“Mummy, I’m coming back. This man is evil. Yes. They’ve sent him into my life to make me childless. I am not barren,” I sobbed, my voice carrying the weight of despair. I awaited my mother’s maternal advice, knowing well that it wouldn’t provide a solution or change my mind. “He did it intentionally. He’s labelling me as barren.” I laughed scornfully, my bitterness palpable. “A man who’s afraid to check his own fertility?”
Mike had once again refused to go through with it. He had seemed cooperative, initiated makeup sex, and promised to see a doctor, only to backtrack on his word. His office work was his excuse. I had grown tired of his games, and my mind set on a plan for tomorrow: taking the first available flight to Enugu.
“Where is he?” my mother’s voice echoed through the phone.
“Hapu ya, let him be,” I dismissed my mother distastefully. I knew she wanted to speak with him, to mediate. But there was no mediation needed; my only desire was to return to the safety of my father’s house. I couldn’t endure this marriage any longer.
“Couples fight all the time; you can’t run off every time there’s a disagreement.”
“So he’s allowed to leave the house, go to the bar, get drunk, and have me clean him up after every minor spat?” I shouted, my voice strained. A tear escaped my eye, tracing a path down my cheek. I quickly wiped it away with the back of my hand. “I need a break from him, from everything.”
“Calm down. You know you’re always welcome home, but what will people say? You haven’t even spent two years in your husband’s home.”
“It’s been nearly two years. Two years of childlessness. I’m coming home, and that’s final.” I ended the call and switched my phone to airplane mode. I was well aware that she would attempt to call back, to sway me to change my mind. I was exhausted by Mike’s indecision and insecurities. Was it acceptable for me to undergo those checkups and have his support, yet unacceptable for him? Whoever claimed that this was a man’s world must have been kidding. I hadn’t told my mother about his attempt to slap me when I shared my suspicions that he had exchanged something for his wealth. How dare he raise his hand to strike me? He had stormed out of the house, his usual exit strategy.
I entered the kitchen, where the utensils were neatly arranged, wedding gifts from our wedding. The fine china plates that should have been greasy and stained from meals remained untouched. He always had his meals before arriving home from work. The only times we shared a meal were on weekends, primarily Sunday afternoons after church, as he had nowhere else to be until the evening. I slammed my hands against the shelf, shaking it until some items fell and crashed onto the hard marble floor. Who was he eating with? Where did he consume his meals? I grabbed the remaining items on the shelf one by one, dropping them at my feet, and watching them shatter into fragments. I surveyed the chaos I had created and found myself wanting more. I reached for the kitchenware hanging above the countertop, flinging one against the wall. It produced a dull, resounding thud. I continued throwing them against the wall, laughing as I went.
I made my way to the bedroom we shared, fully aware that he would return drunk, as usual. By that time, I would be long gone, far before he realized what had transpired. I looked at the king-sized bed we had shared for over a year, contemplating its shortcomings. What was wrong with this bed? Why couldn’t it yield children? I clenched the sheet on his side of the bed, inhaling his scent. It surrounded me, as though he was there, watching but saying nothing.
“I want babies, Mike. I want what most women have. Michael, is that too difficult for you to comprehend?” My grip on the sheet tightened. I laughed hysterically, pondering why we slept on white sheets with a maroon duvet covering them. I dragged the linens out, gripping a corner of the sheet and attempting to tear it with my bare hands. My sore fingertips protested, aching from the effort. I yearned to be free from the turmoil, the voices that screamed in my head, the dagger-like pain in my chest, and the lump that lodged in my throat. This life I was living refused to be a mere nightmare. Suddenly, I stood up, retrieved the box from atop the shared wardrobe, and began packing any belongings I deemed important. Opening the wardrobe, I hurriedly tossed my items into the empty box. Exhausted from my frenzied actions, I slumped to the floor, surveying the room one last time. It was where we consummated our marriage, where we had made love countless times—on the bathtub, against the wall by the door, on the bed, in the corner where my makeup box sat, and by the window. A hysterical laugh escaped me as I contemplated all those times when his seed hadn’t taken root within me. The sight of his wardrobe filled with designer clothes caught my eye. He had a keen fashion sense and invested heavily in his attire. An evil idea sprouted in my mind. I dashed into the bathroom, turned on the tap, and allowed the bathtub to fill. I returned to the room, neatly retrieving his clothes from the wardrobe, and tossed them all into the water-filled tub. I pressed them down, ensuring they were soaked through. Tears welled at the corners of my eyes, and I wiped them away, determined not to cry. Tomorrow would be better. I would return to Enugu, into my mother’s arms, and just hold on. I could cry my heart out there, but for now, I needed to endure a little longer.
Read Next Part Here: My Pride 5
