14 May There Goes My Baby

 

Chapter One

 

My eyes open just as the air conditioner goes off. Power has gone for what has to be the fifth time that night alone. I stare into the nothingness of the darkness, not even having the willpower to turn on the battery-operated fan beside our bed. It doesn’t take long for the coolness in the room to dissipate, leading to the clamminess I have now grown accustomed to. I feel small droplets of sweat form on my chest and swat angrily when I hear the awful buzz of a mosquito.

This place is a hellhole.

I look at the sleeping form next to me, and have to fight off feelings of resentment as I wonder how Ebuka, my husband, can sleep through this. It is something I find myself doing a lot of; fighting off feelings of resentment, and not just because of the bad electrical situation we often find ourselves in.

“They need to do something about this generator!” He groans in the darkness. “This is supposed to be a serviced apartment, for crying out loud.”

I say nothing and turn to my side, my back now to him, feeling much better that his own sleep has been interrupted too. I reach for my phone and scroll mindlessly through Instagram, just as his heavy breathing lets me know he has fallen back asleep.

I’m still on my phone when it vibrates with an incoming message. Looking at the time, I frown as I realise it is an inspirational message from Ebuka’s mother’s, one which she sends, without fail, at 7am sharp every single day.

My dear daughter, how are you and your husband doing? Please meditate on this Word for today. I love you.

Joshua 1:9  Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go.”

I hiss and delete it, as I always do, not bothering with a reply, also as I always do. The passive aggressiveness of it all isn’t lost on me. I know she is masquerading her desire for a grandchild beneath these messages dripping with enough saccharine to send one into a diabetic coma.

With dawn fully broken, I swing off the bed, happy to have something to distract me from the heat. I’m midway through making the French Toast and sausages for Ebuka’s packed breakfast, and heating leftover jollof rice for his lunch, when he walks into the kitchen already dressed. He must have gotten out of bed right after I did.

“Ah, that smells fantastic, as always!” He kisses me on the cheek and I have to smile in spite of myself. For as long as I’ve known him, he’s always been this way; difficult to annoy and easy to please.

“I’m going to make a formal complaint to the Building Management,” he says, taking a bite from one of the leftover pieces of toast I didn’t pack. “One of the reasons I chose this place, apart from its proximity to the office, was the assurance we wouldn’t have to worry about electricity. But it’s been on and off like this for, what, two weeks?”

I turn to him, my eyes deadpan. “Three.”

“That’s three weeks too many! I’m going to give that Ayodeji guy a piece of my mind. If he can’t sort this out, they’re going to have to work out some sort of refund. This isn’t what we signed up for.”

I hand him his lunch bag, not saying anything in response. I have heard this rant before.

“Thank God we have Tobi’s birthday dinner to distract ourselves with tonight,” he says. I can feel his eyes keenly on me. “Right?”

I cluck my tongue. “Do we really have to go?”

“Of course we have to go. Tobi is my best friend, and it’s his birthday. Besides, don’t you want to get out of here for once?”

“Can’t you go alone?”

“Babes, make an effort nau!” Ebuka moans. “You’re not even trying. Frances says she and the other girls have invited you out several times, but you keep declining.”

Frances is Tobi’s wife.

“I have nothing in common with them!” I explode, no longer able to contain my own frustration. “With all their Nigerian slangs and gossip about local celebrities I know nothing about, I feel so out of place anytime I’m with them.” My voice breaks with my own rising emotion. “I don’t like it here, Ebuka. I miss home.”

“Baby, this is home now,” he says, wrapping his arms around me. “Just give it time.” He kisses my forehead. “I’m going to make plans for an inverter this weekend. I can no longer allow my baby girl suffer in this heat.”

As if in response, electricity is restored, eliciting shouts of joy from Ebuka and, I’m ashamed to say, myself.

“Thank God! At least, you can cool the flat for a bit, and maybe even watch some TV.”

I shrug, the reminder of how short-lived the restoration of electricity will be, dampening my mood.

“See me to the car, baby,” Ebuka says, kissing me on the bridge of my nose. “At least, with power back, the elevator will work.”

I look at him, wanting to vehemently refuse following him nine floors down, only to venture back up alone, but one look at his imploring eyes and I yield, like I always do.

“Mom says you never reply any of her messages,” he says, as the elevator door shuts. “She’s just trying to draw you close, Wendy.”

I purse my lips, not having the patience to have this conversation yet again. We both know that ‘drawing me close’ is the last thing his mother is trying to do.

Four floors down, the elevator door opens and several workmen laden with cake boxes file in. Standing out on the foyer, ushering them in, is a tall man with the muscles on his bare chest rippling. Our eyes meet and he smiles, giving me Blair Underwood vibes.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologises profusely, as the men take up every spare inch of the small elevator box. “Lots of orders this morning.”

“It’s okay,” I say, smiling in response.

The man waves as the elevator door closes and, from the flare of Ebuka’s nostrils, he is anything but impressed. We ride in silence to the ground floor and as we make our way to his car, he hisses.

“I really need to give the Building Managers a piece of my mind, and not just for the epileptic electricity. How can they allow a commercial baker operate from here?”

That is news to me, but I know discussing it will only aggravate him further.

“Have a great day at work,” I say handing him his lunch bag and leaning forward to kiss him.

“Why don’t you go for a run? It’s still early,” he says, his eyes holding mine. “You used to run every morning back in LA.”

