₦airaland Forum

nice story. all the way. am just loving it.

Now, i know this is another good fiction story. She started very well, but its beginning to be watered down. Nigerian women are not known to be this patience. Nigerian woman in the same house with her rival? who is "banging" her rival in the next room. Na lie, no be Nigerian woman that i know. Meanwhile, lets keep enjoying the make belief,

The story continues,

Heartbreak

Something is bothering Tunde. He’s not saying what it is. But, a girl can tell. It’s the way his gaze drifts into the distance when he should be ecstatic. It’s the slow, deliberate way he chews his food. It’s in the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not looking.

“Is everything okay?” I asked on our second night in Atlantic City.

“Yes, why?” he replied.

“I don’t know. I just feel something is on your mind,” I said.

“You worry too much, my darling,” he re-assured me. “Come on, get dressed, there’s a nice club I want to take you to.

“We can sleep in tonight. I have jetlag, “I protested.

“If we stay in, you know we won’t sleep,” he replied with a knowing wink.

“Well, I’m not getting any younger. My goal is to have our first child within a year,” I confessed.

“You’re not God. You can’t force these things,” he said.

“Heaven helps those who help themselves. It’s in the Bible,” I responded.

“We have plenty of time. I want to show you some of my latest moves,” he pleaded.

I gave in reluctantly. I don’t want this man wasting his energy on the dance floor when we can be using that energy to make babies. But, a girl needs to keep her man happy.

Tunde has indeed learnt a lot of dance moves. Back in Lagos, he was like a programmed robot on the dance floor. But, now on the dance floor, he’s moving like a leaf in the wind. He could move in so many ways you’ll think he was a ballerina in a previous life. We were a hit on the dance floor, well, Tunde was. Half the night, I was stealing glances at the many girls who wished he was dancing with them.

I woke up very early this morning. It was time to return to Baltimore, Tunde’s base.

I had dreamt of Baltimore for four years. Tunde has told me a lot about it. I could picture people eating seafood at restaurants. I could picture Tunde at work in his small newspaper office. I could picture the town home he bought a little over a year ago in anticipation of my coming over.

I was eager to start my new life.

Tunde slept longer than usual. Sometimes, I felt he was looking at me but when I turned around, his eyes were firmly closed. Maybe I was too eager to leave this crazy city with the gamblers, drunks and casinos, and go home with my husband.

Finally, he woke up and looked at me with such sad eyes I thought someone had died.

“What’s wrong, darling?” I asked.

“There is something I have to tell you,” he started mournfully.

Whatever it was, I knew it was bad. But, this is why we’re partners, I told myself. We can face anything together.

“What is it?” I asked.

“When I told you I had my papers, I wasn’t telling the truth,” he continued.

“You’re still illegal?” I asked.

“No, I’m legal now,” he replied.

“Well, it’s all a matter of details. You don’t have to tell me anything if it makes you feel bad,” I assured him.

“It’s the way I got it,” he said.

“Tunde, don’t worry. You got it. I’m here. We have each other. That’s what matters to me,” I told him.

“I had to marry a girl to get my papers,” he muttered sadly.

I burst into laughter. I have heard about this and know people pay women to pretend they are their wives so they can get a green card. I was laughing out of relief. I was relieved that my Tunde was still the same. He never lies to me.

“It’s okay, darling – I hear everyone does it,” I reassured him.

“You’re sure?” he answered with a frown.

“Oh, yeah – you did what you had to do,” I told him.

“Oh, thank God. I was worried,” he exhaled.

I pushed him on the bed and started kissing him.

“You are all that I care about,” I told him.

“You don’t know how relieved I am. We’re gonna have to make some adjustment for the next year or so?” he said.

“You’re still paying her?” I asked.

“Technically,” he replied.

That was a red flag. When Tunde dribbles himself into a tight corner, he always throws out the word, “technically”.

“How technical?” I asked.

“Well, um, we kind of live together,” he muttered.

“What?” I screamed.

“I had to do it for real or she won’t buy it. But, don’t worry, I have about ten months left before my permanent green card comes,” he said, rushing the words, maybe in the hope that I wouldn’t hear every thing. But, my ears have never been more alert.

“You are married!” I yelled.

He had no answer. He couldn’t say a word.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I screamed.

“I tried,” he replied.

“Holy Mary mother of God!” I exclaimed.

“Listen, honey – just bear with me. You’re the most important person to me,” he pleaded.

He kept going on and on. He pleaded, cried and pleaded some more. I think this is what they call a shock because my mind went blank. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t cry.

In my haze, I heard him say he already told “Sandra”, that was the name of his wife, that his younger sister was coming from Nigeria and was going to stay with them until she sorts herself out.

I left Nigeria to be with the man of my dreams. In America, I was his sister.

