Our Husband I
I was taking off my red-soaked gloves when my husband’s wife walked in. I hadn’t known it then that I was watching my cowife walk in, sneering and snickering as I watched her take in my salon, eye my customers over, and ask my receptionist if I was in.
I walked up to my cowife and asked her how I could help.
“Can we go to your office? Somewhere private?” She’d asked me, having the audacity to be haughty, to look like she was doing me a favour.
“Why not?” I had smiled sweetly at her.
I watched her as I sat in my chair. She eyed my office over, standing at my windows and staring out like she was home here. I knew what she was hinting at. She wanted me to grovel, to ask, — why are you here? Who are you?
“You won’t even ask me why I’m here or who I am.”
I kept mute. This one was obviously not comfortable with silence. Silence had been my companion for the past 2 years. When Emeka’s mother dragged me to his home in Abuja and declared to me
“Nwa m, this is your husband’s house. Feel at home. Be comfortable. And don’t allow him intimidate you.” I did not know that my husband would have no chance to intimidate me because how could you intimidate someone who you did not live with?
Emeka’s demeanour surprised me. With the way his mother had asked me to not be intimidated, I had expected him to come back bellowing, with a stomach that jiggled when he talked, but I’d been surprised when a lanky figure of a man had seen me seated at the dining and simply asked
“You must be Mmeso. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it for the wedding.” Our wedding if I could call the hasty payment of brideprice that had happened in my father’s parlour a wedding.
“Feel at home.” He’d chided & advised like a house mistress like he was not my husband.
Silence became my life. My husband would leave me to the emptiness of his duplex in the morning, come back in the evenings, travel on the weekends, stick to his cycle of sex on Thursday evenings, his thoughtfulness in bed never translating to the formality he treated me with every other minute when he wasn’t above me.
For our 1 year anniversary, I’d begged for this shop before I ran mad from living alone.
“My name is Jewel.” The lady introduced herself, finally. “I’m Emeka’s 2nd wife.”
She carried herself the way I should have as Emeka’s first wife. I should be the one seeking out his other women, intimidating them with how calm, cool & collected I was as a secure 1st wife. But here I was, sitting in my office, watching Jewel with a permanent scowl on her face announce her position as 2nd wife.
“Won’t you say something? I’ve just told you your husband has married me. A reaction would be nice.”
I never pegged Emeka as someone capable of marrying another wife.
Multiple affairs? Yes.
Another wife? No.
But still, I do not love him enough to be angry. I do not even know him enough to be embarrassed by being bamboozled with this kind of information.
“Why are you here?”
“Did Emeka tell you about me? He refuses to talk about you to me. You know, I’ve always wondered what you looked like and trust me, I’ve scanned Instagram & Facebook and I just couldn’t find you. You left me no choice but to come here and see what you look like in person. I wish I could say I’m disappointed. But then again, Emeka knows how to pick his women so I really shouldn’t be surprised.”
I chuckled.
“So you came all the way from wherever it is Emeka kept you at to come and see what I look like? I must keep you up at night.”
“Well, this has been a very fulfilling yet unfulfilling visit. I just wanted to know what you looked like and see what I’m up against. Do you people have any kids together?”
“Do you have any kids together?” I retorted.
“You know what? I’m sure the answer is no. You seem like the kind of woman who would plaster her children’s pictures all over her office if she had one. Don’t bother, Mmesoma. I’ll see myself out.” And this strange sneering woman left just as quickly as she came.
His mother was the person I called first. After fielding questions of whether it had entered, a heir to Emeka’s riches, I asked straight
“Mama, ima na Emeka nuru nwanyi ozo? — did you know Emeka married another wife?”
Her brief pause gave me my answer. I let out a breath I did not know I was holding.
“Nwunye nwa m, I knew. Know that I fought for you. But Emeka still went ahead to marry that bleached goat.” She responded in Igbo. “You’re the only daughter-in-law that I recognize and stand with. The only one with my full backing. When Emeka is tired of fooling around, he’ll come back to you. You own that home.”
“Daalu mama. Thank you.”
“But jisike ka ihe banye — work hard so something will enter. All this travel travel Emeka is doing, trap him down one day and make sure he does what he needs to.”
“Oh, mama. I’ve heard.”
I managed to still get my last dye job done for the day without exacting any form of transferred aggression to my customer’s hair.
Today was Thursday and I wanted to be home early. As I removed the dyeing gloves for the 2nd time today, Emeka’s call comes in. For the 2 years we’d been married, Emeka had never called me. I didn’t even know he had my number.
I watched the phone buzz and then stop as I rinsed my hands in my sink, as I took off my apron, the 2nd call ended. I stood and watched it again, willing it to ring for the 3rd time so I could feel like I was worth more to Emeka than the courtesy of 2 missed calls.
When Emeka’s car pulls up at our home in the evening, I have just finished my 2nd glass of wine. Wine that Nneka had introduced me to, showing me how to hold a glass and sip in case I was ever out in public with Emeka.
I held my breath as he unlocked the door and came in, watching me on the couch, drinking wine. He’d never seen me drink.
“I called you today. You didn’t pick up.”
“You’ve never given me your number. I didn’t know it was you.” I lie.
“Jewel came to see you today.”
I stare at him, refusing to respond. Was he asking me? Or was he telling me?
“I was going to tell you.” He cleared his throat. Was Emeka nervous around me?
“I didn’t plan for…”
“No condom tonight. I want a child, Emeka.” I cut him short. My heart was heaving within me as I spat the words out. I didn’t even ask, I just demanded.
“Okay.”
I had expected him to resist, to laugh at me and call me ridiculous. But he said okay, as if I’d simply asked him to buy bread on his way back. His yes emboldened me further.
“And I want to meet your friends. I want you to take me out to events where people bring their wives. I can hold many conversations on different things so don’t worry, I will not embarrass you. If you want me to only smile at some events, I will shine all 32 of my teeth until people start to gossip that I smile too much. And I want you to buy me a wedding ring fitting for a first wife. We’ve been married 2 years and we still don’t wear wedding bands. And finally, I want a court wedding, and when my child is born, buy us a gift. One in my name. One in their name.”
My heart is racing fast as I rattle out my requests. I expect him to break his cool facade and laugh at me, ask me who I am to demand all these things, but he doesn’t.
“Okay.”
“Thank you. Will you eat now, or after?”
“After.”
READ PART II: Our Husband II