“Well, this isn’t LA, is it?” I snap, stating the obvious. “The lunatic drivers, stray dogs, and the very legitimate fear of being kidnapped are enough reason not to, don’t you think?”

He chuckles and kisses me on the forehead. “You always have a reason for everything. I guess that’s why I love you so much, Wendy Awujo.”

I smile in spite of myself. “Ditto, Ebuka Awujo.”

I wave him off as he drives out of the compound, feeling equal parts saddened over our brief separation and relieved to finally be alone.

 

Chapter Two

 

After yet another unsuccessful sojourn to the mall nearby, I return empty handed. I am already sweating profusely, despite just stepping out of an air conditioned taxi, making me further regret the wasted journey. I will have to make do with something from my closet for tonight’s dinner party.

Getting to the lift, I moan in agony when I see power is again out, meaning I will have to climb all nine flights of stairs to our apartment. A knot rises in my throat, the stairway looking just as imposing as Mount Everest. This isn’t what I signed up for.

A gust of cold air hits me in the face as I approach fifth floor, and I slow down, enjoying the respite from the intense heat.

“I know, right. The heat is ridiculous!”

The voice startles me. I look in its direction and see the Blair Underwood guy.

“I didn’t get to introduce myself earlier. I’m Leo,” he says, smiling and flashing perfect, pearly white teeth. “I moved in a few weeks ago.”

“Wendy,” I answer tentatively. I realise the cool breeze is coming from the door behind him, very likely his apartment. I hear the loud noises of chatter and machinery, and am reminded of Ebuka’s reservations. “Does the Estate Management know you’re operating a commercial bakery out of your apartment?”

He laughs, a throaty chortle, revealing a deep dimple on his right cheek. “It’s only temporary. My bakery got burnt before Christmas. I’d already made plans to move here before the fire, so I’m just making do until my new bakery is ready.”

“Oh, I’m sorry about that,” I say, immediately sympathetic. If there is one thing I can now empathise with, it is the loss of one’s livelihood.

“Do you want to come in? I’ve got a heavy-duty inverter, as it’s pretty normal for serviced apartments like this to have epileptic power from time to time. Why don’t you come in, cool down a little and maybe have a slice of cake or two?”

My mouth goes dry and not just because I am tempted by the offer. Standing close, I am now all too aware of his honey coloured eyes and ridiculous body. The fitted vest he wears shows every curvature of his bulky chest, toned arms and washboard-flat abs. How can someone who makes cakes, and possibly other forms of confectionery, have a body like this?

“Erm, thanks, but I have to run,” I manage to answer. “Loads to do.”

He smiles, but there is unmistakable disappointment in his face. “Maybe some other time?”

I nod and smile back. “Sure.”

Turning back to the stairs, the further I get from his apartment and its air conditioning, the more despondent I feel about returning to the heat in mine. But as I set my bags on our living room sofa, I can’t tell if the heat I feel is from the power failure…or my attraction to the sexy stranger downstairs.

 

Chapter Three

 

Later that evening, we are at Tobi’s house for his birthday dinner. The meal is over, and the guys are watching football in the living room, while the wives remain at the dinning table, joking and laughing. Feeling as out of place as ever, I am scrolling through my phone when I see a picture of a couple Ebuka and I were friendly with back in LA, Kadeem and Janelle, standing in front of a house they have just bought, a mansion in Calabasas. I quickly scroll past it, chewing on my bottom lip to squelch the overwhelming envy I feel, only to see a post from a friend slash competitor, Talisa, arm-in-arm with Kourtney Kardashian, having styled her for an event.

At this point, a tear makes its way out of my eye. Here I am, battling third-world conditions, when life back home is passing my by.

“Are you okay?” Frances asks, smiling at me. “You’ve been awfully quiet.”

I shrug, not taking my eyes off my phone, lest I burst into tears. “I’m fine.”

“I’m still waiting for you to accept my follow request on Instagram,” she teases, nudging me on the shoulder with hers.

I just offer a stiff smile in response, knowing hell would freeze over before I allow these strangers into my personal space. Luckily, laughter from the table distracts her, and she is soon laughing along with whatever crass joke has been cracked.

“Mehn, wahala for who no get sugar daddy to take them to Paris o!” a lady called Morin guffaws.

Frances turns to me. “She means, tough luck for who doesn’t have a…”

“I know what the expression means!” I snap, in no mood to be patronised, lest of all now.

Frances withdraws and I immediately feel regretful. Whilst I have no interest in befriending them, it is no excuse to be rude.

“So, Wendy,” a lady called Dinma says, trying to defuse the situation. “You always look so good. Ebuka says you were a stylist back in LA. Did you ever style any celebrities?”

This question, coming on the heels of seeing what my competitors are doing back home, only serves to irritate me. “A few,” is my vague answer.

The tone in my voice is enough to convey to them that I am not interested in conversation, so they return to their gossip about some Nigerian celebrity who just had a botched Brazilian But Lift procedure.

When the match is over, the group wants to leave for the club to continue the birthday celebration, but I know I have already reached the end of my rope with them.

“I’m so sorry, but I’m not feeling too well,” I hear myself lie, ignoring Ebuka’s raised brow. “You guys have fun. Ebuka can join you after he takes me home.”

“Oh no! I hope it isn’t something you ate. You looked fine when you guys got here,” Frances says, sounding genuinely concerned.

“I think I’m coming down with something,” I answer. “But I’ll be fine. All I need is rest.”

“Maybe the thing don enter!” Buchi, Morin’s husband jokes.

