Celebrating East African Writing!
Initially, I had no plans of killing Ola but the thought of poisoning him had never sounded this exciting to me. I know. Don’t judge me. These thoughts are even new to me but the more I meditate on it, the more excellent it feels. Don’t get me wrong. I love Ola. Well, I did until recently. Killing him will solve most of my problems. I won’t see his ugly face anymore and I will gain the respect of my daughter.
I still prepare Ola’s meals even though he selects the days he wants to eat them but the truth is, I really don’t care. Even if he doesn’t take the poisoned meal tonight, he might take it the next day and I would be a free woman. Those thoughts gladden my heart.
“Would you really kill your husband, Mrs. Obiagwu?” Mrs. ‘perfect’ marriage counsellor’s question jostled me from my evil scheme. I know she doubts my capabilities as a murderer but there is nothing more dangerous than a silent housewife’s wrath.
“Ummmm…I want to. I would love to. In fact I don’t really know. ” I struggled to find the right words to describe how I felt at the moment. It was kind of awkward. That is what sitting in front of Mrs. Akintola and confessing what I would love to do to my husband made me feel. I felt weird. Talking to another woman who probably doesn’t understand anything about marrying a husband like mine made me realise how helpless I felt.
“I loved Ola.” I started explaining myself to her now, “I still remember the good times even when I vowed not to allow any man into my life, Ola was different. He was in no way like my dad and that was what drew me to him.”
I stared at Mrs. Akintola, trying hard to read the expression on her face which was almost blank.
“I admit it. I fell for his cool demeanour which I hoped to transform, and I guess that is what I’ve achieved. I’ve succeeded in creating this monster called OLA, who loves to raise his dirty hands at me. I know he hates to see my face and I equally hate to see his ugly face.” I raised my voice loud enough to transmit my anger to Mrs. Akintola. I hope she understood me now.
“What do you mean you’ve turned him to what he is?” she asked innocently.
Which part of my grammar does Mrs. ‘perfect’ marriage counsellor not understand, huh? Is she trying to frustrate me or she is one of Ola’s concubines? The way she keeps stressing on these questions is getting me suspicious.
“I think I did.” I began replying her question, “Ola was ‘soft’ when I met him. Of course I had to teach him a few tricks. That is what has transformed him into the tenacious businessman that he is today. It was hidden inside him somewhere. I knew it and I unleashed it but now I want my old Ola back,” my voice dropped into a whisper.
The room felt chilly and I had to pull my cover cloth around my body.
The more I spoke, the less sense I made even to myself. Sitting in Madam Marriage Counsellor’s office for the past two hours has brought nothing but desolation to me. I felt like walking out and forgetting about this entire therapy. She probably had no solutions in mind. Why was she always described as one of the best in the country, anyway?
“So what therapy do you suggest for me?” I asked her, rather a tone of cynicism in my voice.
That is her job right? She has seen more women in worst states than me. At least that was what I gathered from her interviews in the newspapers. She should be able to tell me if my situation is a hopeless one. That would make up for the time I have wasted in her office, right?
There was no response from her end. All she did was to stare at the blank wall as if trying to find some medication for my predicament. It got more uncomfortable. She only stared blankly which made matters worse for me. I was getting infuriated by her silence now. What has happened to all her questions?
“I asked a question, Mrs. Akintola. Do you have any therapy in mind? Ok, am I the only person who was walked into your office and considered murdering her husband? Let me put it this way. Do you also have issues with your husband sometimes?”
I raised my head and stared into Mrs. Akintola’s eyes only to realise she has been staring blankly at the wall all this while. Maybe my questions had unexpectedly touched a nerve. I saw her chin quiver and something like a tear running down her cheeks. She stood up from her chair and pounded the table which sent papers flying all over her table.
I watched as her coolness dropped like dominoes while she began to scream at me or at least that was how it sounded,
“Do you think you are the only one having issues with your husband? You think you are the only one who wants to kill her husband, huh? Mrs. Obiagwu, well to tell you the truth, I feel like doing the same, especially when my husband stutters home from the bar in a drunken state and cannot even recognize me, there is nowhere I would like to see him than in the grave. I have been thinking of what to do with him ever since he started coming home reeking of alcohol and ladies’ perfume, which always makes me feel like throwing up. To make matters worse, he blames me for his actions. He accuses me of being married to my job and not having enough time for him. Is that enough? Have I answered your questions, huh? Mrs. Obiagwu, are you satisfied?”
I don’t know which surprised me more – her outburst or her confession.
Delali Kumapley is a social media enthusiast and a blogger from Accra, Ghana. She loves to string words together to make up very good stories. When Delali is not writing (which is something she does most of the time), she loves to visit other blogs to see what people have been writing about.