My Abroad Husband
Photo: Namnso Ukpanah
All this abroad people think that everywhere is America. How can they not know that the beauty of baffing is in splashing water everywhere and then running fast to the room wet without tawel?
This was one of the many marital issues Okoli, my abroad husband, and I had. He just could not come to terms with the bafroom makeup here in Nigeria. As if he didn't grow up here before luck shined on him and he moved to the abroad. My ears are tired of listening to his lamentation every moring and eeffning during baf time: “You should have your bath meticulously, ma chérie. I don't even know why the white house and bathroom are conjoined. Bad, bad architectural design! We just have to manage here until my building is completed.”
This his abroad way of speaking sef is very confusing because I cannot relate English and the other language he uses. When I feel like, I will ask my friends on that abroad husbands’ wives Facebook group I just joined what “ma chérie” means. Okoli keeps calling and texting me that. The way he says it is nice sha, it is like he is pouring milk on my body. But I will still ask my fellow wives, just in case. After all, pesin wey ask question no dey miss road.
When the wahala of baf well, no baf well, became an issue especially from my end, we rubbed our minds together and decided that he uses the bafroom fezz. That way, the flood from my bafing will not affect him. All that matters is that I must baf daily—moring and eeffning. That effning baff was especially special because my abroad husband liked “a clean and fresh rosy minty smell” oozing from all parts of my body when he holds me.
I don’t understand why a man should not once in a while prefer the natural feminine scent of his woman. All this fake fake perfume lifestyle is not my thing, but I guess these are part of the sacrifices a woman must make to keep her man and her marriage. Hehehehehehe. Sweet rosy minty scent. Only me, Eke. Hehehehehehe.
Every night, just like this one, my abroad husband will perform his husbandry duties much to my distaste. This one sha is story for another day.
“The way he says it is nice sha, it is like he is pouring milk on my body.”
Okoli regretfully has the habit of refusing our locally made food, including my best food, fufu and afang. In fact, anything that goes with fufu I can eat all day long, but my abroad husband won’t have any of it. The names of meals he mentions sound horrific to me, and I'm very sure it will sound horrific to even you sef. Wait, lemme tell you: lasagna for lunch, kapushino for breakfast—not tea again o—pissa, sawarma. Hia! So, you see what I am saying?
Again, we had to reach a “compromise”. He got me a cookbook to learn, and once in a while, we'd go out to enjoy these meals in fancy restaurants. If only he knows how my heart misses a beat when he pays expensive bills for rubbish. I hope I don't die untimely because of this sha. Abi, what do you say? I decided with vex mind to prepare these meals for most days of the week and then prepare our africanicious delicious meals to complement on other days. Our home sailed peacefully.
I love Okoli o, but you see, he is just not my type. Ah, I tried but the superglue holding my eyes was beginning to remove. My abroad husband was not only annoyingly short, bald-headed, and stout, he was also a nag. Common sense should have ministered to me to refuse his offer that day he decided to do ‘caring husband’ on top my head by accompanying me to Oshodi Market. But sweet fate had something else in store for me.
His wahala started from the ogbonge Lagos Saturday afternoon traffic. At first, I thought I saw steam coming out of his shiny bald head, or I really saw it o. I dinnor realize say na vex. Before you know it: “For Pete’s Sake! This is hell on earth. What sort of mad entities exist on this congested expanse of land?” The innocent-looking gala seller did not understand that he was not the cause of my abroad husband’s palava. Me? I did not turn a blind eye o; I called him and bought the gala, enough, even for our cab driver.
The oil on my head saw us through the journey even when a policeman wey resemble praying mantis almost trigger the bomb at one checkpoint. But that grace did not follow me into Oshodi Market. You guessed right. He had his hand gloves and eye shield on, and it was not because of corona. He even used the mosquito repellant cream before leaving the house that afternoon. So if you say I was moving with a fragile woman-man, I no go fight you. Shebi if I had known, we would have gone to the Foodmart at Yaba.
Okoli seemed generally fine at first, a plastic smile plastered on his lips, until the catfish in Iya Basira’s stall picked this day, of all days, to display their acrobatics, especially when they saw my interest was set on them. At first, Okoli thought it was rainwater, but when he smelled the stench, reality hit him.
You hear siren dey blow? What am I even saying? It was Okoli o; he was rotating, screaming.
“Oga, oga, no vex, na so our cat-fish dem dey do o.” Iya Basira never finish talking, when these people appeared. Where they appeared from? If you ask me, who I go ask?
“Babiallah, oga don allah a ba ni.”
“Eeskis daddy, egbe eru yin wa. Memmy—”
It was here matter ended o. Okoli became mobile dictionary. Let me not deceive you, half of the grammar I heard that day, I cannot remember; something like: “luduricorous, maladdroitic buffoons.” Wo, just know that from that day, the word “market” was not to be used in the house. There was no need to rub head abi mind together.
But the one thing I could not overlook, the one thing that kept on eating at my heart so bad, the one was torch-lighting, or if you don’t have filter, sex or, like my abroad husband, coitus.
You see, before I met Okoli, I was in a relationship with Femi. Femi and I were together for more than three years because he was a guru in the act of torch-lighting. His instrument was so huge that I had many names for it. My mamba. Everlasting joystick. I know you'll be wondering why I left him since he was so gifted. Femi's pocket was as dry as stockfish, okporoko, and to crown it all, it didn’t look like he was ready for marriage even in the next ten years, and hey, the girl was not getting any younger. Like a dream come true, Okoli showed up. We didn't even date for six months over the phone when he asked me, and as expected, I said yes. I mean, which girl will refuse a guy who looked fine on phone, was/is rich, and lived in the abroad? Instantly, I grabbed my ticket oo, and before you know it, we were married. Don't bother about Femi, I settled him in cash and kind afterwards.
Back to my torch-lighting story. Oh, Okoli was like a faulty generator. His physic didn't even help matters. He was fat, so fat that he could pass for a woman from his back view. He was even worse than a one-minute man. Okoli was one second. In fact, the second he begins to fumble the breast, eh, everywhere is yogurt, yogurt. Now tell me how I'm supposed to “compromise” that one. He is even the one that taught me that word, “compromise”. To make matters worse, I have to do eeffning baf, smell rosy and minty just for one second torch-lighting. No way! Compromise cannot work here, especially when her ladyship has formerly been hammered by the best of the best.
So this fine morning, after our usual kapushino breakfast, I told Okoli that we need to talk. When he saw my seriousness and I sense his attention, I begin:
"My dia, I just cannot kontinue with this our marriage because my mind is telling me that one day I will sheat on you. This is fezz of all because your torch-light is not bright enough and is of low kwality. I cannot continue living in darkness. I cannot compromise for this one."
When I finished, my abroad husband that never stops talking, had nothing to say. As he likes to say, I left him speechless. And honestly, I am telling you, now, me and compromise are enemies. I have learnt lesson: in this life, it’s either good or nothing for me, no shortcut, especially the torch lighting business.
About the Author
Jessica Nwosu is a writer, critic, and foodie. She is a graduate of English from the University of Lagos, Nigeria. Her work has been published in The Shallow Tales Review Literary magazine. She currently lives in the suburbs of Ogun state where she enjoys the sounds of birds and crickets.
