“We’ve done everything they told us was right! “Go to school, do well, get a job, get married…” I’m tired, what else does this country want?! I swear I’ve done everything legal to provide for my family but I think the time has come to widen my scope and consider some other avenues oh! Prostitution is looking mighty appealing right now!” Sainou finished to laughter and shouts of “Who wants you?!”

“Tell me about it! Man, I work too hard to be balling on a budget….yet here I am!” Chinny chimed in.
The men’s laughter went on a little too long to be the response to any joke, as though they simply wanted their laughs to carry the painful jesting on forever. As if they dared not let the laughter stop; no one wanted to face the harshness of their reality, Nigeria was a joke…at their expense.

For men who had lived in cosmopolitan cities around the world, Nigeria came in a poor alternative. Lagos with its glittering night life for repatriates and golden promises for expatriates could not hide the stench of a million disappointed, decayed dreams. Like breathing words from the Lenrie Peters poem, they had come home, laden with burdensome degrees and suitcases holding high hopes. Now they wondered whether the singular pull of the Nigerian nation was that it belonged to them.

Sitting in the midst of the noisy men in my living room, I had to smile. How can you not love the Nigerian man? He is equal parts Alive, Potent, Vibrant, Confident, a healthy toast to life yet Excessive, Impulsive, Brash…and a few layers in, Insecure. I love them, like a true Nigerian, in extremes. There is my Chinny now. Why my husband has to stand to make a point when his bear of a voice already carries, I will never know. He is trying, unconvincgly, to explain to a group of tipsy 30-something year olds why everyone needs to improve themselves to usher in a better Nigeria. I can’t help but smile. The man is passionate about everything, but you will forgive me for focusing on anything but the debilitating state of the nation tonight. As a wife though, I understand the need for our men to expound political rhetoric when in reality they can do so little to influence the course of a frustrating nation. I enjoy debates, especially on nights like this; my home, laughter, friends, food. Love. Chinny is still talking, my eyes are wandering, mind wondering, roving around our home. I’m a Libra, I love to be surrounded by a profusion of beautiful albeit potentially useless objects. I love this space I created.

I want our home to be Chinny’s sanctuary away from the madness of the world. Here, I want him to always know that he is safe and loved and important. Three promises the world works tirelessly to rob us of daily. Our house is beautiful, I made sure of that. And stocked with the things he loves, which explains why my den currently holds seven large men….with me their enthusiastic Snow White. Poker night at the Dimuzus. It’s my duty, my joy and pride as his friend and wife, to make him happy. I sound selfless, trust me I’m not. But when that man is happy, I am happy. So you see, in a round-a-bout way, I am selfish. Besides, Chinny’s my guard and guide. A good woman needs her support too.

So you can only imagine how I felt when my Chinny’s mistress arrived last week at our Sanctuary carrying two accusations, a desire to fight…and clearly no sense of her own mortality.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

“Good morning, is Chinny home?”
“No, he’s not. Can I help you?” I smiled at the ethereal creature at my door.

She wasn’t exactly beautiful. She looked very delicate but somehow, not fragile. Waiflike, well-dressed, well-spoken (really well actually!) ah but it was that air of beautiful vulnerability around her, so strong I almost reached out to search for her aura, that made my heartbeat race.

Oh hell.

I know my husband and let me tell you, Chinny is that person that wants to save kittens, help old ladies cross the road, liberate mice from rat traps….you understand?

What have you done babe?!

“Are you his wife? He’s told me about you.”
“Yes, I am. And you are?”
“His girlfriend. Jemila Abu”

And that’s how people die. The end.

I said aloud, fixing a smile on my face and dragging its struggling rays to my eyes.
“Okay, and what do you want in our HOME?”

United front, small reminder; home. Not house.

She ignored me, glancing around instead, her eyes taking in the little garden I lovingly tend daily. I look along and see my Boughanvelia hedges running around hibiscus stems. A sad smile settled on my face as I spotted the location Chinny promised to plant two orange trees to hang a hammock. You know, to rest in our middle age. Oh, and there is the place perfect for our tree house. The one he promises our unborn granddaughter, Emi, will spend her holidays in.

Why Chinny?!

She is talking. “This is CHINNY’s house and so this is MY house. Don’t fight this, what Chinny and I share is something you honestly will neither understand nor have. We are special”

“While I am sure that that is not in contention, for you, this place is MY special. Please see yourself out. Have a good morning.”

Done.

Oh! Apparently not.

“Don’t embarrass yourself, leave the house on your own before he makes a scene and throws you out!”.

Do you know something? Bullshit sounds the same no matter how eloquent the speaker.

I closed my front door on her “Chinny loves ME!!”

The problem with our age, I think, is that no one plays their position anymore. Before, mistresses were lower than children on the food scale for goodness’ sake! They were never seen and certainly never heard. Today the witch is standing right in front of me, at the front door of my marital home no less! Not explaining her existence away, no, no, she is telling me why she should be in my place?! Chinaeto Dimuzu, you see what you have reduced the trust I placed in your hands to?

I can hear her raging loudly outside, but her footsteps are receding.

Then quiet.

I’m quite unsure of what to do now. I imagine Jemila Abu has gone…with my heart in her Hermes purse.

Great.

I can’t believe I’ve become a statistic!

I walk past the mirror in the lobby and stop to stare. Deep set eyes, rose bud lips, pointy nose, what was wrong with me, Chinny?!

I catch myself.

Nope, not going down like that! I am not playing that Kike game with anybody!

Kike is my friend. After Kike found out about Toun’s 6 year relationship with a woman his family had come to regard as a respected second wife, she morphed from gorgeous Black Barbie to tired young man before my eyes. It seemed she actively fought to shed her femininity in grand style with the mindset clearly being some variant of “..he cheated, I can no longer keep his attention so why bother?!”

Lord knows, I can’t be that woman. You take my love, all my trust….and my lipstick collection too?! No bueno signor!

What fascinated me is the fact that Kike told her mother, grandmother and two girlfriends and the consensus was the same; you hurt yourself in expecting complete loyalty. Set lower standards and manage your expectations. The fundamental question apparently being “..does he come home at night?” His presence is they key thing, she was informed.

I have to wonder though, what sort of men are we raising to power our nation when core values of integrity, commitment and faithfulness are eroded, indeed enthusiastically discouraged even by mothers raising these men? Surely it makes sense to expect so little from our government when even in our private lives we insist on managing expectations, no matter how low. Why is no one called to a higher standard?

Is no one else thirsty for more?

In Nigeria, we want to fight the big battles; wage wars against governmental corruption, bureaucracy, inefficiency. But, we forget the big things grow from the little things. A nation that has lost the key values of discipline, respect and honor in smaller things must never expect its individuals to practice those things on a larger podium. As my grandmama always said “A lizard in Sapele can never be an alligator in Lagos”.

“Baby you’re quiet tonight, are you okay….?”

How do you spell heartbreak?

**Author’s Note: That Dior Oui ring is my perfect engagement ring; original & creative. Please tell my husband.