Chioma at the Store

By Chidima Anekwe

/ First Place, 2025 Plentitudes Prize in Fiction /      

Though Chioma had been raised Catholic, she never minded that Christmas had gone commercial. In fact, it gave her a secret thrill. For in Yuba City, the holiday season was marked by a good old-fashioned Walmart superstore playing the holiday music station at unprecedented volumes. Inflatable Santa Claus lawn figurines on proud display by the entrance for $49.99 plus tax. Yes, it was splendid. 

Chioma was a strong believer in American consumerism. It was what made the world go round. She loved things. And she loved buying things. But Chioma’s family couldn’t afford much of anything when she was a kid. Her dear mother answered phones at the dentist office. Her father drove the city bus. And little Chioma could only bemoan child labor laws. So trips to the store meant desperately pleading for pricey items in vain, being given only a half-hearted “maybe next time” in response. (It was never next time.) As a result, now that Chioma had her own fancy tech job and with it, fancy tech job money, she’d become a serial spender.

She considered herself an important facet of the U.S. economy. Sometimes she fantasized about Al Gore coming to Yuba City to thank her for service to their country. (This was an alternate universe in which Al Gore had, indeed, been elected the year before.) And she would tell Al, it’s no problem, Mr. President—I just love buying things.

Like her Barbie dolls.

Chioma did not play with them, she’d like the record to show. She was a completely sensible woman—she worked in tech, a high-paying job at IBM’s California branch. No, Chioma simply collected the Barbie dolls, collecting being a common pastime among those with the financial means to do so—baseball cards, postage stamps, coins. She kept the dolls in a cardboard box under her bed in her room, but surely she’d soon commission a nice display case for them all.

So this personal hobby was not a deep dark secret for Chioma. It was just that no one had bothered to ask. Sometimes, at the end of the work day, she would flippantly mention going back home to her toys. No one ever seemed to desire any further detail. But she was not naive. Chioma knew there was a stigma against enjoying things (except perhaps sex, depending on your sex) once you reached adulthood. She simply didn’t care enough to take this to heart. She liked to enjoy things. And she knew what she liked.

For this reason, Chioma walked through the Yuba City Walmart with unadulterated resolve. She was not here to browse or peruse or window shop as her mother used to say. These were pitiful euphemisms for wanting and never having. Chioma no longer had any use for these. It was Christmas Eve, and Chioma needed the Barbie and the Nutcracker™ Clara doll to make the holiday complete.

Chioma observed the other patrons of the Walmart superstore with her nose in the air. Some bumbling family of five was blocking the way to the cookies and crackers aisle. Now, Chioma wasn’t sure she wanted any cookies, or crackers for that matter, but if she did, she’d be forced to dodge a gangly sweaty father in a yellowing San Francisco Giants baseball cap. Some weary and tragically beautiful mother trying to pretend she preferred her life this way. Some snot-nosed kids running around with no discipline because white Americans refused to spank their children. No thanks! Chioma would say.

She continued on her way. Chioma loved how many things were sold at the store. Rows and rows of things! Things everywhere. Oh, Chioma loved buying things. Lots of cans of tomato soup. She could spot about seven different brands of tomato soup alone. She wondered if she bought them all and cooked them all in separate pots, whether she’d be able to dictate how they each tasted differently. Of course there was a difference in taste. Why else would there be seven different brands of tomato soup?

These were the fruits of tireless corporate labor, and Chioma recognized this. This is what the communists tried to take away from us! She could buy all the brands of tomato soup her heart desired. Chioma was so glad her Nigerian parents had chosen to come to America instead of someplace else. She could hardly imagine living somewhere without easy access to so many things.

Chioma was no fool. She knew this country had its flaws, being a dirty settler-colonial empire and all—she’d gone to college. But she tried not to think about this too often. She enjoyed her Campbell’s soup, and her Oreo cookies, and her Diet Coca-Cola. (Apparently the last brand was particularly evil. She’d heard about it once from one of the temp guys at work, breathing down her neck as she inserted a wrinkly dollar bill in the break room vending machine. Something about far-right death squads in Colombia and Cocacolonization. Chioma had always found this co-worker quite irritating, so she told herself he was lying. Or he’d gotten the Coca-Cola company mixed up with PepsiCo, or something. She didn’t care for Pepsi, so she could work with this alternative.)

