Mike returned, reeking of alcohol and stumbling. His foul breath was repulsive, evoking the urge to vomit. He emitted the stench of vomit itself, and I pondered the extent to which our argument had affected him. Supporting him, I guided him to the guest bedroom downstairs. He clung to me, pulling me close as we tumbled onto the bed. I struggled free from his grasp, attempting to unbutton his shirt. “Don’t leave me,” he implored, his breath assaulting me, and I retched, vomiting over him. He groaned in disgust. After successfully unbuttoning his shirt, I tried to slide it off his shoulders, but his size overwhelmed my petite frame. In frustration, I tore the shirt off him and tossed it into the bathtub. Armed with a damp towel, I wiped away the lingering vomit from his body. I unbuckled his belt and removed his trousers, discarding them into the tub. Just as I was about to leave, his husky voice called out, “Please stay.” I felt a pang of sympathy for him and the unfortunate situation we were in, so I agreed to remain. However, I couldn’t tolerate his repugnant breath any longer. Shoving a handful of mints into his mouth, I instructed him to chew them. He spat them out after a single taste.
“I won’t stay here with you reeking like this,” I threatened, but he ignored my words and drifted into sleep. I gently tapped him to confirm his slumber, then slipped away to our shared bedroom upstairs.
That night was the loneliest I’d experienced in our marriage. Even during his business trips, I’d been alone at home, but never had he been physically present in the house, yet so emotionally distant. Thoughts of Chinedu surged through me like the first rain after a long drought, the indifference I felt when reminiscing about our past. Chinedu had been practically family; everyone knew our connection. The shock on everyone’s faces when I arrived with Michael and we swiftly began planning our wedding was palpable. Mom persisted in questioning my decision, wondering if Chinedu had wronged me, and how I managed to forgive him. How could I explain that I had grown weary of Chinedu and Michael had swept me off my feet? How could I convey the depth of my connection with Michael and the love I had for his playful nature? It wasn’t something I could say without inviting concerned glances.
Soon, I feared I’d become like Madam Sophie back in Enugu, gifting children snacks on the first and last days of the month as they gathered for Block Rosary. We all adored her and prayed for her to conceive. Miraculously, Sister Chiamaka finally did, and we credited the Blessed Virgin Mary for interceding. The idea of resorting to such a practice, pleading for prayers to conceive, filled me with dread, especially when so many women faced no struggles in conceiving.
I awoke with a slight headache, the night having been short due to my incessant thoughts. Rising from the bed, I headed to the sink to wash my face. As I leaned over the sink, I felt strong arms encircle me, and I looked up to find Mike. He kissed me passionately, whispering an apology. He buried his head in the crook of my neck.
“What time is it?” I asked, surprised that he was awake so early. He smelled of lemon, the scent of our bath soap, a vast improvement from last night.
“It’s 7:30 in the morning.”
“Why is it still dark?”
“The curtains are drawn, and it’s raining,” I mumbled something under my breath, attempting to extricate myself from his embrace, but he was stronger than I was.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“About what?” Feigning ignorance was my speciality.
“About how I reacted yesterday. I promise it won’t happen again.”
I was pleased that he had the sense to apologize, but I wasn’t ready to forgive him so easily. I wanted him to plead, to wait, to appease me and fulfil my every wish in exchange for my forgiveness. A bit of penance wouldn’t hurt him. Deciding not to respond, I conveyed that I was still annoyed. He exhaled warm breath against my neck and gently kissed me. His breath sent tingles down my spine, causing the hairs on my nape to stand. I began to protest, but his lips crashed onto mine with such urgency that it was difficult not to respond. His hands explored me, and soon, we were both breathless. One of the things I admired about him was his skill in quick, passionate encounters. However, I detested how he believed every argument could be resolved with a hurried sexual encounter.
He pulled me close to his chest. “I’m going for a checkup,” he whispered. His voice was barely audible over the sound of raindrops on the windowpane. I shifted, raising myself onto my elbows to peer into his eyes and confirm that I had heard him correctly.
“Just to clarify, I’m not impotent.”
My determination to stay mad wavered, and I showered his cheek with kisses, expressing my gratitude between each peck. His chuckles rumbled as he tickled me.
Filled with happiness, I embarked on my day, purchasing his favourite meal, egusi and akpu. Our visit to Dr. Uwalaka’s hospital was scheduled for Friday, and I had already arranged an appointment with the receptionist. I felt truly blessed to have found a perfect partner in Mike. Our relationship was in stark contrast to the tangled circle I had with Chinedu, a directionless path. With Mike, it was a new kind of companionship, intertwined through the bonds of life partnership.
Read Part 4 Here: MY Pride 4
