BN Prose: The Un–Love Letter by Abby Beckley

BN Prose: The Un–Love Letter by Abby Beckley

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He found the envelope on top of his autographed Nwankwo Kanu Super Eagles shirt. He quickly snatched it up and absent-mindedly dusted off the football jersey. It was a prized possession and the one thing in their bedroom that he took personal care of. 
Where was Ajoke? He hadn’t been concerned when she didn’t pick up his usual pre-lunchtime call. Eight months into the marriage, she had already learned he preferred to know whether food would be ready or whether he needed to pick something up for himself on the way home. Today, he got a takeaway: a single portion of fried rice and chicken from the restaurant next door to his office building. 
His name was hand-written on the envelope: ‘Gide’, the scrawl in royal blue ink was familiar. As he opened the envelope and removed what looked like a typed letter, he caught a fragrance that took him back to a memory from three years ago: early morning, fresh flowers on a side table, coffee brewing in the machine. 
He wandered back downstairs to the dining room, where his food was already cooling. He sat down, unfolded the letter, picked up his fork and shovelled the spiced rice into his mouth.
As he began to read, he stopped chewing. The letter read:
‘‘Gide,
If the contents of this letter come as a shock or surprise to you, then clearly, I have given your sense of awareness more credit than it ever merited. I will try to keep things simple. 
As I see it, you have warped into someone I wouldn’t pass the time of day with, let alone call my husband and lover. When you touch me, I recoil inside. I just cannot bear it. There was a time when I still had enough passion to complain about you, because to complain about someone, to lament about someone, means you still care about that person. Now, even doing that feels like a waste of precious concern.
I cannot allow myself to forget those moments, earlier in our relationship, when things became physical. Inevitably, alcohol was involved, but the plain fact that you would conceive of using this means to try to subdue me or bend me to your will was already evidence of how pathetic you can be. 
It was a red flag I kept in my back pocket as I worked on re-moulding and reshaping you into something better. Besides, you quickly learned that I could give as good as I got, especially that time after my friend’s wedding in Croatia. 
We were back at the hotel after many hours of carousing and too many shots of Rakija. I was exhausted after my maid of honour duties and just wanted to sleep, but you were aroused and wanted to make love. You tried to force things, and when I shouted at you to leave me alone, you slapped me. My response was instant and instinctive. I knocked you over with a punch, and you hit the back of your head against the wardrobe, making a small crack in the mirror. 
You foolishly forgot, in your drunken arrogance and lust, that my father was a boxer in his youth, and he taught all of his children how to protect and look after themselves in situations of confrontation. Before that, you had been too ready to grab at me when we were arguing, found it too easy to push me out of the way when you wanted to have the last word in a disagreement and leave the room. 
These signs were there, but unlike others who are physically abusive, you did not escalate; in fact, you never raised a hand to me again. Perhaps you were afraid of what I would do in retaliation, or, as I hoped, you knew how cowardly and shameful an act it was and decided to remove it from your future behaviour. 
For you, our life together now is as close to ideal as your limited imagination can allow. You fell into a job at your father’s car dealership headquarters. You are surrounded by the best friends you grew up with, and there’s a ‘boys’ night’ every week where you can all blow off steam from the stressful days you’ve had working for your family’s companies.  
Meanwhile, you have pulled me away from my family and friends and kept me locked in this gilded cage, tied me down through my love for our three children. You tell me I can do whatever I want, travel, see my friends, get a job, but when you say this, you do so with the air of one granting permission. Every time I have attempted to gain some fiscal independence by returning to my work as a financial consultant, you increase the pressure on me regarding my maternal or domestic responsibilities to the extent that I can no longer focus on the work. 
How many times have I heard: “You don’t need to work, I can provide for us”?
From the outside, I know many people think I am lucky, a woman living a privileged life. But all of the material trappings have become just that: a trap. 
When we go out together, at the members’ club or one of the dinner parties organised by your friends’ wives or girlfriends, which is really just an excuse for ‘the boys’ to hang out, do you realise how your attitude and comportment towards me changes? You become arrogant and dismissive, and you seize on opportunities to belittle me. You even laugh when I trip over. It gets worse with the alcohol. Do you remember last year, at your friend Kolade’s BBQ? Everyone had been drinking. In my boredom and frustration, I had overdone it, and while I was in the bathroom, heaving out the suya and booze, our youngest had a fall and scraped his knee. The way you berated me publicly – my unfitness to be a mother, my inability to handle myself when I drink, my shameful and pathetic performance in front of all of our (your) friends – is forever engraved in my mind.   
Why did I stay? I am no fool. The children had a lot to do with it. Now they are old enough to be discerning. They are also very sharp, intelligent kids; they have already noticed and begun questioning the false facade that I wear whenever you’re around. They sense the difference in my demeanour when it’s just us, how calm and joyful they make me. Then you arrive, and the atmosphere changes. You wade in, expectant of their respect and devotion. They love you, but you have hardly been a present or hands-on father, yet you think you deserve the attention and close bond of one. 
You were not always like this. Before we moved to Abuja, when you were determined to live independently of your family’s wealth,  you were careful, you had ambition and imagination. Your mind was open to differing ideas and opinions. There was a calmness and humility about you that seemed to come from being self-aware. I had always admired your ability to remain rational and think things through before speaking. You were less judgmental. I thought you were someone I could always rely on to be analytical and wise. I depended on this from you because it gave me a sense of safety and confidence. ‘Bíbírẹ̀ kò ṣe fì owó rà’  — money cannot buy good character, but it appears to have been detrimental to yours. Who is this arrogant, narcissistic, selfish and often bigoted person that shares my bed?
At one point, I was ready to welcome the news that you were having an affair. It would have given me the perfect excuse to liberate myself from you. You kept mentioning a certain Adaugo, the office manager, so indispensable that without her, everything would fall apart. I had hoped she would be enough to divert your attention, but unfortunately, your desire for me has never waned. 
I know it will take your ego a while to digest, understand and then accept the situation. You will, of course, have your own perspective on our life together. You will, no doubt, have a list of faults to tally against me; that is to be expected. I know I became more morose and withdrawn not long after the move. I had tried to make friends and find a new tribe, but the only thing anyone wanted to talk to me about was money, investments, and how well their kids were doing at various elite schools around the world; nothing ever went deeper with those people.  
Now, I can no longer wait; I must and have created my own opportunity. For the sake of clarity, I have not met anyone else. I simply do not want you in my life in the capacity of a husband anymore. I will cooperate to the extent that involves the well-being of the children, but that will be the limit of my dealings with you. 
We need to end things quickly before dissatisfaction turns into resentment. Do not try to find me; my lawyer will contact you directly.
Morenikeji.’’
For over a minute, Gide heard nothing but the sound of his heart pumping. He spat the rice out, his mouth had gone dry, and he feared he would choke if he tried to swallow. Morenikeji, his first wife, had been dead for almost two years. She had died in a car accident near Gada-Biyu village. So who had left the letter in his bedroom?
 
***
Featured Image by Ono Kosuki for Pexels.
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