Chioma liked that she lived in America. She liked referring to it as “America,” too, instead of the U.S. or the United States. One of the girls she had roomed with in college would always castigate her for it. She was an ethnic studies major and said that referring to the U.S. as one would the whole continent erased the identity of the Central and South American nations that were also part of the region, and fed into U.S. cultural hegemony and global superpower status.

This made sense enough to Chioma, but she felt America sounded cooler. It was what her parents called it. Albeit, usually with a sigh of frustration while watching CNN. Or seeing people arrive at church in jeans. But when Chioma’s cousins still in Nigeria called on the phone, they pronounced the word with sincere wonder. The occasional tinge of envy. This was enough for Chioma to remain invested in its perpetuation.

She made her way past the food aisles, and was now headed through the clothes section. She noted a teenage girl skeptically inspecting sweater dresses while her mother looked on enthusiastically. Chioma theorized that they were doing last-minute shopping for a Christmas dinner. One with extended family, so it mattered slightly more what they wore. Maybe there would be new in-laws joining in, so they’d have to be on their best behavior and make lots of good small talk. The girl didn’t like being seen shopping for clothes at Walmart. Her eyes kept darting around, as if trying to catch someone sneaking up on her with a camera. Her mother was just happy to be shopping with her, like they used to all the time when she was little and not yet embarrassed by her. Chioma would never have children. That was one American ideal she wasn’t going to fall for.

The girl reminded Chioma of her sister, Adaora. Adaora, too, always assumed she was too good for everything that surrounded her. And always assumed people were watching her, paying attention to what she was doing—whether it was to criticize or to praise her. Chioma thought her delusional and self-important.

Adaora, with her perfect Brandy Norwood microbraids and permanent smile. How Chioma resented her. She always had. She resented that her name was easier to pronounce. It almost sounded like an English name. She resented that, too. She resented that Adaora was a year younger and yet always ahead. At least, in their parents' eyes. Chioma’s parents never understood how respectable a tech job truly was. It was difficult to brag about to friends back in Nigeria. But Adaora was going to be a dermatologist. A medical doctor! How could Chioma, typing away at her computer all day, possibly compete?

Adaora outperformed her in other avenues, as well. Chioma recalled how growing up, Adaora always had friends to go out with, boys who called her on the kitchen phone when their parents weren’t around. And Chioma always stayed home and watched her go. Their parents never would’ve allowed it. In secret and in shame, Chioma used to hope her sister would get caught. But Adaora never did.

Adaora had gotten engaged the year before to one of those boys who always called their home, her high school sweetheart who managed to persist through college. This was, of course, despite Adaora’s many suitors, as she liked to remind her sister. The wedding was just months away, and it was all their mother could talk about, fussing over catering options and guest lists. Chioma didn’t envy her sister for any of this. Adaora was only 23 years old. Chioma pitied her. But it frustrated Chioma that everyone else seemed to see her as the object of pity.

It was silly. Chioma was the one with the high-paying tech job at IBM’s California branch. All Adaora had to show for herself thus far was student loan debt, and a lackluster man she would be legally tethered to for the rest of her life now.

For the most part, Chioma appreciated that she lived in a place where your job mattered. But she used to despise this culture as a child. Why did her classmates love to talk about what their parents did for a living? Who cared? When these sorts of conversations arose, she’d always slink away quietly. But now she relished them. When Chioma introduced herself to new people, her job became like her chosen name. I’m Chioma, I’m a computer scientist. She had never liked her given name all that much.

It was a male-dominated industry, and that made Chioma feel special. Like she was better than everyone else. She was better than other women, of course, because she was working a job like this and they were not. But she was also better than the men, because she was working a job like this despite being a woman. She was able to afford a nice condo in Yuba City, if she wished. But she opted for a tiny apartment. She wanted to save money on housing. More money to spend on things.

Chioma began to head to the doll aisle at last, nearly giddy with anticipation. She loved walking through the toy section of Walmart as an adult with her own money. She loved looking around at each item on the shelves and recognizing that if she wanted it, she could buy it. And it would be hers—it was that simple. There wasn’t a single toy she could see with a price tag that she couldn’t afford. One of the Power Wheels ride-ons would take a considerable bite out of that month’s rent, sure. But it would be hers.