As the rest of them laugh, I grit my teeth. Ebuka isn’t laughing with them, and I realise he’s upset, and not just about the insensitive joke.

“I don’t know why you insist on being this unfriendly. You weren’t like this in LA,” he rants on the drive home. “I saw you on your phone the entire time. You’re on the phone all the fucking time, you couldn’t even put it down for one evening?”

“Don’t you shout at me! You don’t get to shout at me!” I yell back. “I’ve told you a million times that I have nothing in common with them, not to mention that your ‘girlfriend’, Dinma, keeps asking me stupid questions.”

His jaw clenches. “I regret telling you Dinma and I dated back in school.”

“And I regret moving back with you to Nigeria! I’m fed up of being cooped up in a house with no electricity, wasting my life away while everyone back home is doing so well. Talisa is now styling a gaddem Kardashian, but look at me, playing housewife in this shit hole!” I shake my head and wipe the tears that are now flowing freely down my face. “It took me years to build my client base, years to build a name for myself. Something I never will be able to do here. I don’t understand the people, I don’t understand the fashion…”

My voice trails off and I wipe off more tears. “I hate it here.”

He looks at me and I can tell he is struggling with his own words, struggling between feeling sympathetic and hurt. As he returns his gaze to the road, I can see that the hurt has overshadowed the sympathy.

As we pull up in front of the apartment, I look at him. “Are you going back?”

He nods and this only serves to upset me further. I get out of the car and slam the door so hard, the sound reverberates across the compound. But if the way the car screeches off is anything to go by, he is just as upset as I am, if not even more so.

Back in the apartment, thankfully there is electricity. It has also started raining, so I can at least be grateful it won’t be a hot night. I sit to watch TV, but I am frustrated when the weather weakens its signals. Opting for Netflix, I am further exasperated to realise even the Internet isn’t steady. It’s going to be one long night.

Deciding I can still get another wear out my Dolce & Gabanna jumpsuit, as I make to put it away, I notice damp mould in the closet. Letting out a shriek, I grab every single item of clothing I have hanging there and carry them to the guest bedroom. My clothes are the only things I have to be proud of, and I can’t afford for anything to happen to them. As I hang them there, I am hit by the unmistakable aroma…of cake.

I close my eyes, savouring the unmistakable notes of cinnamon and vanilla. Walking out of the room, the smell is stronger as I approach the kitchen, and before I know it, I am following the aroma all the way downstairs, via the utility staircase. I am soon four floors down, and standing before what I now know is Leo’s kitchen door. I shake my head, as if snapping out of a trance, wondering how I could have ventured out of my house because of the smell of cake. But before I can turn around to leave, the door opens.

“I thought that was you,” he beams. “I saw you from the window. Come right in.”

I peer into the space behind him, tempted not only by the allure of the decadent treats, but also by his company. Walking into the kitchen, I marvel at the state-of-the art mixers, sheeters and ovens in varying sizes. This is no small-scale operation.

“Do you normally bake this late into the night?” I ask, sitting on a stool.

“I need them to cool before I decorate in the morning. With Valentine’s Day just a week away, it’s been a very busy period.”

“And you’re in high demand, it appears.”

His smile is his only acknowledgment of my compliment. “You’re not from around here.” It is more of a statement than a question.

“Well, as a matter of fact, I am,” I answer. “Yes, I was born in the States, but to first-generation Nigerians. Wendy is actually short for Chinwendu. I was raised there, so I guess you’re correct in that regard. This is actually my second time back here, ever.”

“Let me guess. You grew up in Chicago? Indiana? Ohio? I can recognise a Midwestern accent.”

This elicits a smile from me. “Evanston, Illinois. My dad is a Professor at Northwestern, but Ebuka and I actually spent the last few years in Los Angeles, where I worked as a stylist.”

“That husband of yours is definitely an Igbo boy,” he scoffs. “Where and how did you two meet?”

“Business school,” I answer, a nostalgic smile on my face. “I’ll bet you’re surprised I went to business school but ended up a stylist.”

He shakes his head. “Not at all. I understand all about having passion for something, and it doesn’t surprise me at all.”

He takes a seat on a stool next to mine. “Why did you move back to Nigeria?”

My smile wanes. “Ebuka got the job of his dreams with an investment bank here in Lagos.”

“And you’re clearly not happy about the move.” Again, it is more of a statement than a question.

I flush under his intense gaze and decide to steer the conversation elsewhere. “What are you baking?”

“Wait right here,” he says, rising to his feet and walking across the kitchen to where one of several cakes is cooling. I gasp as he cuts into one of them. “Aren’t those for paying customers?”

“I always bake a few extra,” he answers, walking back to me with a slice on a plate. “This is my signature chocolate peanut butter flavour. Let me know what you think.”

I take a mouthful and shut my eyes in ecstasy, the rich buttery chocolate flavours dancing in my mouth. As he watches for my reaction, he is standing so close to me that I can smell him, smell his scent of confection…and raw masculinity. His gaze is intense and find myself unable to breathe. Everything about him is taking my breath away.

“This is really good,” I say, looking away. “How did you learn how to bake? And what made you choose to do it for a living?”

“I actually didn’t start off baking,” he answers with a shrug. “I was actually a Paediatric Surgeon in my past life. I practised out of Mount Sinai, New York.”

I stare at him, gobsmacked. “So how on earth did you get from there to…to here?”

