It's Boxing Day, and the park thrums with Christmas cheer — a long line of visitors snakes from the Ferris wheel to the kiddie pool. Marriage is like a Ferris wheel. I once screamed from the dizzying heights. Now I'm stranded at the bottom, waiting in silence for my turn. I've lingered here so long I wonder if the thrill is lost forever.
I watch the twins ride the spinning teacups, wishing they hadn't left us alone at the picnic tables.
I have no one for company, even though you're right in front of me.
You're glued to your phone, fingers tapping, eyes never lifting to meet mine. I tried to start a conversation, but your clipped replies and distant attitude left me no choice but to give you space. This outing only deepens the ache in my chest — a fear that you're slipping away.
I've done everything I can to keep us alive, yet I feel you slipping away. Sometimes it seems you're waiting for me to upset you and hand you an excuse to walk out. That fear keeps me quiet. I won't risk asking, "Honey, what's wrong?" I don't want to be the one who strikes the match that burns down what's left. I want us to remain a family. Taiwo and Kehinde want that, too.
At a roller rink, couples wobble on motorized skates, clasping each other to steady themselves.
"Babe, look at those two," I say.
You glance at the young woman clinging to her partner as he lets go.
"What about it?"
"Looks like fun."
You shake your head and return to your phone.
"I wonder what those things are called. Motor skates?"
You shrug.
Don't mind me. I'm only a distraction.
I wish you would steady me and quiet my worries. A few tokens of affection. Is that too much to ask?
We return home in the evening. The kids had fun, and I'm happy for them.
In bed, you're still tapping on your phone when you should be sleeping. The glow from your phone casts your face in cold blue. I see a smirk tug at your lips. Who is making you smile?
My stomach knots. My fingers twitch, itching to grab the device.
You turn away, the silence between us buzzing like a live wire.
My pulse thrums in my ears. Who, who, who?
I count your breaths, clench my jaw until my molars ache.
Who are you chatting with?
I poke my face through the bed covers.
Can't take it anymore. Have to ask.
"Babe, don't you have work in the morning?"
"I thought you were asleep," you mumble and continue to scroll.
The dull pain of my nails digging into my palm anchors me.
A bladder call sends you stumbling to the bathroom. I hear the door click shut and see your phone lying on your side of the bed. It must have been so bad that you forgot to take it with you. It lies there. Waiting. Waiting to be picked up.
Just one glance, a voice says.
So what if I'm right? Then what?
Wouldn't it be better not to know? I can't imagine life without you. I'd rather remember you fondly than waste energy despising you — or even face the truth. If you love someone else, take it to your grave. You'll be better off dead to me. I know that sounds selfish, but anyone who's loved as I have would prefer to preserve memories.
The toilet flushes.
I sink back onto the pillow, angry with myself.
You return to bed, put away the phone, and slump down. You lie with your treacherous face toward me. So I pull the covers over my head and turn to the other side.
What you triggered in me won't fade easily. If you don't stop, it will metastasize.
I find you at the breakfast table when I return from dropping off the kids at school.
"Babe," you say. "I will be traveling for a friend's traditional wedding. I'll be gone a few days."
"What friend?"
"Chuba. You don't know him. My childhood pal. We reconnected through social media."
"If you'd told me earlier, I could have asked my sister to babysit and gone with you."
"I didn't want to put you through all that trouble."
"It's no trouble."
"There's no airport in Umuahia. Even by air, we'd still need to journey by road from Owerri. Consider the cost too."
"I see."
You leave on Thursday. By Saturday, I'm walking the twins to Rosemary's birthday party, planning to pick them up later. Inside, parents cluster in the living room, chatting over snacks. Peace — my fellow chorister from church, remember her? — is there too, with her kids in tow.
Out back, the yard erupts with sound. Children shriek, balloons bob in the breeze, and a piñata swings wildly as frosting-smeared faces slurp on melting popsicles.
Peace asks if I have plans.
"Not really," I say.
She begs me to accompany her to Garki to pick up a dress from her tailor.
