The Death of Vivek Oji(38)

Chisom stopped speaking to her husband because of it, and they started to move around each other like strangers. Ebenezer missed her, but he didn’t feel he should apologize for talking to his own family members about his marital problems. Chisom thought that, if he already knew how they felt about her, why would he tell them and give them more ammunition against her? So a silence grew up between them, and Ebenezer was too proud to break it.

He started to look more at other women—not with intent, just a lazy wondering, about what kind of wives they would have been, what it would be like if he’d married one of them and had some children. There was an Abiriba woman who ran a small food stall across the junction from where he worked. Everyone called her Mama Ben and she made the best beans Ebenezer had ever tasted. She had maybe four or five children, he wasn’t sure, and she was still pretty: very clear skin, a nice smile, and she dressed well. Ebenezer wondered what it would be like if he was her husband, with all these children and his wife with a business of her own, just like he always wanted.

He started going to Mama Ben’s food stall more and more, sitting at the round plastic table with cardboard folded under one leg to balance it. She always welcomed him with a smile, like she did with every customer, and while it was tempting to believe that the smile she gave him was different, special, Ebenezer knew it wasn’t. Still, it was nice to sit there, drink Pepsi, and talk with her other customers. Mama Ben looked at him as if he didn’t have that scar on his face, and the only other woman who had done that was Chisom. Ebenezer would stay at the food stall until it was late, keeping an eye out across the road in case a customer stopped by, and then he would wander home filled with goodwill and contentment. He ignored his wife’s silence and went to sleep with the memory of Mama Ben’s smile in his head.

One evening, when her other customers were gone, he offered to help her out with something in the kitchen, which gave him an excuse to get her alone. There, in a back corner, he plied her with sweet nonsense words and she giggled and he kissed the side of her sweaty neck. She tasted like salt. That night, he reached out in the dark of his bed and tugged at Chisom’s hip and she gave in to him, but he wasn’t thinking of her, not for any of the time. In fact, it was only with effort that he managed to say her name at one point, and then only because he didn’t know Mama Ben’s given name, and what else could you call out when you were in bed, really?

Chisom still slept as far away from him on the mattress as she could get, even after they’d had sex. The next morning she didn’t speak to him, and this time Ebenezer didn’t care. He wasn’t even thinking about Mama Ben. No, the woman on his mind now was this orange-seller he’d seen last week, with a sweet voice and a nyash that rolled seductively under her wrapper. She had shown up in his dreams, and he considered this to be a sign. Her hips looked like those of someone who could have children easily. Ebenezer had woken from the dream with an erection, and he thought of the woman as he had a quick breakfast of bread and tea. He looked for her on his way to work, and as he handled his first customer of the day, but he didn’t see her. The customer was a banker from Emerald Bank around the corner, sweating in his buttoned shirt and making small talk with a colleague he was giving a lift to, a short woman with fat braids cornrowed onto her head and a sharply ironed polyester skirt.

“I know the manager is afraid I will take his job,” the banker was saying. “And why not? The man is lazy! I could be doing the same work that he’s doing, if only I was provided the opportunity. You know, that is the key to success.” He looked down at his colleague, his face arranged with the seriousness of someone imparting great life advice. “Mark my words. Opportunity is what will land you success in life. When you see the door opening, you must step in! I’m sure your husband has experienced this. Ask him. He will know.”

The woman shot him a nasty look but the man completely missed it, his attention diverted by yet another woman, this one walking past Mama Ben’s canteen across the street. She was tall with long mammy-water hair in two plaits down her back, wearing a flowered dress that cut off at her calves. Her sandals were plain and brown but her toes had been painted a bright red. She walked like a model and looked like one, thin arms and sharp cheekbones. The banker ogled her, then made kissing noises at her, puckering his lips. When she didn’t turn her head, he shouted, “Tall babe! Come make I climb you small!” then burst into uproarious laughter, as if he’d said the wittiest thing. “Is that your hair?” he continued.

“What kind of nonsense question is that?” interrupted his colleague. “Does it look like her hair?”

The banker gave her a contemptuous glance. “Just because your own hair resembles broken broomstick, can somebody not grow their own?”

She ignored the insult. “As long as that? Abeg, it’s weave-on. Use common sense.”

“It’s a lie, I’ve seen plenty babes with long hair before.”

“Biko, all of them are weave-on! Are you stupid?”

“What about those Northern babes, nko? Their own hair grows well.”

“Those ones are always plaiting it. Besides, where are you seeing them like that?” She sucked her teeth and rolled her eyes at him.

The banker was thinking hard. “I know I’ve seen somebody with long long hair like this before. Not this weave-on nonsense you’re talking about.” He snapped his fingers on alternating hands as if it would call forth the memory. “Somewhere, somewhere.”