ELOISE
What is life without happiness?
What is life without money?
What is life without wealth, freedom, beauty, music, curves, good hairstyles, and self-esteem?
Apparently, I am the queen of all these things — the queen of myself.
That's what I tell my reflection every morning, even without makeup.
I do whatever I want, whenever I feel like it. And yes, I know a few people envy that. Everyone knows I'm Daddy's girl — the favorite heiress in the family.
And just so you know… they're right.
"ELOISE!?"
Oh, dear God of peace — does my mother have to shout my name like she's summoning thunder?
Even with my headset glued to my ears, I can still hear that high-pitched voice tearing through my room.
This is exactly what I mean. Just because I'm the only one out of five kids who hasn't gotten married doesn't mean no one should let me breathe.
I fling the headset to some unknown corner and roll off the bed.
"ELOISE!!!?"
Oh, for heaven's sake. Can she not?
"I'm coming down!" I slam the door behind me and hurry down the stairs.
Mom's in the kitchen, hovering over a boiling pot like it's her sworn enemy. "For goodness' sake, Mom! My door nearly cracked from all that screaming."
"Shut up," she fires back — spatula pointed like a weapon, as usual. "Come help me pound the yams. They're ready."
Pound what?
Jesus. If there's one thing I regret most in life — and I'll regret it till eternity — it's being born into an African home. My mom, Thandeka Dlamini Ayomide, is South African; my dad, Darin Ayomide, is Nigerian. What kind of mix made me look like a Caucasian with red hair (well, blonde now, thanks to dye) but still stuck pounding yams like a village apprentice?
And to think we have a whole squad of maids living in the servants' quarters.
"Uh… Mom," I say, darting for an excuse. Think, think, think.
"I just finished polishing my nails. I can't get them all stinky in that blender."
Mom freezes. "Blender?" She looks at me like I just announced my engagement to Satan. "Who said anything about blender? Use the mortar, madam."
"What the— Mom!" Pounding yam with a pestle is like doing frog jumps for an hour. "I… can't."
"You said what?" Her voice sharpens. "You can't pound or you won't pound?"
Oh Lord, why does she twist everything I say?
"Mom, I didn't say yes or no," I try to reason with her before she breaks my bones. "All I meant was — the mortar is hard labour. The blender is easier and stress-free."
"So you want a stress-free life, eh?" Her eyes widen. "Free, lazy, jobless, and stupid at thirty-two? The only thing you're good at is wasting your father's money on Wi-Fi, Netflix, and nonsense videos!"
There she goes again — bringing up my age like it's a national broadcast. I'm sure the maids outside are nodding in sympathy.
She doesn't stop there either. "Marry — you won't. Socialize — you won't. Work — you won't. You think you'll meet your husband locked up inside this house scrolling on your phone? Your younger brother already has a child, Eloise! Do you plan to reach menopause like this? Caging yourself like the introverted she-goat that you are!"
Is she done?
(Probably not.)
I exhale deeply. "Where's the yam? Is it ready?"
Better to give up than go deaf.
Mom's eyes travel up and down like she's inspecting a fake designer bag. Then she sighs and points toward the pot.
After four rounds of pounding — my arms screaming for help — she hands me the flask coolers. My black hoodie is soaked through, clinging to me like a punishment.
Just when I think I'm free, her voice slices through again.
"Eloise! Come back here. You haven't finished the chores!"
Dear God, open the ground and swallow me whole.
I look at my palms — red, sore, tragic. "It's not like I'll be marrying an African man someday," I mumble.
Mom snorts. "Someday? Not even soon? Eloise, if that miracle happens, how will you manage your home if you can't even sweep your room?"
How would I manage my home? Honestly, I've never even imagined myself married.
"Well…" I shrug. "I'll hire maids and chefs to do everything. I'll just… bear children."
"Liability!" Mom slaps her spatula on the counter. "Eloise, who cast a spell on you? It shall never be well with that person!"
"What are you talking about? Nobody—"
"Shut up there, idiot!" she snaps, waving the spatula dangerously close to the flames. "Do you think I stayed married for thirty-seven years by hiring people and sitting pretty? No! I worked hard. My mother trained me just as I'm trying to train you. Sitting at home like a princess will ruin your marriage!"
I blink. She continues, relentless.
"And when your husband gets tired of your laziness, one of the maids will carry his child!"
I gape silently. I've never even dated, kissed, or had… you know. Yet here we are, discussing cheating maids.
Mom isn't done. "You have a degree, yet you refuse to work. You think money grows on trees? No hustle, no money. No money, no good life. No good life, no food."
I blink again. She sighs and turns back to the pot. "Set the dining table. Your siblings will be here soon."
"My siblings?" I frown. "Mom, is there a party no one told me about?"
She gives me a look. "Party? Go and set the table, abeg. Your sister, her husband, your brothers, their wives, and children are all coming. And Eloise—don't wear those baggy clothes that make you look like a bush woman. Put on something nice. You're already the latest old woman in town; don't advertise it."
I swallow hard.
That's it.
That's the life of a thirty-two-year-old heiress in her parents' house.
My siblings are coming and I'm just finding out? Maybe they dropped the memo in the family WhatsApp group I never open.
God, why do people think I'm dumb when I know I'm fabulous?
There's nothing wrong with being single at thirty-two. Relationships are just… exhausting. Like playing a video game with no instructions.
Still, I just know my sister Anastasia will mock me over dinner. She always does — and Mom and Dad always join her chorus.
I wish I could fake a fever and escape this "family reunion."
It sucks.