It has now been two years and two months of marriage with Bolanle. I sit in this newly established cafe at Victoria Island. It has a vibe of minimalist American coffee shops I see in TV shows. I am waiting for Susan, a friend and an old spark from my university days. I surfed my phone and made a quick  WhatsApp voice note to Esther, the nanny at home. She responded instantly. Baby Kaothar is fine. 

Susan comes in with a sashay. I stand to welcome her, to push the chair out for her. In her high heels, she towered over me, her fragrance is jasmine, vintage Susan. She looks beautiful. Really beautiful. It’s been almost 7 years since the last time we saw each other. She draws me into a hug. 

—

I just needed someone to talk to. I say to myself on my drive home. I’m just messing an old friend. There’s a crippling feeling I cannot identify in me. I feel my stomach churning. I also feel like my face is burning and there’s a clench in my jaw. My grip on the steering wheel is quite firm; it can crack a stone. 

Upon getting home, I dismiss Esther and give her a tip. She says, “thank you sir. In Jesus name you will continue to prosper, sir. ” I giver the look she and I know very well. “Oh sorry sir. In God’s name, you will continue to prosper.”

I smile and thank her. I rock my baby and pace with her, singing Waheed Ariyo’s songs from the album Imo síwájú yigi to her. She loves it. She sleeps seamlessly to my melodious voice. 

I pray asr and read some Qur’an. I get on the computer and do some tasks from my workstream with the company I work for. 

Bolanle comes home with a frown. That is usual for her these days. She tries to pick up a fight. “Why is the baby still sleeping? She won’t sleep at night like that. Did you service your  vehicle that you said you would ? And the registration is expired on my car. I can’t believe this. If not that I gave the police officers some money, ehn! Just one thing, Hafeez. Just pay for the registration, you didn’t do it. Can’t I rely on you? As a wife, don’t I have the right to be taken care of? I go from morning to night and I get home and many things I expect you to do you haven’t?

I brush all those off and I say I’m sorry. I have been busy with these applications I’m doing. 

“What application?”

“Bolanle. Ahn ahn. I told you I’m trying to see if I can get a fully funded PhD program in the United States in engineering.”

“Oh, that. I thought it was in a dream of mine or something. You really meant it?”

“Yes, now.”

“But we don’t really need it. We have everything here. You have a remote job. I’m at the top of my career. We’re living a good life.” 

Yeah, right. The remote job that is barely a fraction of what you make. I say to myself. 

Baby Kaothar wakes up and starts to cry. That is my cue. The conversation is left hanging. 

Later that night, Bolanle is in the bathroom and her phone is ringing. She shouts that I should check who it is. By the time I pick the phone, the call has ended. I unlock her phone to see who it was. It was a WhatsApp call. I check her WhatsApp and stumble on her messages with her friend, Na’imah. I’m blown. It’s about me. 

*I can’t stand him. You know, having to pay for almost everything. And he just stays home like that. It’s unmanly.*

*But he works from home. So he’s not idle.*

*🙄Which work, the one that pays him 300,000 naira. Is that one a salary?*

*it is something Sha, Bolanle. Some women will be happy with that.*

*I make him pay the annual rent as I work on completing our house. He’s the husband after all. So basically he doesn’t have that much after he pays 1.5 million naira annual rent.*

*Hmnn.*

*I’m tired Na’imah. Sometimes I just feel angry. He’s just there. I have to pay for this and that. And after working so hard at work and I basically want to sleep, he wants to have sex. It just repulses me.*

*I don’t know what’s going on with our men ó.*

I quickly drop the phone. This is something I never wanted to see. Yet it can’t be unseen. I left for the living room and I feel my whole self shrink. So I remember our dates and conversations 3 years ago: 

We met each other on Facebook. We clicked from comments, to inbox, to phone numbers. To our hearts. At that time she was making 1 million naira monthly at one of the big fours. I was making 250,000 monthly. But she said she didn’t care. She wanted a husband who is a partner. We were both in our mid thirties. I wanted a partner, too. A wife that is driven. So, being referred to as unmanly even when I’m doing my part of this deal we called marriage feels like a stab in the back. 

I stand up to take a walk around the estate. A WhatsApp message comes from Susan as I step out of the gate. I smile. At least I’m man enough that Susan checks on me.