“This might sound cliché but I woke up one day and was over it. I just couldn’t do it anymore.” When I continue to look at him like he’s gone crazy, he shrugs. “Okay, it was actually more of a breakdown. I found myself overwhelmed and spiralling, until I suffered a complete mental and physical collapse. I was hospitalised for a few months, and my family and I agreed it would be best for me to step away from it.”

“Wow. That must have been awful,” I say, sympathetic.

He shrugs and smiles. “Well, all’s well that ends well. During my recovery, I discovered baking and found it incredibly therapeutic. It turned out I had quite the knack for it, so I decided to make a business out of it.”

“And you decided Nigeria was the best place to do that?”

“I decided a change of scene, a new location would be the best place to do that, yeah.”

Our eyes hold and I find myself unable to look away.

“Where is your husband?” he asks.

“Out with his friends.”

He shakes his head and chuckles humourlessly. “How can a man choose to leave you alone on a Friday night? If I had a woman like you, I would never let you out of my sight. Ever.”

I flush and quickly stand up. “Wow, look at the time. It’s almost midnight. Thanks for the company and the delicious cake.”

“Let me cut you a slice of another one, before you go,” he says, walking to another cake on the table. “This is strawberry shortcake,” he says, cutting a large slice from that, as well as another from the chocolate peanut butter. “Let me know which you prefer.”

“Sure. Thank you,” I barely say, before I scamper out of the flat, wrapped cakes in hand, eager to get the hell out of there before I completely lose my mind.

 

Chapter Four

 

It’s Monday afternoon and I’m sitting in the reception of Ebuka’s office, waiting for him. After a tense weekend, before leaving for work this morning, he asked if we could have lunch today. Knowing it was his way of making up for our argument, I agreed, and at exactly 12:30, he sent a taxi to pick me up.

I scroll through my phone as I wait for him to finish his meeting, and I frown when I see the message his mother sent me that morning.

My darling daughter, how are you today? I hope settling in well. Please be encouraged by today’s Word.

Isaiah 35:4  Say to those with fearful hearts, “Be strong, do not fear; your God will come, He will come with vengeance; with divine retribution He will come to save you.”

I hiss and hit the delete button, wondering how Ebuka can’t see how low-key antagonistic these messages are. Vengeance and divine retribution indeed!

I look at my watch, hoping Ebuka’s meeting will soon end. From the corner of my eye, I notice everyone else in the room, male and female, admiring me and, in a red charmeuse Valentino blouse, fitted black Stella McCartney pants and black and white polka dot Gianvito Rossi pumps, I know I look the right amount of sexy and trendy appropriate for a visit to his office. I don’t get to dress up often and relish it when I do. For someone who used to dress people for a living, it is killing me to have sit and home, day in and day out, doing nothing close to that.

“Look at my fine wife!” Ebuka’s voice bellows, as he walks into the reception, beaming from ear to ear, clearly liking what he sees. “You look gorgeous.”

I smile, happy that, after so many years together, he is still always excited to see me.

“Loretta, have you met my beautiful wife?” he asks the receptionist, taking me by the hand.

Loretta, whom I’ve met at least four times, smiles at us, clearly endeared by his excitement. And as he introduces me to his other colleagues, many of whom I have already met, I smile and go with the flow, enjoying the adulation. With all that is going on in my life, it is a much-needed boost to my confidence.

Thirty minutes later, we are seated in a nice Thai restaurant a few streets away. The food is good, and as we make small talk, it is just like old times.

“Baby,” he says, putting his hand over mine, after we’ve had our dessert of mango sticky rice. “I’ve taken it for granted how hard it must be for you here, and I’m truly sorry. I lived here for over twenty-five years of my life, so things like the poor power supply are only a mild inconvenience for me. But I now understand how jarring it must be for you. It’s also been selfish of me to expect you to fit right in with my old friends, forgetting how much you must be missing yours. Forgive me, my love. Let’s start over, okay? I promise you that I’m going to do everything I can to make sure you’re happy and comfortable.”

I squeeze his hand and smile, heart warmed. Yes, it’s been a difficult month, but I now have the reassurance that things will be better.

“You are the love of my life, Wendy,” he continues, still holding my hand.  “All the best times in my life have been with you, and I can’t wait for us to create even more memories here. As soon as I get back from Abuja next week, your every wish will be my command.”

I frown. “Abuja?”

“Yeah, I told you nau. The Private Placement event for our major client is next week Friday.”

“You didn’t tell me it’s in Abuja.” I frown. “Isn’t Friday Valentine’s Day?”

“Yes, it is. But we can always celebrate it another day…”

“That’s bullshit, Ebuka!” I snap, my voice loud enough to attract curios looks from other patrons. “You want to leave me alone on our first Valentine’s Day here? You know how special a day it is to us!”

And special it indeed is, with it being the day we made it official as a couple in 2012, the day we first said I love you in 2013, and the day he proposed in 2016.

“Baby, please understand. I’m too new here to start making excuses…”

I pull my hand out of his. So much for things being different.

“I’d like to leave now,” I say, my face now set as stone.

His shoulders fall and I can tell he’s disappointed. I know he’d hoped we’d spend more time there in the restaurant, talking and reminiscing. But I am in no mood to reminisce about the past, not now that my life is turning into a shit show.

“I’ll take you back,” he says, summoning the waiter for a cheque. He’d already mentioned he and his colleagues would be working late nights in the days leading up to the Private Placement, so I already knew he would be returning to work after dropping me at home. But that doesn’t make me feel any better.

