THE WIFE
When you’ve been married six years and counting; there are some things you learn, some things you become master of. Like the appropriate time to go to bed.
You would know that if you get to bed earlier than ten pm, your husband would still be awake. He might be reading the paper or using his laptop but as soon as you get to bed, he’d abandon it all and start groping.
He would coo his favorite words;
You’re irresistible my darling.
Words that you tire of hearing. You hate the way he calls you darling. Like he’s replaced your name with it. Sometimes you wish he’d call your name.
Ema.
Maybe if he called your name instead of that silly darling, then you would remember why you married him.
Recently, you have started retiring late. You’d find every excuse to get into bed later than ten pm.
You would hover over Stephanie, kiss her goodnight almost a dozen times. Only last week you asked if you could read her a story in bed. You hadn’t done that since she was four and Steph was too excited to notice.
And when she dozed off, you had crawled into bed with her and fallen asleep too.
You know you should be happy, content. You have the life some women would want to have. At least, you have a husband.
That’s what Chinwe told you when you complained about your marriage.
You have a husband. Some do not. You have a daughter. Do you know how lucky you are?
Yes, Chinwe had a point. Being married somehow completed everything about your life. During your years of singlehood; you walked around feeling like someone with a death wish. It wasn’t about what society wanted. You wanted to be married, have someone to have and hold, someone who you could go to at night and lay your head against his bosom. You craved it especially when you saw people like Mercy getting married; throwing her ring in your face.
You and Mercy who used to hangout until she got married and declared that her husband didn’t want her spending time with single women anymore.
They could corrupt you, he said.
And once again you felt that fist in your heart, that feeling of incompleteness. You were thirty-five, you had a good job and when you bought your car, your pastor said it would chase the men away.
Women with cars are threats to men, he said somberly, touching his bearded chin.
So I should be using public transport because I want a husband? You asked.
No, no. That’s not what I’m saying. Listen Sister Ema, sometimes we don’t understand the ways of God.
Or man for that matter, you wanted to retort.
When you clocked thirty-six you stopped going to the village to see your parents. You could no longer bear the way your cousins paraded their husbands around like some trophy.
Ehen Emmanuella this is Ikechukwu my husband. He works in NNPC. Cousin Josephine would say, her eyes glazed with pride like her husband was another point on her CV.
And then you would wonder if it was your envy and bitterness that made you think such nasty thoughts.
My sister, this is Nkem. He is the brother to the secretary of Defense. Cousin Chioma would take the cue.
Women who had transformed from wearing jeans and t-shirts to wearing intricately patterned Ankara dresses.
It was the unspoken rule about how married women should dress. Tie wrappers, wear traditional every day you possibly can; it is the trademark that you belong to somebody.
Even as you thought those rules were stupid; a part of you craved to have the opportunity to choose whether to be like those conceited shallow women. At least you could choose to be different.
A husband would make you equal in their eyes. It would make them stop whispering that you used your virtue to make money.
They would stop gossiping that the car you drove had been financed by a male friend.
They would stop saying that the apartment you lived was sponsored by your sugar daddy.
And then maybe you would stop caring what they thought or what they said. Just maybe.
And so when you said yes to John, you tried so hard to pretend to be happy.
You were finally going to tie the knot. Wasn’t that what you wanted?
Yes, that’s what you told yourself as you slid into your wedding gown. It was a dream come true; you, in white. And as you walked down the aisle, you convinced yourself that you were doing the right thing.
John was no new suitor. He had been around; a true friend like his name. John. So solid and constant.
He had been there while you dated other men, the friend you talked to when your other relationships went down the drain.
You knew he was head over heels for you but you had told him off over and over again.
It won’t work, John. You’re my friend and I love you. But as a friend.
You knew he’d cried over you. More than a dozen times you had rejected him saying to yourself that he wasn’t your ideal man. John wasn’t the exotic dude you wanted. Yes, he wasn’t bad looking and he absolutely adored you but no, that wasn’t enough.
You knew what you wanted in a man and John wasn’t it.
Which is why as you walked down the aisle that day and through your veil saw him grinning from ear to ear; you wanted to turn back and run far away because you knew the reason you had said yes to him wasn’t because you loved him.
It was because at thirty-seven you were afraid you would end up alone. No husband, no children. Nothing. You believed in biological clocks and you knew yours was ticking.
You may now kiss the bride.
Your first kiss with John was inside the chapel and as you felt his warm lips on yours; tears began to roll down your cheeks.
He loves me. Was all you sang to yourself as the years passed by. He adores me and that’s enough.
Even though your body didn’t tingle when he touched you, nor did your nipples spring to attention as his lips nuzzled them.
He loves me. You repeated like a mantra while his body melded with yours and he put Stephanie in you.
It was only when you held Stephanie in your arms for the first time that you knew that it wasn’t enough to be loved; you wanted to love too.
You wanted to love with a fervency that could make you go nuts. You wanted passion, to feel it. To hold it, if possible.
And Steph became your passion. She was the reason you lived, she was the reason you were glad you had endured those nights in bed with John.
But now, six years later, you are repulsed by your husband’s touch. By the suffocating way he loves you.
No matter how much you lash out and hurt him, John always forgives. He loves you even when you’ve given him every reason not to.
And the more he loves you, the more you hate him.
You want him to hate you and maybe if he does you can squeeze this guilt away that is eating you to death.
Maybe if he hates you, you can finally find the courage to leave him.
END.
MIMI A. (C)
The Hourglass 