Sandra is a plump, colorless, pasty white woman with a voice that sounds like metal grinding on metal. She is twenty years older than Tunde. She is the kind of woman I knew Tunde would not give a second look. Tunde is her third husband and she looks at him like you would look at a favorite puppy.

I guess the green card makes a man do strange things.

What Sandra lacked in looks and figure, she more than made up for with personality. She was kind, caring and had everything you look for in a big aunty. But, she was my husband’s wife. That made her the devil.

“Hey, Ralph, you brought my new sister home!” she screeched as she ran over to the car to welcome us.

It took me a few moments to realize he was talking about Tunde. I didn’t know he had become Ralph. His parents didn’t name him Ralph. He’s a Moslem. His first name is Ramoni.

I nodded subconsciously at Sandra. I couldn’t look at her. I feared I would jump at her and tear her into pieces. So, I looked at the floor. She thought it was the way Nigerians showed respect.

“You see the resemblance, sweetheart?” Tunde asked as he kissed Sandra.

“Oh, yes – honey. Almost spitting image,” Sandra declared.

I felt like throwing up. I felt like running away. I felt like screaming. But, all I did was shake my head and force a grin.

“I’m just trying to make my baby happy, sweetheart. You don’t look like him. You’re a very beautiful woman,” she whispered as she hugged me.

I was limp in her arms. I guess my body was cold too because she pulled away and gave me a really strange look.

“Are you okay, darling?” she asked.

“She has a cold. It’s never this cold in my country,” Tunde offered before I could say anything.

“Oh, poor baby. We need to wrap you up and get you some tea and soup,” Sandra said as she hustled me into the house.

A chill ran up my spine as I sat in the cramped living room. I couldn’t look up because the sight of their wedding picture was giving me a massive headache. Her hand touching me made me squirm. Sandra thought I was shivering with cold.

“Poor you. We’re having an unusually early cold draft this year,” she said as she handed me a cup of tea.

“Thank you,” I muttered as I sipped the tea. It tasted like poison. I loved it. I wanted to die.

Tunde pranced around like a kid in a toy store. He was making an African soup in the kitchen and acting like all was well.

Half an hour after we got into the house, Tunde brought me a tray with a bowl of egusi and pounded yam on it.

“Your favorite food, huh?” he beamed.

I wish I’d taken an acting lesson in Lagos. A lot of people were. Everyone wanted to be part of Nollywood. Except poor, stupid me. Now, I regretted it. If I had been part of a movie in Lagos, this would be a piece of cake.

Sandra was watching me keenly. I felt like I was in front of a shrink. I hate shrinks. I hate to be analyzed. In my country, if your health required the attention of a shrink, you were unofficially categorized as “crazy” and cast off. I was determined not to allow Sandra analyze me.

I swiped a mound of pounded yam, swished it around the bowl of egusi and slotted it in my mouth. It felt like a thorn as it slipped into my stomach. I was beyond caring. I stuffed myself. Tunde was happy. Sandra was amazed a smallish woman like me could eat that much. She didn’t know I was trying to gorge myself to death.

Then, I gagged and threw up. All over the white rug.

I expected Sandra to blow a lung. But, all she said was, “poor baby, we have to get you to bed”.

The best lie Tunde told on my behalf was my cold. Sandra took me into the guest bedroom and tucked me under layers of blanket.

“Get some rest. When you wake up, you can have some soup. I never liked any of that white flour thing Ralph eats anyway,” Sandra said as she left the room.

Later I found out that Tunde had told Sandra that he was working back-to-back double shifts at his nursing job then driving to New York to pick me up. Then, he called from New York that I missed my flight so he was staying an extra day in New York. That was how he finagled the Atlantic City trip.

I didn’t even know Tunde was a nurse now. When he called me in Lagos, he told me he worked in a local newspaper. He told me he has a Masters degree in journalism from Columbia. He told me he missed me and was scared he won’t know what to do with me when we meet again because he hasn’t been with a woman in four years.

He fed me lies. And, I ate it all up. I hate the word love right now. Love sucks.

I couldn’t sleep that night. How could I? My husband was making love to his wife in the next room. Americans don’t build walls with bricks. They use wood. Sandra wasn’t a quiet woman in the sack. She ran a play-by-play account of their lovemaking.

I also couldn’t help but realize that today was the first day of October, the day the old politician was going to marry me. I could be laying beside him right now and planning a move to New York as his American-based wife. I could have moved to New York, got myself a lover or two on the side and when he comes to town every other month, I’d pretend he was the center of my universe.

I had little to lose. Life expectancy in Nigeria was below fifty. The man was in his sixties. He was already on overtime. With a little luck, he’ll be dead in a couple of years.

But, I ran away from it. I ran to doom instead.

I drifted to sleep hoping I would die before dawn.

When is the next posting please?

Nice write up, captivating and interesting. Even if its a fiction, its still very interesting. i almost bet the writer is a literary personnel,   i will have to contact her for my next movie. No doubt.