me to come over if I still wanted to live in the US.

After two years, I left my daughter with my parents and returned to the US. I worked in a nursing home for a few months before I got a job in the leading pharmacy in the country and moved to Atlanta, GA. Life was simple, and I made new friends.

I felt relieved; however, sometimes, I revisited the pain and rejection I felt when Efa left me and the baby in Nigeria. I kept asking myself what went wrong. What was going on in his life then?

I let it go and focused on the lessons and how to improve my life. I worked for two years, bought a house, and brought my daughter to the US. It was time for her to start preschool, and my mom joined to help.

My spirit was down the day my daughter arrived, and my thoughts of Efa returned. My daughter looked exactly like her dad. I became concerned about liking my daughter.  How could I like this person? It seemed Efa was living in my house— mannerisms, intelligence, and weirdness were there for me to see every minute. 

My mom is a wise woman, and one day, she commented, “Efa will always be your business partner. I shouted at her. “God forbid. No way, I’ll let go of that business.” She quickly pushed back and suggested, “Look forward; your future is bright. Business is your child. Unfortunately, Efa is here for you to see every day.”

 I screamed and sobbed. Then I saw my mom's tears travel down her full-faced makeup and we hugged.

She quietly shared, “My first husband dated my bride's maid after our honeymoon. I caught them having sex in our guest room near the kitchen. And I divorced him right away without an argument or seeking advice. I carried that pain every day for three years until I met my second husband. I married him to relieve the pain, and it didn’t last long.”

I almost passed out 😵 

 

My mom's confession shocked me because she had never detailed this part of her life. I knew she did not have close girlfriends.  All her friends were family members and older women.

Mom cleaned her face, sat straight, squared her shoulder, and continued, “You’ll be fine. It is almost five years, and I pray you forgive yourself first and find a place in your heart to love and like your daughter. I feel terrible for not listening to your suspicion. I’m so sorry.  Ariana is like her grandmother, Lola, and I believe her dad is like that, too. That women… turned architecture business upside down in the era where most women terrified to be themselves. She was a broken record.”

I listened to my mom that day, made peace with myself, and worked every day to love my daughter with what she had— a piece of her dad. It was not easy, but I worked hard with what I had.

 

Time flew, and my day daughter developed into a beautiful and brilliant young woman. We traveled the world together and had fun.

I met a kind man, Abram, on one of our trips, and we dated. My daughter asked me to find her father a few months after I started dating. I agreed. 

When she turned thirteen, I hired a private investigator to find her father. When they found him, I took him to court and saw an unsettled man before the judge. He told the court that his former wife ruined his finances, and he was the sole breadwinner with his third wife.

He said he had been married to his second wife for ten years, and they had four children under ten. The two older children were in an expensive private school, which he was responsible for as his ex., a stay-at-home mom. 

The judge looked at his finances, listened to my story, and asked him, “Do you know what you did to her?  I can't send you to jail because the state will be responsible for your four children and ex.”

I felt terrible for the man I knew and was shocked at how the man’s great finances were delinquent. I could not say anything and concluded that my child would rather not be a part of his trouble at that time. The man's finances were in the red with all the money he had to pay for the second wife and his bills.

Efa's financial situation was a lesson for me--people struggled to make a few hundred dollars a month but could squander thousands or millions in a minute.

Efa did not pay child support or try to support his first child. However, his parents helped their granddaughter as much as they could. Then, when my daughter turned sixteen, she reconnected with her dad through her grandparents. They tried to work out their relationship, but he was ashamed and chickened out.

Last year, my daughter got engaged and invited him to the wedding. At first, he said no, but his third wife encouraged him to participate in the event. I wondered where the third wife was all these years.

I removed myself from the man's drama and invited my family to the happy event. Efa attended the wedding with his third wife, who looked like an uninvited guest at the VIP table. Did he belong to the VIP table? Our culture dictates that he belongs there, and I chose not to cause any trouble.

 

 I feel so happy for my daughter and the good human being she is. That was my story, and I hope my son-in-law treats my daughter well.

When they show you who they are the first time, believe them.

 

Disclaimer

The characters and events in this story are fictitious. Any similarity to a real person, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by me.

BY 2023.