My sister has a new boyfriend

• Every part of this is fictional

My sister loved to wear her afro wigs oh so big. But then she got a boyfriend who didn’t like it that way. So she trim-trim-trimmed and pat-pat-patted till it was a much smaller halo. Still, he did not like that it was ginger and bright like a dusky sun so she changed it to a muted black. It had coils and curls that lent it a certain flair but she brushed them till they succumbed.

My sister loved it when her dresses held her in a tight embrace. A tight colourful embrace. Sometimes lemony-green, sometimes orangey-orange, sometimes dizzying pink. She wore them even when our mother complained, even when our father pushed down his glasses and raised his head from his newspaper as she scurried out of the house. She wore them even after we fought and I said she dressed like a traffic light, a signpost, a LAWMA official, a headlamp. But then she got a boyfriend. And now my parents like her dresses. They like the navy blues and the sombre purples and the black-reds and neutrals.

My sister loved being with her friends. Friends like her with unintentionally intimidating personalities. With loud laughs and eager comebacks. Friends who smoked in public and drank in public and dyed their hair and pierced wherever they wanted to pierce. Friends who loved to go out and be out all night. But then she got a boyfriend. And now she stays in bed on Friday nights, unsuccessfully watching Youtube or Netflix and sulking. And when they call her, she lies about having work to do.

My sister hates cooking. And even though she tries endless recipes now, I can see in the stiffness of her shoulders as she battles with vegetables and washes meat that she still hates it. She hates how onions make her cry and would not willingly chop them. She hates how peppers make her sneeze and would not willingly fry them. She hates hot oil splashes and bubbling stew attacks. She hates crayfish stabs. She hates opening Maggi cubes and she hates searching for the curry container. But now she has a boyfriend. And whenever he is around, he wants catfish pepper soup or spaghetti stir fry.

My sister used to be neither here nor there about God. She only went for Mass on Christmas and Easter — sometimes she went for family thanksgivings. And when she desperately wanted something or was in big trouble, she prayed. She does not fast or attend revivals or observe lenten frivolities, or so I thought. So I thought because now, she attends her boyfriend’s church and when they have vigils, she cries during the worship segment because the spirit moves her. These days, when my mother says “God is in control,” she does not roll her eyes.

My parents love this version of my sister. They love this clone. They love this person that talks like my sister and smiles like my sister and walks like my sister. They love this dim light, this “mature” person she has become. They love her boyfriend and sometimes, I suspect that they love him more than they love her. When he visits on Sunday afternoons, my mother’s laughter is girlishly higher and my father eagerly says, “Welcome my son.” They ask her to bring him “something from the fridge” and coddle him till he leaves. They joke about their future babies and how suitable my sister is for wifedom. And with each visit and approval of our parents, she folds into something unrecognisable.