03/12/2025
Whenever I unbutton my shirt, my wife rushes to cover my chest as if she’s hiding something I can’t see, and sincerely, I don’t know whether to laugh about it or start suspecting that my own marriage has entered one strange chapter I didn’t apply for. I had just come back from work that evening, tired, dusty, and already loosening my buttons as I walked into the parlour. Uzoamaka—my wife, soft-spoken but stubborn when she wants to be—looked up from the couch the way someone looks up when NEPA just restored light, sharp and alert. Before I could get to the second button, she grabbed her scarf and rushed to me, pressing it across my chest like she was hiding contraband. “Baby, wait… you will catch cold,” she said, but her hand was shaking against my skin, and her eyes refused to meet mine like something on my body was scaring her. Somadina—my younger brother, twenty-four, loud, and always seeing what he’s not supposed to see—was sitting in the parlour eating bread and akara, and the boy just paused mid-chew, looking from me to Uzo like he had caught two adults doing something inappropriate in daylight. I tried to laugh it off, telling her there was no cold anywhere in Abuja that evening, but she insisted again, this time touching my chest too quickly like she didn’t want me to notice something there. I held her hand gently, confused, and she smiled that kind of smile people use when they’re begging you not to ask questions. Before I could say anything, Mama Ndidi from next door knocked. She’s the neighbour that knows everything happening on the entire street even before the owners know. She leaned in and said she wanted to borrow small garri, then stopped and squinted at Uzo. “Uzo, why your face dey like who see something for coffin?” she asked, loud enough for the whole compound to hear. Uzo forced a laugh, too tight, too dry. Chai. Even Somadina stopped eating completely. The moment we shut the door behind Mama Ndidi, the whole house became too quiet. To be continu.
