My name is not important, and so I will not share it. But I will share, however, how I let my moroseness get the better of me. I used to be happily married-though with no progenies to show-to the love of my life, but that changed some fourteen months ago when my wife discovered my affair with our maid. Although the reality of the infidelity seems somewhat nonsensical now, at the time of its happening, I considered it a sort of reprieve from the latest doom, shall we say, that had befallen me.
It was by attitude that I returned from work a bit past five pm, but on this particular day, I was to surprise everyone by pulling into my compound only minutes after I had driven out, saying ‘O d’ale’ (see you at night) to the Hausa gateman; promising, even, to bring him some goodies. This had never happened before, and although I was quite chummy with the good Hausa man whose name is Dauda, I ignored his questions, proceeding into the interior of the house like a fallen angel.
Had I been less pre-occupied with sorrow, I would have recognized that the piquant aroma that vied for airspace with the smell of frigid air was of none other than my veritable favourite meal: ifokore (water-yam delicacy). No matter, I wished my wife would emerge from the kitchen, garbed in the full cooking regalia, arms stretched to incept a snug, long-lasting hug. But it was a wish much far-fetched, as my wife couldn’t, for the life of her, afford to miss work. That’s why she saw certain that we got a maid; the very one who now performed wonders in the kitchen. I proceeded to the Master’s chambers where I fell in the bed and, soon, asleep, only to be awakened hours and hours later by a presence in the room. It was my love, and I broke the news to her: I had been sacked.
So it was that I remained home while my wife went to work the next day. And the next; and the next. My laptop soon became my keen companion, as day after day, I would sit at it, intending only to do an e-search for jobs, but ending up being engrossed in a chat with an old teacher, friend or family member. Food also became an obsession. It beats me how, suddenly, my appetite increased immensely, causing poor maid to work twice as much as before.
I suppose, for a man, excessive eating sort of leads, in a most intricate way, to an overambitious libido, and I started to pay attention to the maid. It suddenly dawned on me how her perfectly round caboose did some sort of cat-dance when she walked; how good her mammoth bosom would feel under my palms. Well, in retrospection, I must have been under some sort of spell; one that made me assume I hadn’t seen better features in a woman; one that made me, eventually, have it away with her.
The first time was on the kitchen floor, and it wasn’t very much comfy. We decided that perhaps we should give the couch in the parlour a chance next time. That didn’t prove much better, and so, screw it; the next time and subsequently, it was straight to my matrimonial bed!
When the inevitable happened and Maid brought news of her pregnancy; I chose, for some sick reason, not to believe it. Well, I guess I just didn’t imagine that I could sire a child, and so it was safer not to even hear it. But then, weeks and weeks later, her stomach began to protrude, affirming what I had denied and causing my love to ask some questions that I considered inimical to the health of our marriage. The poor maid, being absolutely unprepared to raise a child by herself, caved in even before the pressure mounted, confessing everything to my wife; and right in my face. What followed was the home-leaving of my wife. And then an endless spree of forgiveness-seeking that fell on deaf ears.
Many months have passed since then, and although I now have a good job, and have safely tucked maid’s child in a children’s home, I still cannot get my love to forgive my indiscretion. I still, sadly, cannot get my love back.