It takes us almost an hour heading from one end of Victoria Island to where our apartment is on the other, and I am cursing all the way through, despising anew this awful town I have the misfortune to now call home.

“Baby, take it easy,” Ebuka says after hearing me curse under my breath for the umpteenth time. “Traffic isn’t unique to Lagos. Don’t forget that LA has one of the worst congestion corridors in the whole United States.”

“But it’s nothing like this!” I exclaim, as he swerves out of the way of a commercial bus driving against traffic. “This is madness!”

We drive in silence until we finally pull into our apartment complex. After parking in our designated slot, he turns to me. “I’m going to make it up to you, baby. I promise. I’ll do everything I can to return that day.”

I soften upon hearing this and seeing the earnestness in his eyes. We walk hand-in-hand into the building, and as we enter the lift a familiar voice bellows from behind us.

“Hold it, please!”

Leo emerges, and from the active wear he has on, clearly from the gym. He smiles as he walks into the lift, and I have to make a concerted effort not to feast my eyes on his buff body, the lycra of his gym wear leaving very little to the imagination. “Hi Wendy. My, you look gorgeous! Red is your colour.”

I smile. “Thank you.” Then turning to Ebuka. “This is my husband, Ebuka.”

Ebuka barely grunts in response and Leo’s smile is now more amused than charmed. We ride in silence until we get to the fifth floor.

“It was great seeing you again, Wendy,” Leo says, as he steps out. “I’m still waiting to hear which of the flavours you liked better.” And he winks, just as the elevator door closes.

Ebuka turns to me, an incredulous look on his face. “What the hell was that? When did you guys get so chummy? And why the hell was he winking at you?”

Thankfully, the lift opens on our floor and I walk out, hoping getting into the house will be enough to distract him from his questions. It isn’t.

When I realise he is still looking at me, waiting for an answer, I shrug. “We got talking the other day. There was no power and I had to use the stairs,” I shrug again. “He offered me some slices of cake. I think he was doing some sort of sampling, trying to get people’s opinion.” I smile, remembering the juicy titbit I’d learned about him. “Do you know he’s actually a Surgeon? A Paediatric Surgeon. He used to practice in Mount Sinai Hospital…the one in New York.”

“I don’t care if he’s a fucking astronaut!” Ebuka snaps. “The guy is a creep. Look how he was leering at you, a married woman. And does he really have to prance about the place with his junk on full display? I could see every outline of his…”

Power goes off and we both let out moans of frustration, the half naked Leo forgotten.

“These Building Managers are really wearing my patience thin,” Ebuka says, turning on the light of his phone. “This is downright ridiculous now.”

“But you get to go back to the office. I’m stuck here.”

He turns around and pulls me into his arms. “Do you remember Cancun? Do you remember how I lit two hundred tea-light candles and how we made love till every single one of those candles went out?”

We’d spent Valentine’s Day weekend the previous year in the romantic Mexican destination, and it had truly been an incredibly passionate weekend. But as he kisses my neck, I wriggle out of his hold.

“How can you even think of sex in this heat?” I retort. “This ain’t no Cancun. We lit candles to set the mood, not out of necessity.”

He looks at me, exasperated. “You’re determined to be unhappy here, no matter what I do.”

“Anyone would be unhappy living without electricity and in this kind of hellish heat,” I clap back. “You would too, if you didn’t have your nice, air-conditioned office to escape to, just like you’re doing now.”

From the set of his jaw, I can see that he is angry. But I don’t even care.

“I’ll see you later. Don’t worry about dinner. We’ll be working late so will probably get some takeaway.”

And with that, he walks out. Standing in the dark apartment, I let out a loud scream, my anger and frustration shooting through the roof. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.

 

Chapter Five

 

It’s been a few days since Ebuka has been spending long hours at work and things are no better between us; he is still angry and I am still resentful.

It is Thursday afternoon and I am back after yet another useless venture to the nearby mall. I’d been almost crawling up the walls in my boredom, but my foray to the mall has done little to lift my mood. Power is out when I walk into the building, and I cant help but wonder if it is my punishment for venturing out in the first place. Commencing the long climb up the stairs, I am not looking forward to spending yet another evening alone.

When I get to the fifth floor, I hesitate at Leo’s door. I haven’t seen him since our last elevator encounter, and I find myself craving company. I knock on the door and his face lights up when he opens the door.“Wendy!”

I notice a lot of activity in the apartment and remember that tomorrow is indeed Valentine’s Day.

“I was just passing by and thought to say hello,” I say tentatively. “But it looks like you’re busy.”

“Nonsense,” he says, taking me by the hand. “Please, come right in.”

My hand tingles from his firm yet gentle grip, surprised by how soft his hand feels.

“It’s Valentine’s Eve, that’s why it’s a mad house here,” he says, leading me into the kitchen, which is bustling with workmen; those working the mixers, those piping cakes, and those boxing cakes set for delivery. “We got a record 650 orders this year. It’s great for the bank account but it’s stretched us to our elastic limit, I’ll tell you that.”

“Wow! 650 is a lot.”

He turns to me and smiles, and I can feel the familiar butterflies in my stomach. “You never did tell me which of the flavours you preferred.”

“Um…” My brain is momentarily wiped blank under the scrutiny of his gaze. “I really enjoyed the strawberry shortcake.”

His smile widens, crinkling his eyes. “I hoped you’d say that. It’s my favourite one too.”

