“This is not the man I married,” you think to yourself as you pace the living room, moving from one end of the one-sitter chair to the three-sitter couch across the room in the two-bedroom apartment you co-own with your husband, your teenage sweetheart, the one you married five years ago.
A relationship that began when you were just seventeen. “They’re soulmates.” “Meant for each other.” “Their love is so perfect,” people would say whenever you and Kola took a stroll across the street. Your love felt even more perfect the day you both walked down the aisle, vowing to love, to cherish, to adore from that day forward, till death do you part. You danced and smiled and even shed a little tear, because in that moment, life couldn’t get more perfect. It was your dream wedding come true.
You snap out of your memory, eyes landing on the wall clock. The seconds tick so loudly, as it finally landed and bell a bell sound. 1:00 AM. The only sound piercing through the silence. And yet, your husband still isn’t home. Your last message to him sits there on your phone blue ticks showing that he's read it,
“Baby, I called earlier today so we could go to the hospital together, but perhaps you were busy. I went and uhm, it’s not good news babe. Please call me as soon as you get this.”
Still no reply.
“Where did it go wrong?” you ask yourself as you sink into the one-sitter chair that creaks with even the slightest movement on it. You glance around what was supposed to be your safe haven. Kola isn’t rich, he never was. But he had potential and he loved you deeply. That’s why you married him. Even if you pay 80% of the rent, shoulder feeding, house expenses, fuel the car you bought a year before the wedding (the one you hardly use now because Kola needs it more, although you're still the one fueling the car), you don't mind, you still take care of that too.
Your mind flashes to the conversation you had with your best friend, Titilope, the night before she left the country. The two of you sat under the mango tree in front of her apartment, staring at the full moon, soaking in one last girls’ night.
Titi: “I don’t understand, Yemi. Why are you hell-bent on marrying Kola? I get it, you love him, but marrying a man with nothing is a big deal.”
You: “I get your concerns, Titi, but Kola has potential. He just has multiple fails right now, he will pick up.”
Titi: “A family can’t survive on potential, Yemi.”
Your thoughts are interrupted by the loud clank of the gate, followed by the angry roar of the car. From the way the tires screech, you know he hasn’t taken the car for its monthly maintenance. Again. He’s probably spent the money, again.
Every seconds that count before he walked in felt like hours. You stand up. Sit back down. Stand again. Your palms are clammy and cold. The door opens and he walks in.
“Hi baby, welcome. How was work?” you ask gently, calculatedly. Just one question at a time. Last time, when you asked “How are you? How was work?” it turned into a fight. He said it was too many questions at once. He was tired. You almost left then, but your mother got involved, telling you a woman does not leave her matrimonial home.
You: “Maami, marriage is not a do-or-die affair. I can’t breathe in this house anymore. It’s not like it puts more money in my bank account. Please, Maami. I can’t do this anymore.”
Maami: “God forbid! No daughter of mine will leave her husband’s house.”
You: “Well, technically, I pay the rent so it’s my house.”
Maami: “Yemi, do you think I’m joking? Do you know what society say about women who leave their husband’s house? All the respect you have now as ‘Mrs’ will vanish. They’ll talk behind your back. Deny you opportunities. A woman is supposed to endure. I know you and Kola don’t have children yet, but when children come, they’ll thank you for giving them a father. Do you want to be a single mother, ehn Yemi?”
Even though your own father was a deadbeat, and you would’ve preferred growing up without him, that conversation stuck with you. The fear of becoming an outcast.
“Fine. Why are you still awake?” Kola’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts. “Yemi, I don’t like this. You make it seem like I’m making you suffer. You do these things on purpose to guilt-trip me.”
He avoids your eyes. You watched the man who now looked at you wearily as if that look of frustration on his face is to hide the guilt. “He used to look at me with such loving eyes, where did it all go?
You think to yourself, wiping your sweaty palms on your nightgown.
“Uhm…” you start, then sigh. “Did you get my text? I wanted to talk about the hospital.”
“This is what I’m saying,” he cuts in. “Look at the time Yemi, this conversation can wait till tomorrow. A good wife would know that timing is everything.”
He walks past you into the bedroom.
You stand frozen, mouth agape. Your feet feel glued to the tiled floor. “So, marriage means I face this alone?” you whisper in disbelief.
Your mind flashes to what the doctor told you during the ultrasound. Three months ago, you’d done a urine test and screamed with joy at the two thick red lines. You’d waited, planned, imagined how special the first scan would be. But today, the doctor said there’s no baby. Apparently, the urine test gave a false positive. You even did further blood and urine tests in the hospital which confirmed what the doctor said.
Broken-hearted but not wanting to discuss such matter on the phone, you’d left a text for your husband. And now, he doesn’t even want to hear about it.
Then you notice it, his phone lighting up on the sofa. He must’ve dropped it by mistake because you have not failed to notice how wary he is about leaving his phone lying around you.
You pick it up to read a message,
“what’s up, you don reach house? Hope your wife no too jam word for your body? If that woman knows that you’ve lost your job and you’ve been spending the last one week playing snookers at my house ehn, she go kill you. You no nice padi mi. Anyway, same time tomorrow?”
Your hands shake. Your lips part but no words come. Kola lost his job and didn’t tell you? So, today, he didn’t follow you to the hospital for the ultrasound of the baby you both were expecting because he had gone to play snookers? He didn’t even care to hear the news that there is no baby saying he is too tired, despite doing nothing all day?
“Wow,” you whisper.
You grab your phone and text Titi:
“Walk me through the visa process. I’m relocating too.”
Then you walk into the bedroom, determined to get a good night sleep and make remaining weeks of your marriage count, as it would be the last, whatever society has to say, becomes their business. That fear is out the window along with every hope you had in Kola.
GLOSSARY
- Maami: my mother
- You don reach house?: have you gotten home?
- Hope say your wife no too jam word for your body: hope your wife didn't nag or confront you too much
- she go kill you: she'll kill you
- You no nice padi mi: you're not nice my friend