Chapter 1:
It’s the same night as every other night and the same quarrel with Alhaji every damn time.
This night, I drive off in anger just in hopes that I can let some steam off. Suddenly I’m craving suya and ice cream.
Turning the black Prado Jeep from Opebi round about, the only place on my mind is the suya spot, If I step on the accelerator and increase the spead to about 150km, I would probably make it in time before the mallams finish selling torso.
First stop suya, then hopefully I can get a supermarket that would still be open at this time and one that stocks Ice cream I think, trying to form a mental picture of my drive.
The phone is ringing and the call is automatically picked by the car. Fuck these technology… bullshit, I reduce my breathe and refuse to speak. To hell with Alhaji!
I can hear him muttering under his breath, Zainabu ko! his heavy voice in between breaths that sounded like fat puffs of air from tired lungs. I wait a few minutes until he gives up and hangs up the call.
Another wife, barely six months after our marriage, kai! Shege! One of these small small girls after his money has struck a goldmine. I rack my head wondering who her magani must be. Alfa Sule and Madam J, the only note worthy herbalist in the whole of Lagos are sure loyal to me. This one must be fire and oil mixed together to get Alhaji to tell me of his desire to bring a new wife in, as he usually just keeps them around, lavishing the spare change I and his kids leave him.
At the suya spot. As always the men in pairs, eating and laughing. There’s always one pair of lovers who can’t seem to get their hands off each other.
At the other side, a line up of ikeja harlots, taking cover under the bad street lamp flock in a straight line displayed like the new high-rise building at Eko Atlantic, each screaming, “pick me, pick me!”
I buy my suya without coming down from the car and do a quick U-turn to get on the road that leads to shoprite.
09:37pm. Hopefully I can get there before they close to quickly snatch a cup of blue bunny vanilla icecream.
At the mall, I enter hurriedly as usual, it was too late,dark and not sunny to wear my sunshades so I adjust my scarf making sure my fore head and lips are very covered. My gown is a long and flowy black Jhalabia, the entire front covered in swaroski crystals that catches light with every sway of my modest hips and long legs. On my left wrist, the hublot watch Alhaji gave me for my birthday was big and fierce. I rarely wear my wedding ring, the diamond is too huge and paired with the watch was so weighted that it kept my hands perpetually down, but tonight, I was even wearing the ring, the perpetual symbol of our barely 6 month old marriage as I heard him talk about how he wanted to marry another wife, Ngozi, abi whatever he called her.
My anger, starts blazing again like new coals freshly poked into the fire, I walk directly to the freezer section and picked up two cups of blue bunny, vanilla and strawberries.
A white expat struggles to catch my eye, I yawn in reply and exhaustion. My tall, slim, nubian figure must be tensioning him, but he’s not my type, I smile back and hurry on. He has abandoned his shopping and follows me trying to talk. At the counter, he pays for my ice cream and hands me his card. I nod and manage a polite thank you. Promising to call. I smile and take a look at the card. “Andrew Hopson, Lawyer.”
Alhaji would never expect this.
Chukulee 