Now an adult, Chioma believed children to be a rather oppressed class indeed. She remembered how it felt to own nothing. She realized from a young age that ownership meant power in America. She learned that in school. The coveted objects that her classmates owned acted as status symbols. They were social capital. The most popular girls would play together at recess with expensive American Girl dolls, big clunky historical dolls that cost $100 each. Chioma never even thought to ask her parents for one. She just wanted Barbies.

She just wanted chewing gum! Chioma could recall having to beg and bargain for a mere pack of Bazooka Bubble Gum at the checkout. She knew even then the design of the store was manipulative and tactical and cruel. Why remind her of everything she wanted and couldn’t have, right as time was running out? The gum cost 99 cents. Her mother would almost always refuse her. Oh, how terrible it felt to be deprived of anything—everything—that wasn’t the mere byproduct of someone else’s mercy?

Chioma had a secret theory that this was the real reason why humans couldn’t remember anything from before the ages of three or four. Imagine not being able to communicate discomfort, or pain, beyond crying and hoping to be understood! Chioma had heard about how the human brain protects you from traumatic memories. The most traumatic of all must have been those early years.

Chioma once went out with a child psychologist. She pitched this idea to him, after making him sign a restaurant napkin contract that he would not take credit for it himself and use it to establish himself in his field. After he heard the idea he laughed and laughed and laughed. Chioma wanted to kill him. Men knew nothing and believed they knew everything.

Combing her way through the varying boxes of trademarked Mattel products, Chioma at last came upon the Happy Holidays from Barbie! shelf of the doll aisle. The crowning object was the Barbie 2001 Holiday Signature Doll—the 13th Anniversary edition! But this object was of no interest to Chioma. Chioma had once dreamed of being a ballerina as a child. She needed the Nutcracker doll.

And there she was! On the second row, in a pink tutu and a tiara. And she was the last one left. Chioma crouched down and leaned in to grab the box and promptly bonked heads with someone else.

“Ow!”

“Oh!”

It was a woman, a white one. Most likely in her early forties. A blonde, though her dark roots told a different story. She wore a tracksuit and white sneakers. And pearls. A sad attempt to compensate for the tracksuit and sneakers. A shopping cart full of last-minute groceries stood behind her. Chioma pitied her.

“I’m sorry, I was just reaching for the Nutcracker doll here. I’ll just be a second then I’ll be out of your way,” the woman said kindly, a white-bright smile on her face.

Chioma did not return this smile. “I was also going to get Clara. I’m pretty sure I got here first. There’s probably more in the back if you ask one of the workers.”

Now the woman’s own face was beginning to turn sour. “Oh, honey. I’ve been to this Walmart on Christmas Eve before. Everything that’s here is the last of it. Unless you’re willing to test your luck, and I can just take this one here.” She started to reach for the box. Chioma promptly swatted her hand away.

The woman gasped.

Now Chioma smiled. “I was here first.”

“Maybe you were in the aisle first, but we got to the doll at the same time, dear.”

“Don’t call me dear.”

“Sorry, it’s a term of endearment.”

“No, you were using it to patronize me, to make me feel small. I’m not a child.”

“Aw. One day you’ll get to an age where being seen as young will feel like a blessing, not a curse.”

“No, I don’t think I will. I’m not obsessed with appearance.”

The woman scoffed. “It’s not only that.”

Chioma was sure it was. She briefly evaluated the woman’s cakey face of makeup and bottle blonde hair. She always felt unsettled by middle-aged women, especially mothers, who seemed they might dye their hair blonde till they died.

She had no issue with the practice of hair-dyeing in general, but something about the attachment to blondeness in particular felt eerie. It reminded her of all the wives of Republican politicians. And something worse. “What else is it, then?”

“Look, I know you must have a little sister who you love very much. But being disappointed by a sibling will never compare to being disappointed by a parent. A mother, Lord knows. Think of this.” She reached again for the box, letting her hand rest on top.

“Who said I want it for my little sister?” Chioma placed her own hand on the box’s side.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Well I understand it must be hard as a teen mom, probably a single mom too–”

“What the hell are you on about? Oh you’re racist as hell. I knew it.” Chioma felt she ought to seize the doll right then and there, just out of spite! Now a part of her was glad there was only one left, or maybe she had been glad from the beginning. It meant it was an object worth having, worth the dispute. Almost all of the dolls were gone, which meant everyone else had wanted one, too, and Chioma liked to be a part of everyone else. 