He leads me to a vacant spot on the kitchen counter and as I sit, I am both fascinated by the activity around me and grateful for the opportunity to be there. It is like nothing I’ve ever seen.

“So,” I say, as he takes a seat beside me. “I looked you up on Google, and your story checks out.”

He throws his head back in throaty laughter. “Did you think I was lying?”

“I found it hard to believe, yes,” I also laugh. “And when I read all about the amazing work you did with kids over there, it makes it even more difficult for me to understand.”

“I could explain it to you,” he says, spinning my stool round to face the counter. “But showing you will make you understand.” I stand and watch as he reaches for a mixer. “I was doing this before you came. It’s a dulce de leche cake, and I prefer to manually mix it. I was in the process of folding in eggs, sugar and salt with sour cream and the dulce de leche batter. Dulce de leche is…”

“A sauce like caramel, I know,” I answer.

Positioning me in front of the mixer, he places a wooden spatula in my hand and stands behind me, his hands on mine. “This,” he says, guiding my hand in circular motions around the creamy paste, “is the most therapeutic thing in the world. Working the paste, watching it as it goes from lumpy to smooth, while also breathing in the wonderful aroma, is better therapy than one can get anywhere in the world.”

As I mix, he is standing so close to me that I can feel his every breath on the nape of my neck. As I stand ensconced in his arms, I am both comforted…and aroused. From his own laboured breathing, I can tell the sexual attraction is mutual. I turn to look at him and the chemistry is so palpable, it feels like we have been bound together with invisible chords.

“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life, Wendy,” he says, his eyes holding mine. “Your husband is a fool to leave you alone as often as he does.”

I stare back, unable…unwilling…to say anything in Ebuka’s defence. He leans forward and our faces are inches apart, seconds away from a kiss, when one of his workers calls out to him.

“Sir, are we frosting the mocha cake with mocha buttercream or Swiss meringue?”

The distraction is just the right thing I need to snap out of this insanity. What have I almost done?“

You clearly have a lot to do, so I’ll leave you guys to work,” I stay, stepping out of his hold. “And please, save me a slice of the dulce de leche cake.”

“Wendy…”

But I’m out of the kitchen and out of the apartment before I do something I will regret.

Back in my flat, my body buzzes as I think about our near kiss. As minutes give way to hours, the sound of silence is loud, and I know that, like the other nights, Ebuka won’t return until very late, and that will be to prepare for his trip tomorrow. Sitting in the kitchen, the unmistakable aroma of the decadent cakes being baked downstairs wafts in. Closing my eyes and inhaling deep, I know that I am lying to myself. There is only one place I want to be, and that is four floors down.

As if drawn by an invisible force, I make my way down the utility staircase, and am soon back in Leo’s flat. His kitchen door is open and walking in, I see that he is now alone. He looks up, our eyes hold, and I see in his unbridled desire. I hoist myself onto the kitchen counter, ignoring the stools I have sat on in the past. He returns his attention to the cake he is piping and I watch him work, taking in the bunching of his brows as he concentrates on his art, the sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the air conditioning in the room, the rippling of his biceps as he works the piping bag, and loving every bit of what I see.

“Your husband still isn’t back from work.” He finally remarks, again more of a statement than a question.

“They’re preparing for a client’s Private Placement tomorrow. Can you imagine, Valentine’s Day, of all days.” I answer, shaking my head. “To make matters worse, it’s in Abuja, so the odds are high that he won’t even be here.”

“And you believe him?” he asks, holding my gaze. “You believe all his late nights have been work related?”

For some reason, I find myself tongue tied and unable to answer, questioning my husband for the very first time. Ebuka might be a lot of things, but he’s not a liar. At least, I don’t think he is.

Leo walks across to where I sit, and places his arms on the counter, on either side of me. “Chinwendu…that’s a very beautiful name. Does anyone call you Chinwe?”

My mouth is dry and my brain as scrambled as the eggs I had for breakfast. “Only my late Grandmother,” I answer, my voice raspy. “My parents have always called me Wendy.”

“Why do you keep running away, Chinwe?” he asks, leaning closer, so close our noses touch. “Why do you keep running away from me?”

Before I can even gather my thoughts to answer, the back door is flung open and an enraged Ebuka storms in. He shoves Leo aside and grabs me by the arm.

“Hey, man. Don’t touch her like that!” Leo cautions, stepping forward.

That is all the excuse Ebuka needs to shove him on the chest so hard, he crashes to the floor, taking along with him one of his expensive mixers and several cakes.

“Stay away from my wife!” Ebuka yells, his body vibrating in his anger. “If I ever see you near her, I’ll kill you. I swear it!”

I have my hands over my mouth as I watch Leo struggle to his feet, but I can do nothing to help him as Ebuka drags me out of the flat and back to ours, up the same utility stairs I’d used.

“Is this what you’ve been doing, Wendy?” He asks, once we’re back in our flat, his eyes showing his intense anger…and deep pain. “Is this what you get up to when I’m at work? Cavort with Hercules, the baker?”

I say nothing in response, and we stand in silence for several minutes.

“I left the hotel where my colleagues are lodged ahead of tomorrow’s trip. We’re catching the first flight out and our management insisted on lodging us there, so we can leave as a group early in the morning. But I said I couldn’t spend the night there, not when I have my wife at home.” He finally says. “How could you do this to me, Wendy?”

