Not A Love Story
Anyone who knew Dr Deremi on Harvey Street knew that he yelled for a living. I once thought of taking my alarm to him for thorough training. Each morning, his voice would boom from his house and neighbours who had the souls of busybodies would listen quietly as he howled at his wife whom people conveniently described as dumb either because her comebacks were always lame or she couldn’t dump his sorry ass.
“I’m tired of all this bullshit,” he’d burst out.
“What bullshit?” Toyin, his wife would ask.
“These demands you make every time,” he’d retort.
“What demands? If money for the house upkeep is a great demand, why then are you the man?”
“Why are you the woman, uh? To stay at home every fucking day eating and sleeping?”
“You know that’s not true, so don’t talk to me like that!” She’d snap weakly.
He would then storm out of his house, banging the front door so hard that the house shook to its roots. I can’t remember when or how, but I began to go to their house to chat with Toyin, his wife, whenever their children had gone to school. She was always getting things done ambling around the house in her nightgown and crocs which I thought made her look silly. She seemed fluid, almost abstract, and she took the shape of whatever house chore she was doing. When she swept or scrubbed the floor, she’d look like a vacuum cleaner. While doing the dishes, she looked like a dishwasher.
Our conversations followed a pattern; I, the listener; she, the speaker, although she spoke very little. Usually, a few minutes before 3 pm, which was when the school bus dropped the boys in front of their home, she would open the front door and fix me a stare that blew me out of the house before I walked out the door.
Toyin? She knew many things that a wife may know but must never say, especially to someone like me; a neighbour who lived just a few houses away. The longest talk we ever had was about her life. She loved the life she lived before that time, one she called ‘soft life’. It was apparent in the way her eyes turned glassy, like one who had been stung by nostalgia. She told me how her father, before his death, always showered her with money and praises. How she gave up ‘office work’ because her bosses were usually more interested in her large backside than the work she did.
She told me she never wanted a child of her own, nor did she want to work. I thought that was strange. She just wanted a man who would love her, take care of all her needs, then come back to her freshly bathed and warm arms every night. She loved the house, money, and children. Dr Deremi had all but money, at least at that time.
“As soon as the new couple’s magic began to fade, Deremi started to bully me in this house, asking me what I am bringing to the table,” she’d said one time.
“What does he want me to bring except myself, ehn? He knew the type of woman I was before he married me,” she’d paused.
“I’m the only one doing everything in this house, I cook,” she looked at the lunch she was preparing, “I wash, I scrub, I sweep, take care of his three children, all these take the whole day!” She’d sighed.
“Then I have to cope with his anxiety, keep an eye on him, and also battle with not being touched, not even once in six months.”
“Why?!” I’d exclaimed.
“He has a lover. It’s so obvious.”
I gasped, wondering how she knew or if she knew that the lover was a man. Everyone except me thought the fine, lean man was Dr Deremi’s younger brother. He left the house shortly before Toyin moved in. While I was contemplating asking her if she knew who the person was, she stood and opened the door. I understood and left quietly.
I didn’t visit Toyin until two weeks later. That Friday, her eyes were gleaming, unlike the usual despair that used to cloud them. Before I could sit, she was already chattering. She said she had decided to follow a sermon she listened to by dressing hot and snatching her husband back from his lover, whom she labelled ‘a strange woman’. She dumped a plastic bag containing some lingerie on my lap, whilst saying “tonight is the night.” My stomach swelled with laughter when I saw them. Why would anyone waste their time dressing hot in green lingerie for someone like Dr Deremi? I wanted to tell her she was mad but I didn’t, instead, I wished her well and took my leave.
The following morning, I looked out my window around 6 a.m to see Toyin leaving the house wearing her white nightgown and her crocs, holding a small box with her left hand and Dedayo, Deremi’s youngest child, whom she was very fond of, in her right hand. Her head was swaddled with a huge turban that turned out to be an Ankara wrapper that was soaked in blood when I leaned forward for a closer look. Her nightie was also stained with blood. She walked like a ghost without looking back or showing concern at the wails of children that rose and fell in the house she just stepped out of.
Not long after, Dr Deremi’s lover moved in. I didn’t know if to be glad. I still wanted to know what went down between the husband and wife but Toyin never returned to the house. It must have been the lingerie incident. Who knows? Green probably reminded Dr Deremi of Nigeria and his unpaid salary. Anyway, he never stopped slamming his door, never took another woman in, and also never caught me slipping into his house on fine afternoons to sleep with his lover — the fine, lean man.
