MAD HOUSE -By Chinwe Judith Okafo

 
A man is never ugly, mama had said. And that's how I  ended up with Kibuku-the man that calls himself my husband. In the early days, I couldn't stomach the ugly look. I couldn't stop wondering how God had made such an ugly being. I couldn't sleep beside him at night without cursing him a million times for his snores that shook our small flat. But with time, Just as mama had said, I had reconciled with the fact that it wasn't all about good looks and body. It was about the heart.

Matters of the heart. About having someone who adores the very ground you step on. My Kibuku was a big person in a small city. He was an agent. A house agent. He had an office not very far from the house, while I had mine in the kitchen. But because of his looks, he had a tough time having clients. His colleagues were the charming, smooth talking type. But my Kibuku was different; he was ugly with wide hair filled nostril and had the kind of stomach we call ‘calabash stomach’.

 One day he stopped being an agent. I can remember that day just like it was yesterday. I was at the balcony, staring at the vased Aloe Vera when he walked in and surrendered. Hands up, “Nikki I give up, I am tired of being an agent”. “It is not paying our bills. We are yet to have enough money for you to start a business. Since this year, I have only had one commission. We have been eating from your inheritance. I don't like it”. And what was I to say? I had been thinking along that line too. 

So what then should he do? Many thoughts crossed our minds, we drew up so many plans. We did this and did that. At the end, we discovered he was cut out for teaching. “I have a degree in pure science. During my college days my mates paid me to teach them. We called it tutorial. I can teach well” he kept saying, smiling and showing dimples I never knew he had. And that was what he became; a teacher. The story would have ended here. We would have been discussing something entirely...
Different, but no. Fate choose to serve me sour meatballs. Me? Nikki Agaga. The morning star of Nsowende community, the one whose beauty the gods envy. The mover and shaker of Nsowende dance troupe back in those days. I became the wall paper that covers the cracks on the wall. The -the more you look, the less you see- charm. All because of the sudden love Kibuku developed for teaching. The love that grew legs and hands and took the form of Mr Hans, the owner of the private secondary school were he taught.

I have been married to Kibuku for three years. All through this years I have come to study him like the mayflower in my garden. I have come to identify the sound of his footstep even when he walked with ten thousand men. I have come to expect his hard breathing as he pounced on me from behind. I have come to know which part of my anatomy he enjoys most. I have come to know how to fix his coffee and how many slice of wheat bread he prefers. I have come to know how he conceals those sprouting white hair with Adele's as thick as mayonnaise gel. I have come to know all this about him. But I had the shock of my life last week. Kibuku boldly told me he is not cut out for women. That he has a strong thing for Mr Hans. And that I can stay or leave if I chose. That this strong thing he has is the real thing. I can't leave. How do I tell the people that Kibuku left me for a being with a frog between its leg. How do I tell the people that Kibuku doesn't find me pleasing. How do I? Yesterday he was given an award of excellence by the community and he dedicated it to his "wife". His Love. Not me, because I never did see the award or the laurels. He didn't spend the night in the flat. He never did. So here I am, a confused woman, flipping through our wedding album and wondering where I have gone wrong. The worst is; I am a barren.