Chapter 3: Cold Dinner

For once, Morayo didn’t use work as excuse to come home late. She strolled in while I was still in the kitchen.

I hear her slippers for corridor—no rush, just soft, like person wey no want make sound. She enter parlour, arrange her bag, then waka come kitchen.

“Kunle, what are you cooking? The aroma is mad.”

She smile small, voice soft, like say nothing dey happen. Her eyes dey avoid my own, but she still try put some ginger for her tone.

She greeted me first—something she never does.

That one surprise me. For months, if I no greet, she no go talk. Today, na she greet first. I just watch her, no fit hide my shock.

I felt pain, but I also wan laugh. Normally, I dey try everything to please her, but she dey cold. If I talk too much, she go vex. But just because I mentioned her suitcase, she rush home, trying to soften things up, afraid I go find her secret.

For my mind, I dey calculate—na so fear dey work people. All the while I dey chase her love, na small suspicion make her rush come back, dey form caring wife.

I looked at her. Her face was dull, and she looked tired. I thought maybe the trip drained her. Who would have guessed she went to do abortion behind my back?

Her makeup no fit hide the stress. Eyebags dey under her eyes. I wonder—na work stress or something deeper?

I took a deep breath, holding back my anger. “You don’t look well after your trip. I’m making pepper soup for you to regain strength.”

I force myself to smile, voice steady, even as my chest dey hot. Pepper soup dey boil, scent fill the kitchen. I dey hope say maybe, just maybe, food go make things right. But I dey deceive myself.

Morayo forced a smile, trying to test me: “Okay, I’ll go sort out my suitcase first—you didn’t touch my things, right?”

She dey eye me, as if she fit see lie for my face. The way she dey talk—her voice shake small, but she try hide am.

I stared at her. “I didn’t touch. Didn’t you say you’d handle it yourself?”

I look her straight, no blink. Her hand dey grip her phone, knuckles white.

She dodged my eyes, muttered something and went to the bedroom.

Her footsteps quick, door close gentle but sure. I hear her zip bag, arranging things like person wey dey panic.

During dinner, Morayo did something unusual—she praised my soup: “All these years, I’ve always cooked and you never complimented me. Did you offend me, that’s why you’re acting nice now?”

She blow the soup small, pepper scent make her eyes blink, but she still force smile. She eat small, then look up, eyebrow raised. I dey watch her, no talk. She dey try gauge my mood.

Her face froze for a second, then she snapped, embarrassed: “What are you saying? Can’t I praise your cooking?”

Her voice sharp, but she dey shake. I fit see am. Normally, na she dey drag compliment from me, now she dey on edge.

She dropped her spoon. “I’m not eating. You’ve spoiled my mood.”

She wipe her mouth, stand up. Her plate still half full, steam rising. She no even look my side.

Everything she did tonight just showed guilt.

Na so guilty people dey behave—overreact to small thing, dey dodge eye.

I looked at her quietly. “Why are you so jumpy today? This isn’t like you.”

I talk am softly, but I dey watch her reaction. She stop, her back stiff, then keep moving.

She had nothing to say.

She just waka go bedroom, no look back.

We stared at each other for a bit. She hissed, “Abeg, leave me,” and stormed to the bedroom.

Her slippers slap floor, door slam gently but final. I dey hear her move things around, as if she dey find peace inside wardrobe.

That night, I tossed and turned. We each had our own side of the bed, using separate wrappers, dem no even touch, like dem draw boundary for Benue River. I stared at that line, thinking about all the years I tried to please her, and her constant coldness.

I fit hear her breath, steady but far. Our wrappers no dey touch. The moonlight from window shine between us, like boundary dem no fit cross.

Which kind rubbish life be this? I no want this woman again.

Na so I begin dey talk to myself, eyes open for darkness. Marriage wey suppose sweet, don turn prison.

I must divorce her.

My mind dey made up. I go comot, no matter wetin people talk.

But first, I must find out the idiot that took me for a fool.

I swear, the person no go go free. I go show them pepper.

Both of them—none go escape.

Nobody wey use me play mumu go waka free for this life.