“Of course you can stay with us,” Obinna had said, and later that day, he cut his hair and shaped his beard at the salon, renewed his gym membership, bought some new shirts, and changed his cologne to what the thin salesboy at Megaplaza told him was the “latest.” He was nervous. He did not entirely understand this nervousness. Maybe it was the normal competitiveness of friends who had not seen each other in a long time that made him determined that Eze not think his life provincial. Or maybe it was simply that America intimidated him. There was a savoir faire quality to people who lived in America for which he felt both admiration and resentment; they somehow managed to be familiar with all novelty, as if they were privy to the latest of everything and lacked the ability to be surprised. Things would be different, his nervousness less, if Eze were coming back from England. England was familiar. Ever since Obinna’s wife, Amara, was promoted to managing director years ago, she had taken them to London every summer and was considering buying a flat in Maida Vale. If Eze lived in England, Obinna would not worry that the glass table with gold accents in the living room looked too dated, that Eze would glance at the TV and say something about the most recent model that was flatter and sleeker.

On the morning of Eze’s arrival, Obinna woke up early, too early, panicked that he had forgotten the arrival time of the flight, and got up to go look at the piece of paper he had scribbled it on. Amara stirred in bed. She had come home late last night. Again. She had many more responsibilities now that she was managing director, but he still did not see why she had to personally entertain her new clients from Europe day after day. He opened the bedroom door quietly so as not to wake her. The living room was bathed in the gray of early dawn; the houseboy, Emmanuel, dusting the furniture, said, “Good morning, sah,” before Obinna realized that he was there.

“Put on the light. Why are you working in the dark?” Obinna said.

Emmanuel turned the switch on and looked sourly at Obinna before going back to his cleaning. There was something slothful about him, something mean-spirited. He had been with them only a month and already Obinna wished he could fire him, but it was so difficult to find good houseboys these days. The last two had been particularly bad: one confessed, after the children began having nightmares every night, that he was a witch and wanted to eat the children; the other stole half of Obinna’s wardrobe but was stopped by the gateman on his way out with a suitcase of crisply ironed shirts.