Chapter 1: When the Heat Refused to Break

When I was twenty-three, sweating under Lagos heat wey refuse to break, I marry Olumide Fashola.

That year, rain no gree fall for May, and the Lagos sun hold everybody for work. Our wedding no be that type with plenty aso ebi or MC dey shout 'gbogbo wa la wa.' Na small ceremony for him family compound for Itire, where old men with wrinkled faces dey sip malt bottle wey dey sweat for heat, and women press their wrappers, dey size me with eye wey talk, 'This one sef don enter.' I lower my gele, head bow, voice dey shake small as I answer elders' questions. My mama squeeze my hand and whisper, 'Morayo, shine your eye.'

He get natural coldness for body, dey distant. He marry me because I sabi respect elders—help am settle family wahala for compound.

Sometimes as he waka pass, even our cat dodge am, as if e know say even for house, peace no too dey. Even our cat sabi say no be all house get peace. When people hail am, 'Baba Fashola, how body?', na just nod he go nod, no gist, only that smile wey no ever reach him eye. If him uncles corner am for family meeting or land matter, na me go step in, calm dem, settle wahala. Na why dem respect me—the girl wey fit 'hold Olumide.'

Everybody sabi say him heart don already dey another place—one woman wey shine for him heart like moonlight wey nobody fit touch.

Him friends dey whisper sometimes, 'Ehn, that Tani na original babe o. Nobody fit replace her for Fashola mind.' Even tailor wey dey sew for am talk, 'Madam, you dey try o. That man heart far.' Sometimes, I enter him study late night, see am for darkness, dey hold old photograph. He never let me see the picture, but I know.

When she land back, e be like say na countdown remain before I go step down as Mrs. Fashola.

The whole neighbourhood buzz like generator when NEPA take light. Aunties, salon mamas, even gate man dey greet me with soft, long 'E pele, Madam,' gossip full their eye. Even my younger brother call from Enugu: 'Sister, I hear say one fine lady don return. Hope say no wahala?' E resemble waiting for harmattan—everybody dey expect cold soon.

At last, as his beloved return, I sensibly suggest divorce.

I wait for am for parlour, my heart dey drum kpim kpim. As I talk am, strange calmness just settle. Like say the roof of the compound finally comot from my chest.

He just smile, empty. "Fine, then let’s divorce."

The smile na that passport photo type—no life inside. Even Blessing, our housegirl, freeze for door, tray hang for hand, eye big. No quarrel, no wahala—just 'Fine.'

After that day, we no talk for long.

Him car no dey park house again, and the silence for house loud pass generator. I go pass him empty room, dey imagine am inside, phone for hand, eyes far. Even wall clock tick slow, like say time dey wait for us to talk.

Until news of my engagement begin spread.

Ibadan catch the gist overnight. Aunties dey call, neighbours dey wink for market, even suya man by roundabout hail me, 'Aunty, I hear say congratulations o!' His hand stain with pepper as he slice meat, wink join.

That night, he call me thirteen times.

Phone dey vibrate for bedside table. At first, I ignore am. By eighth call, I dey pace bedroom, wrapper tie well, breath dey hard. Thirteenth ring, e no gree stop till I pick.

First call, he just talk two words: "Congratulations."

Voice flat, no smile. I wait, but na only that. That kind 'congratulations' wey pain pass insult.

By the thirteenth call, I no fit hold myself. "Olumide, wetin you wan talk sef?"

I snap, voice shake. My hands dey restless—tap thigh, hold pillow, anything to calm.

He rub forehead, voice low. "The man get more money than me? He dey treat you better than I did? You really wan marry am?"

Him words heavy, crawl through phone—jealousy, pain mix. For the first time, him voice no cold—just tired, almost like beg. I press lips, unsure to answer or hang up, but line just dey quiet, both of us dey breathe inside darkness.