“Sorry, I just assumed that–”

“Listen, girl. I’m 24. I have a high-paying job at IBM’s California branch. I’m not stupid enough to throw that away by getting knocked up.” Chioma yanked at the box, but the woman held it down steadily.

Chioma couldn’t believe how this tug-of-war persisted. Here this grown woman was fighting with a 24-year-old over the last Barbie and the Nutcracker doll at Walmart on Christmas Eve! What a sad and sorry life.

The woman looked at Chioma thoughtfully. “I know your type. You think being ‘independent,’” she made quotes with her fingers, “a career woman, makes you better than the rest of us. It doesn’t.” She laughed drily. “It’s all the same for us.”

“We’ll all end up the same.” She tightened her grip on the box.

Chioma didn’t know what this mad white lady was talking about. She just didn’t want to get married and have kids because they were expensive. Yes, that’s what it was. She saw on the news one time that raising a kid cost $160,000. That was two years’ worth of Chioma’s salary working a high-paying job at IBM’s California branch. Think of all the things Chioma could buy with that money. Lots and lots of things. Yes, Chioma was much too smart to have kids.

She found herself losing focus on the Clara doll, her eyes zooming out to the rest of the aisle. So many things. Lots of boxes of dolls and accessories. But the ones she remembered from when she was a child, the ones she once longed for, were long gone. Great Shape Barbie, with the sweatband and leg warmers. Western Barbie, with the mechanical winking eye. Barbie and the Rockers! These dolls had all been discontinued, replaced by Mattel’s newer lines, now only to be scavenged for at local yard sales. But weren’t they also more valuable this way? Rare commodities?

Chioma felt like she was losing the high ground. And it had become apparent that ultimate possession of this doll would be contingent upon rhetorical ability.

“Look, I’m sorry. I know that being a mother isn’t easy.”

“It isn’t. But it’s worth it. My little girl, Phoebe, is my whole world.

“Did you name her after the Lisa Kudrow character by chance?”

The woman half-smiled. “Yes, I actually did.”

Chioma managed a smile too. “Fair enough. My mother named me after her favorite Nollywood star. Maybe you guys would get along.” But Chioma loved her mother.

Her mother. Chioma’s mother did not attempt to bleach her hair blonde but she did cover her grey roots with black dye, and Chioma remembered this well. Chioma’s mother did this in secret, hiding the box under the sink with the cleaning supplies that no one else would touch—her own treasure trove. It was as though her mother grew most attached to those things which were meant to be unseen, the only ones that were really hers. Objects in quiet, perpetual motion. Bathroom floors in need of scrubbing every week. Grey hairs in need of dying every month. And her sheltered daughters.

But Chioma couldn’t move out of the house quick enough. Adaora, either, it seemed. Chioma never discussed this with her sister, but seeing their mother made her feel grief. Chioma loved her, but she couldn't bear to watch. Chioma couldn’t, she just couldn’t. Chioma had always looked just like her mother.

“Phoebe’s been asking for this Nutcracker doll since we watched the movie together at home. It’s her new favorite. I just, I’d asked her father to take care of buying it for me. And he didn’t end up having enough time to do it. You know, with work and all. He has to work around the clock. So I don’t blame him for forgetting. I just wish he hadn’t waited to tell me. Because Phoebe needs this. She needs it.”

The woman stared Chioma in the eye, frantic. “Listen. Your baby is the one thing that will never leave you. Not your husband, not your parents, your child.”

Unfortunately, Chioma disagreed. She nodded slowly, removing her hand from the box as though to gracefully bow out, and then, all in the matter of seconds, pushed the woman’s shopping cart away as a distraction, lunged forward, and snatched the Barbie and the Nutcracker™ Clara doll, holding it above her head in victory. “Merry Christmas!”

Without a second glance at the woman, Chioma hightailed it out of the Barbie aisle, out of the toy department, out of the Yuba City Walmart superstore. She didn’t stop to pay at the checkout. She passed by the apathetic employees at the exit, running out of the store as if being chased. She wasn’t. No alarms rang from the door as she fled like she’d always anticipated they would. The only ringing was in her own ears. Chioma sat in her car for a moment after, anxious, trying to decide if she hadn’t paid because she was in a rush, or because she no longer wanted to.