“Nah wah oh, wonders will never cease, why the rush to marry now? You are making us look bad my friend, you are still so young.”
“Leave British gentleman alone, he knows what he wants.” This from Obi who had Emmanuel with him.
It is funny how I cannot separate the two of them now. I think of one and the image of the other attaches itself. It wasn’t always that way. Despite everything, I was surprisingly happy to see them. It is as if I too in my own way wanted to say see? Life can carry on as normal! Let me confess that on the day I was also very nervous, not because I had any doubts about marrying Felicia, no, she was a vision in cream. But because I was frightened something would snatch away my good fortune. That Felicia may pull me aside and say I cannot go through this with you. That while blessing us I would suddenly be violently sick on the minister and he would proclaim that my soul was tarnished. And then the spirit of the dead soldier would appear, just as I was about to kiss Felicia and seal my vows. Thankfully none of this happened. By the time I was walking away from the minister with Felicia’s hand in mine and the guests were whooping there was a stitch in my side.
General Akhatar came to our native ceremony with a big-bottomed fair skinned woman I did not recognise, his sunken, beaten side face floating amongst the sea of guests with full faces. I wondered why a man of the General’s stature and success had not married. But then I was caught up in a dance with my wife, which swept the question away.
That night she held my fingers firmly. In our adequate apartment in Lagos, just big enough for us, I made love to my wife. I kissed the faded scar on her left knee, shaped like a caterpillar. I made a replica one on the opposite knee with a trace of my finger. In her belly button I whispered to my growing child. I drew her ankle down to my face, read her fortune from her beautifully arched feet. I predicted she would marry a foolish man because like attracts like, and listened as she laughed, falling against my chest.
Afterwards, we lay on our backs on the squeaky mattress coated in a lovers’ sweat and I asked her why she’d agreed to marry me.
She said, “Because I love you. You are reliable, quietly strong. You are still getting to know yourself and I see your potential.” Then she kissed my shoulder. I slid down and rested my head on her stomach. Silently, I told my child I would teach them to sit on top of their weaknesses. I warned them not to make my mistakes. All three of us were a triangle of flesh, nerves and electricity reflecting in the blades of the whirring ceiling fan overhead.
Several days later Felicia discovered the brass head in my bag whilst unpacking my things. “Peter, where did you get this?” She stood facing me in the doorway of our box kitchen holding it up, a curious look on her face. The bottle top I’d removed with my teeth from the cola grazed a lie a husband must tell his wife. I informed her it was an early wedding gift from General Akhatar, from his collection, one of his favourites.
I watched my wife run her fingers over it, as if she were blind and trying to memorise its image with her hands. Finally she said, “that’s so generous of him, this is something special, and he must think a lot of you to give you this. You have to stay on his good side.”
Felicia carried it away to display in our parlour. I bit down a sudden worry. That in my absences the brass head would be a mirror. It would show her she was more than just a shop girl, more than a wife and mother.
On our first date I brought Felicia a gift, a packet of cigarettes I laid in her palm gently. One eyebrow shot up and there was amusement in her eyes. We stood outside her miserable looking rickety grey house. She was beautiful in a white dress.
“I thought smoking is for fast, loose women” Was her comment.
“Maybe, maybe not” I steered her towards the black Volkswagen sitting there like a blown up bug.
I told her I wanted it to be our last packet of cigarettes.
I knew she was laughing inside at my hypocrisy. I stood there feeling exposed. If I looked down, there would be a trap around my foot, and she would pluck out a slim cigarette, light up, then offer “cigarette?” as I howled. Instead she dropped the packet inside her handbag. We sat inside the car watching the house for a moment.
“You’re not like some of the other soldiers that come into the shop. You seem sad for someone so young.”
I didn’t answer but flicked the engine on. Heady, wild flower perfume filled the car, and I swear I wanted to tell her right then.
We went to the cinema and watched a horror film where the acting was so bad it should have been a comedy instead. We laughed and laughed. Afterwards, we took a walk by a bendy road. I asked her why she was not studying at the university for someone so bright. And she told me.
When Felicia was at secondary school, she had been an A student, always performing within the top of the class. At Our Ladies of Light School she was a popular girl but was always getting into fights defending one stray or another. This resulted in memorable run-ins with the head mistress. Either her skirts were too short, she couldn’t mind her business or she had no respect for authority. But to the head mistress’s annoyance she continued to excel. She spent every spare moment in the school library, tracing the spines of books and poring over their pages greedily. She read books on physics, biology, philosophy, history, law and economics. Her first love was the work of Soyinka but she cheated on it with the poetry of Keats. The school librarian was so enamoured with her, she began to keep books of interest aside for her. Though Felicia was an only child, even with their little shop, they were still poor, her father elderly and sickly, her mother changed by bitterness. They could not afford to send her to university but one day something wonderful happened.
Felicia was called into the principal’s office and told she had been recommended for a university scholarship and she would have to apply to the Ministry of Education for it. The deadline loomed. That day, she ran home excited, foolishly showing the forms to her parents. Two days later, the forms disappeared. She searched everywhere but her search came to nothing. She never asked which one of her parents was responsible; it was too painful to know. Instead, she spent her nights re-reading old library books by candlelight on her bedroom floor. And the candles without fault were always apologetic, shedding their melting hot skin onto her resigned knuckles.
We followed our steps back the way we came, creating a map of the latter half of our date. The air hummed with night creatures and we held a comfortable silence heading back to the car. I wondered at such normality after that terrible night. The three of us, Obi, Emmanuel and I were walking around as if nothing happened. I asked myself how a beautiful, smart girl couldn’t see me for what I am; a self-centred opportunist willing to do whatever it takes. Or maybe she could see it and just locked it away. I drove her back home and we sat again looking at her house for several moments. I didn’t want to stop myself when the words came out. She didn’t say yes that time, she squeezed my hand and laughed. And when she shut the door behind her it felt like the beginning of something. I know it is funny and true; I proposed to my wife at the end of our first date.