At a busy Garki intersection, cars hum in tight lanes. Peace drums her nails on the wheel. A familiar vehicle catches my eye two cars ahead. Through the rear windshield, your profile is unmistakable. You turn to speak to someone — with long braids — in the passenger seat.
"That's my husband."
"Where?"
"Over there. That silver Lexus." I point left at your car, three vehicles ahead, in the next lane.
"Didn't you say he was out of town?"
"Maybe he's back to surprise me."
I dial. You lift the phone to your ear.
"Babe, what's up?"
"How's the wedding?"
"Great. We're at the reception. It's noisy."
"I hear cars."
"Yeah, I'm in the car park."
"Okay. Just checking in."
"I'll be back Monday."
I hang up.
"Well?" Peace asks.
"He lied. He may be planning a surprise."
"But who is she?"
I shake my head.
"Haba! Men," she mutters.
The light turns green. We crawl forward.
I duck. I curl up in the legroom.
"What are you doing?" she says.
"You won't understand. Tí a bá fìká ṣọ́mọ ọdẹ, à ń sọ ọ di ọdẹ kíkọ." (When we use a hunter's method to catch a hunter's child, we turn him into a real hunter.)
"Call me crazy, but I thought you'd at least look at the woman."
Suspicion never prepares the heart for certainty. I do not want to care. I want to say to hell with you. But something won't let me. Maybe it's hope. Perhaps this is a phase for us. Perhaps we'll grow old together.
I resent her for taking your lovemaking, for turning you into a roommate. What does she have that I don't? Do you love her?
Last Tuesday at the salon, a male stylist asked a coworker, "If your boyfriend wanted you to get butt implants, would you?" She replied, "No. I wouldn't mutilate myself for someone else's fantasy."
The woman under the dryer next to mine scoffed. "She's single. Wait until she's married and trying to keep her husband's attention."
Her words settled like alum.
Once, we were that girl. But marriage changes the equation; the chase reverses. Your husband no longer pursues you, and you're left chasing the ghost of the man you married.
The change shouldn't be ours, yet we're the ones who shift to accommodate. Somewhere between "I do" and "I can't do this anymore" are women who have swallowed their pride and faded.
The tragedy isn't that we leave; it's that we stay. It's that we remain committed to hoping.
Sometimes I think it would be easier to hate you. But hate isn't the opposite of love. Not caring is. Hate is fueled by love. I've tried, but I can't stop longing for how it used to be.
Your car pulls into the driveway. The engine hums, then quiets. You usually drift to the living room or upstairs. But today, you enter the kitchen.
"Dinner will be ready soon," I say.
You open the fridge. Strange — you usually grab a drink upstairs. Then your eyes meet mine, dark with something unsaid.
"If you have a problem with me, why not say it?" you ask. "Why talk behind my back?"
"We don't talk anymore."
"Well, we are now, aren't we?"
That would have been funny if you were being sarcastic.
"My father has called us to a meeting."
"I didn't talk to your father."
"Your father talked to him."
"Sorry."
You slap your forehead. "This could ruin me."
"Excuse me?"
"I'm about to be crowned the Olódààyé of Ilaje. If I don't fix my marriage, my father says he'll suggest to the palace that they choose someone else."
Relief washes over me. A leverage switch is a welcome change.
"What's making you smile?"
"I'm happy for you. You'll make a fine Olódààyé."
"Abeg, jo." You wave me off. "Don't let your wahala spoil this. We'll visit him when the boys are on holiday. And please, don't talk too much when we get there."
"What does Olódààyé mean?"
"A just ruler. One who follows his conscience."
"Fitting."
"Thank you."
Irony is always lost on you. But as long as you're willing to work at this, I don't care what your reasons are.
I planned to take the kids and leave you with a long letter that explains what you've put me through. I hoped it would bring tears to your eyes and you would send for us and beg me for forgiveness.
Maybe not.
This could be better.
"Babe?" I say with a smile.
"Yes?"
"Happy anniversary."