Chapter 3: Kitchen Palava

One time, Ifeoma and Musa really try keep distance.

Dem agree, say make dem try respect my feelings. For almost one month, Ifeoma no too dey go outside, dey stay for house. Even Musa dey call less, only dey send text once in a while.

She dey house more, dey follow me everywhere, dey beg me make I massage her back and leg, make I cook for her.

Ifeoma go just stretch leg for parlor, dey beg, "Abeg, my back dey pain me, help me press small." Sometimes she go even lie down for kitchen, dey gist with me as I dey chop onions. For night, she go request for foot rub.

Every meal, she go demand five dishes—meat, veg, soup join. If I complain, she go squeeze face: “You no gree make I go out, I no fit even chop better food for house again? Wetin be all this?”

If I just talk say, 'E too much', she go bend mouth, frown, dey tap her finger for table. "I no fit enjoy my life again? E no pure o."

Nothing I fit do, I just hold myself, dey cook for kitchen till smoke dey comot.

Sometimes, I go dey wipe sweat, dey reason my life. Neighbours fit pass, dey greet, "Oga Chuka, na chef you go be soon o!" I go force smile.

She go post my food for her WhatsApp status.

She go snap picture, write: 'Home made by Chef Chuka. My padi for life.' She go add plenty emoji—love, fire, flexing muscle. She go add: 'See as my chef dey burst brain!'

“Big shout out to my home chef!”

As she dey post am, she go even show me: "See wetin I write for you. You no happy?"

Musa go comment, “Your Chuka na correct house husband.”

He go drop am for group chat. Other people go dey laugh, dey hail, "Chuka you dey try o. No be every man fit chop this work."

Other friends go join: “No wonder you never dey come out again—person dey feed you well.”

Dem go dey tease, dey drop all those side-eye emoji. I go just dey look, dey vex for inside.

All those talk get meaning. I no fit even hide my frown.

My face go hard, but I go dey swallow word, make wahala no too plenty for house.

Ifeoma go vex again: “You be man, why you dey act like this? I show small love, you dey vex. Oya, I no go post you for status again, e good like that?”

She go fold arm, raise eyebrow, dey wait for my answer. If I no talk, she go shake leg, dey tap ground.

After all this, e come be like na me dey do wahala, Ifeoma own patience for me dey finish.

Sometimes I go dey wonder if na me dey mad, or if na marriage dey craze person. My mind go dey race, heart dey heavy.

The gap between us dey grow, like say no matter how I try, I no fit near her heart.

I go dey remember how we be before—how we dey laugh, dey gist. Now, silence dey full house, cold breeze dey blow for kitchen.

“Wetin you dey think?”

Ifeoma wave hand for my face.

She dey look me close, eyebrow high. For her voice, you go hear small worry, but her own pride no go let her calm down.

I come back to myself, look her face—makeup don scatter, clothes wrinkled—I just tire.

Her face no fine as before, but I still see my wife inside. For my chest, e dey pain me.

She notice my mood, come mellow, dey pet me: “Baby, you dey vex?”

Her hand dey rub my own, soft voice like say she dey beg me. She use her thumb clean sweat for my forehead.

I no talk. She hold my hand: “Abeg no vex, I go stay with you this afternoon, e good? You talk say you want new suit before, abi? Make we go mall today—I go buy am for you, abeg.”

She dey use sweet mouth, dey try make me smile. For her eye, I fit see small fear—fear say I go tire, waka.

Na so she dey do—she go first give me slap, then give me sweet. She dey use my love for her dey control me, like say she sure say I no fit vex or waka.

All her friends dey talk say Ifeoma sabi play mind game, she dey quick use gift settle fight. As e be, I don dey used to am.