“If you stop thinking about yourself for once, maybe you’ll finally be able to see how miserable, unhappy and lonely I am here. I’ve been crying out to you for weeks, but you’ve refused to even pay the slightest bit of attention to anything I’ve been saying!” I yell, also now exasperated. “You’re asking why? Well, it’s because he sees me. Leo sees and hears me!”

“How can you even say that? I’ve been making sacrifices for you from the very beginning of this relationship. Everything you’ve asked of me, I’ve done. I gave up my dogs because of your crazy phobia, I gave up meat the year you had your vegan phase, I’ve spent every single one of the nine Christmases we’ve had together with your family when all my mother has asked for is just one, I even gave up a job offer on Wall Street to move with you to LA when your styling business started gaining ground. I’ve been the one making sacrifices for years, but you can’t even be bothered to make even one…not for me, not for my friends, not even for my mother.”

“I’m unhappy, Ebuka.”

“With Nigeria?” he asks. “Or with me?”

I bow my head. “Both.”

More silence follows.

“I think it’s best for me to go back to LA,” I finally say. “I’ll find a hotel and will be on the first flight I can find out of here.”

Ebuka’s jaw clenches and he nods. “If that’s what you want.” He reaches for his car keys on the table. “I’ll stay with my colleagues at the hotel tonight. There’s no point remaining here.”

My head remains bowed until I hear the sound of the front door. It is a different type of silence this time. This time, it isn’t one with the expectation of an end in sight. No. This time, it is an empty, endless one that stretches into infinity. And I am hit by the realisation of what has just happened.

Falling to my knees, I cry like a wounded animal. My marriage, the nine-year love I’ve had with my soul mate, has just ended. And the bitter home truth breaks my heart into a million little pieces.

 

Chapter Six

 

There is a knock on the door and I realise I have been in that crouched position for a while. Rising to my feet, I walk to the door to open it, and have mixed emotions when I see Leo.

“How are you?” he asks, his brows knotted in his concern. “I just saw Ebuka drive off and wanted to be sure he didn’t hurt you.”

“Ebuka would never hurt me,” I answer, as I realise Ebuka hadn’t left immediately, and had probably spent as much time mourning the end of our relationship in his car, as I’d spent doing the same crouched on our kitchen floor.

Leo nods. “I’m relieved to hear that.” He looks at me, and I see the same longing that was there earlier that evening, but now even more intense. “It doesn’t look like he’ll be back tonight. Could you…could you please come downstairs for a minute? There’s something I want you to see.”

I sigh, not sure I’m in the mood for any of it. “Give me a moment to regroup,” I finally answer. “I’ll be down shortly.”

When he’s gone, I sit in front of my mirror, staring at a woman who is now a stranger to me. Yes, the month in Nigeria has been the hardest of my life, but is it enough reason to end my marriage? But then, I remember the intense sexual chemistry, the overpowering attraction I have for Leo, and can’t help but wonder if that would have happened if Ebuka and I had a marriage worth saving. I decide I owe it to myself to at least explore it. With Ebuka gone, that window of opportunity is open, and it is the least I can do to see what lies in there.

I change into a white, sleeveless lycra dress that hugs every curve of my body, hidden and known. Pulling my hair into a slick ponytail and sliding on a glossy red lipstick, taking a final look at myself, I am determined to make the most of the night, with or without Ebuka.

Deciding against the back door, I step out from the front door and ride the elevator down to Leo’s floor. Standing in front of his flat, I scream down the rational side of me, the one that reminds me how inappropriate it would be to be seen knocking on another man’s door at almost midnight, dressed the way I am. But that is not the voice I want to hear. The only voice I’m interested in is one that will tell me I have made the right decision…am making the right decision.

The door opens, and I see I’m not the only one who decided to freshen up. Leo stands before me, looking dapper in a white shirt over blue jeans, his naturally wavy hair still damp after a shower.

“Wow! He says, his eyes wide eyes. “You look out of this world ethereal. You’re beautiful, Chinwe.”

I smile and allow him lead me inside. Joe’s All the things is playing, rose petals line the floor and sofa, and several tea-light candles are burning. One thing he has most surely tried to do is set the mood.

As I take it all in, he holds me from behind and kisses my neck. “You deserve to be loved properly, Chinwe. You deserve to be treated like the beautiful woman you are.”

He continues to kiss my neck, but rather than focus on that, or the romantic scene before me…I am teleported back to the night in Cancun, exactly a year before. I remember Ebuka carrying me into the hotel room as we arrived on the eve of Valentine’s Day, a room already strewn with rose petals and with tea-light candles burning in every corner. I remember us loving and exploring each other’s bodies from sun up to sun down over the next few days. I remember us dancing to this same Joe song at a party back in college. I remember all the times he’s made me laugh and us clowning around at a friend’s birthday party, jumping into the pool, fully clothed. I remember him giving my nieces piggyback rides every Christmas, dressed in a Santa suit, pretending to be ‘Jerry Clause’, Santa’s younger brother. I remember us dancing on our wedding day, our foreheads touching as we sing along to Portrait’s cover of How deep is your love. And I know I can’t do this.

I shrug myself away from Leo’s hold. “I have to go.”

“What do you think your husband is doing right now, Chinwe?” he asks, his eyes boring into mine. “Do you really believe he’s back at work and not with another woman?”

I look at him and I am more certain of nothing else. “Without a shadow of doubt.”

His face falls and he takes a step back. I turn around to leave before he makes me change my mind, and once back in my apartment, the tears return as I remember all the horrible things I said to the only man I truly love; my husband.

