Mama came in. She went by her middle name, Miriam, not her indigenous name, Yaa. She had a tiny waist and wide hips, the kind that always had men staring. But Araba had never seen her father show affection to his wife.

“Are you okay, love?” Miriam said.

“Yes, Mama.” Araba put her magazines away. Her parents constantly checked her reading material to be sure there was nothing to encourage an interest in boys before she was old enough for that—eighteen, in her father’s view.

Miriam sat at the edge of the bed and rested her hand near Araba’s cheek. “How was Auntie Dele?”

“Oh, fine,” Araba said. “She let me do a lot of sleeves and hems today.”

“That’s good,” Miriam said, smiling sweetly. She had never appeared to have a problem with Dele, as far as Araba could tell.

“By the time I get to fashion school,” Araba declared, “I’ll already know a lot.”

“Okay, well, we’ll see,” her mother said, smoothing Araba’s covers. “You know Daddy wants you to have a job like . . . like—”

“Yes, I know,” Araba said. “Like a nurse. Is that the only job in the world?”

“Now, now,” Mama chastised gently. “He only wants the best for you.”

“The best for me is what I want to do,” Araba said.

Mama chuckled. “Well, you have a few more years before you know for sure. Things might change.”

Araba played with her mother’s gold wedding ring. “But I’ll never change,” she said. “I’m going to be a fashion designer.”

Mama kissed her on the forehead. “All right, dear. Na-night, and sleep well, my love.” She turned off the light, left the room and closed the door quietly behind her.

Later that night, the power went off. This time of year, it was hot and stuffy day and night, and without the air conditioner, Araba woke up sweating lightly. She threw her covers off and opened the windows to let some air in.

Her door cracked open, and she looked up to see the shadow of her father. He was a big, solid man. If you punched him, he probably wouldn’t budge.

“Are you okay, Araba?” he whispered, coming into the room and shutting the door.

“Yes, Daddy.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come to say good night to you earlier,” he said, sitting on the bed the same as his wife had done. “I was on an important phone call.”

“Okay, Daddy.”

“Give me a hug.” He embraced her—he always did. “I love you, okay? God loves you too. It’s a special love we have in the Lord, you understand?”

Araba nodded. “Yes. You’re squeezing me so hard, Daddy.”

“Ah, I’m sorry. My goodness, you’re sweating. Why not let’s change you into some dry clothes?”