Chapter 1: The Jazz of Marriage

The second year after marrying the campus queen, I begin dey ask myself whether na jazz I chop when I marry Amara.

I still remember the day I carry her come my family house—neighbours poke head from window, even mama put hand for waist, shake head in awe. Mama Nkechi even pause her ogi-stirring, shout, “Na wa o! See fine girl!” Her beauty no get part two—face set like morning sun, legs long like Third Mainland Bridge, waist tiny, chest stand like say spirit push am, hips round as if God use compass draw am—but the kind wahala and ambition wey dey her body pass my own power. If dem dey share problem for market, na Amara go buy double.

With all her constant lies and half-truths, I moved from trusting her to just dey bone face. My heart just dey do me one kain, as if person dey squeeze am steady, but man no fit show weakness. For my mind, I dey hope say maybe e go better, but e just dey get worse every day.

Everybody for office dey laugh me behind my back, say I too dull, call me 'Mumu of the Year.' You go think say dem dey organize award for am, because even cleaner dey join mouth. Sometimes, I go enter pantry, dem go hush quick, eye dey follow me as if I thief meat for pot.

At last, I just give up. The day I sign the divorce paper, my spirit just weak, but at least I fit breathe small. I sign am, then stop, hand dey tremble as I stare my own signature. I remember as my mama talk that time: “Pikin, proud woman go use you mop floor if you no shine eye.” The tension for house fit cook beans, but now, everywhere just cold. I for cry, but tears no even gree come.

After we sign divorce paper, I carry my phone, dial one number wey I never touch for years. My hand dey shake, sweat full my palm, I wipe am for trouser, then mutter, “God abeg, make this man pick.” That number be like forbidden line for my life.

Before I fit talk, one gruff voice answer, "No talk again, dem don give me strict order—no single kobo for you." That voice na Uncle Bala, papa right hand. Him own wahala no dey too different from my papa own. If I talk anyhow, na insult go follow.

I sigh, reply, "Abeg, tell the old man say I wan come house." My voice low, like person wey lose bet.

Not too long after, convoy of big SUVs, shining like say dem dey do governor campaign, start dey come my side. The noise alone wake neighbours. Some dey point, dey gist—na so Lagos people be, drama na their food.

……

Later, the campus queen nearly break my phone with calls, her voice dey tremble, like generator wey no get oil, as she dey cry: "Husband, one bad man dey my bed, I dey fear o!" The irony—after all her forming, na now she dey look for me. As she dey talk, background noise full everywhere, like say club dey her parlour. E pain me small, but I bone.