I call his number repeatedly but I am further upset when it goes straight to voicemail each time. Burdened with the fear that I will not be able to undo what I have done, I fall asleep fully clothed in the living room.

 

Chapter Seven

 

The sunrays hit my face the next morning, and I am saddened anew by my loss. I try Ebuka’s number again, but still get his voicemail. Sitting up, the only thing I can think of that will make me feel better is a run. Back in LA, I never began my day without one, and lived off the endorphins it gave me, powering me through the whole day. And now, in the wake of my throwing away the one true love of my life, it is the only way I can pull myself from the abyss in which I am now falling.

Changing into a t-shirt, lightweight compression leggings and a pair of sneakers, I leave the building. Running through the streets of Victoria Island, I see several other people running, just like me. Yes, the roads are already busy even at that time of the morning, and I do pass a stray dog or two, but it is nowhere near as bad as I thought it would be. As I run through the interconnecting streets, I feel invigorated. I pass by at least two shopping malls that look a good deal more interesting than the one I’ve been frequenting, and stop to admire a couple of stylishly dressed women disembarking from a car and walking into a large office complex. And I realise I haven’t given my new city much of a chance.

At exactly 7am, my phone vibrates with a message from my mother-in-law.

Hello, my dear daughter. How are you and your husband today? Please meditate on today’s Word.

Matthew 6:34 Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.

Sitting on a pavement, I read and re-read her message with new eyes. With Ebuka being her only son, I have always been suspicious of the woman’s every word, her every action, her every motive. Even though Ebuka and I have deliberately delayed having kids, I have allowed myself believe that all her actions have been a camouflage to push us in that direction. But the truth is, she has done nothing to justify any of these assertions, but has instead always shown me love, right from the very first time I met her on our graduation day. I read the message again, and for the very first time, I reply.

Good morning, Mommy. Thank you for this. I hope you are doing well today.

I can’t think of any more to write, and after hitting the send button, I am about to continue with my run, when she replies.

Oh, my darling daughter. I am doing much better, now that I have heard from you. You have just made my whole day. I love you.

A tear rolls down my face as I read her message, her joy palpable and I berate myself for all the time I have kept the woman at bay. Frances, the other person I have treated badly, comes to mind, and I open my Instagram app, going to my follow requests. Just as she said, hers is there, along with Dinma’s, Morin’s, and a few people whose names I don’t recognise. I accept all of them and, no sooner have I done this does my phone start to vibrate with notifications of multiple likes from Frances, who seems to be liking every single picture on my page, leaving several comments as she does. I smile as I remember how intentional I’d been about my page back in LA, updating it every day with my daily outfits and fashion tips, using it as a tool to advertise my work as a stylist. But the minute we’d arrived in Nigeria, I’d turned my page private and shut down that aspect of my life. But sitting and watching people on their way to work, I realise I was wrong to think people over here wouldn’t get my style. I was wrong to think I couldn’t continue doing it over here. But alas, it might be too late for that.

It is almost 8am by the time I get back to the building and I have a physical ache in my chest when I call Ebuka’s number again and it still goes to voicemail. Riding up the elevator, I can’t help but wonder if maybe Leo was correct, and he is with another woman. But even my heart knows that could never be the case.

I find the apartment door open and walking inside, my hand goes to my mouth when, from its open door, I see Ebuka sitting in our bedroom, staring at my empty closet, a cloth hanger in his hand. I watch him unnoticed, as he wipes tears from his eyes, and I see, yet again, the very depth of his love for me.

“Ebuka.”

He looks up and I see in his face relief, happiness and confusion, all at once.

“I thought you’d left,” he says, rising to his feet. “Your closet is empty.”

“You don’t listen to anything I say.” I smile. “I told you I had to move my clothes to the guestroom when I noticed some funky mould in this one. You know I don’t play with my clothes.”

He nods and wipes his eyes again, and it takes everything in me not to rush to him. “Aren’t you meant to be in Abuja?”

“I dropped out of the trip,” he answers, surprising me. “I’ve been a mess since yesterday. There’s no way I could have been of any use to the team today.”

“Can you afford to that, being a new member of the team?”

“I’d rather lose my job than you, Wendy,” he answers, his eyes holding mine. “You’re the love of my life, and I’m ready to do anything I have to do to make you happy, even if it means moving back to LA.”

By now, my own tears have found me, and I rush into his arms. As we kiss, I know I would follow this man to the ends of the earth if I had to. I also know I will not allow him give up any more for me. He’s already done too much of that already,

“I love you more than anything, Ebuka Awujo,” I say, my hands on his face. “We’re going to make it work here. However it’s going to happen, we’re going to make it work here in Lagos, okay? Starting with you getting your ass to Abuja right now. Is it too late for you to make the event?”

He looks at his watch. “It starts at about noon. If I hurry, maybe I could catch the ten o’clock flight?” His eyes light up. “Maybe you could come with me?”

“Valentine’s Day in Abuja? I like the sound of that,” I answer, and I honestly do. I realise that I wouldn’t even care if we are trapped under a stone that day. All that matters is for us to be together.

“Then let’s get a move on, so we can get to the airport on time!” he exclaims, his eyes bright with excitement. “But on one condition though.”

“What?”

“That we get the hell out of this apartment as soon as we get back.”

“With all pleasure!” I laugh, wanting to be out of the place even more than he does.

As we embrace, I realise that in saving my marriage, my forever love, I have inadvertently saved myself.

 

 

The End

© The Fertile Chick

@thefertilechickwriter

    2021