Chapter 3: There's always a first time

Two days later, Salewa and I were on the phone together, talking as we usually did. I truly appreciated her for what she had done that night — I really enjoyed myself, and the joy lingered well into the next day. Even my children were happy; they had never experienced anything like that before. My husband, on the other hand, was visibly unsettled. I could feel the tension radiating off him. It was obvious he had begun to suspect that perhaps I now had a man on the side — a boyfriend, or maybe even a sugar daddy.

But who cared? I wanted to upgrade, and that was all that mattered to me.

"Haw, don't worry. He hasn't seen anything yet. By the time your dressing changes and you start going out more often, he will soon lose his mind," my friend said, and I burst into laughter.

"He doesn't even know that his charm has lost its grip on you — your eyes are now wide open. Abeg, leave him. Very soon he'll go and fight with his babalawo," she added, and I could not stop laughing.

Haw.I can't wait. I can't wait to break free from this bondage and stand on my own. I wanted to become a big woman — a woman of means, the kind that everyone bowed to.

"You know what, whenever you are free, come to Lagos. Come and pack some fine clothes — big women's clothes. I've worn most of them only once or twice. Just come whenever you're ready; you'll take as many as you want," she added, and I screamed in joy.

"Hey… Odogwu!!!" I hailed.

"Haha! Dem go take! Dem go take!! Hey!" I cheered as my friend smiled softly on the other end.

"Don't worry — whenever you're coming, just plan to spend at least a week or even a month with me, because I'm going to take you to places you have never been. By the time you return, your village people will be in shock," she said.

"Is plenty seh. Oyaaaaaaa. I don come you just haven't seen me with your eye ni," I replied with excitement.

"But wait. How am I going to tell him that I want to come to Lagos? O le maa fe release mi — (he may not want to let me go)" I asked, suddenly confused.

"Tell him you want to go and visit your friend in Lagos. Are you no longer allowed to travel?" she replied.

"Ehn…...but what about my children?" I asked in concern.

"Let him take care of the children. At least let him feel the stress you go through every day so he can learn to appreciate you better when you return," she replied, and I agreed completely.

Now I had a trip to prepare for.

---

Later that night, when my husband returned from work, I went to meet him under the tree where he usually sat to catch fresh air. Though we had not been on speaking terms since I turned over a new leaf, he never stopped responding whenever I raised an issue. I was a little nervous, but I had made up my mind — just as Salewa had encouraged me.

"I want to travel to Lagos," I told him — not as a request, but as a decision already made.

"You say?" he asked, looking visibly shocked.

"I want to travel to Lagos," I repeated.

"For what?"

"I want to go and visit my friend Omosalewa. She asked me to come — there are some things she wants to give me," I replied.

"Things like what?" he asked, and I paused for a moment, slightly caught off guard.

"Clothes… shoes… bags," I stated.

"Clothes, shoes, bags? Don't you have those things at home? Why is she asking you to travel all the way to Lagos for clothes, shoes, and bags?" he questioned.

"Haha — I don't understand. How many clothes, shoes, and bags do I have at home that you think are enough?" I shot back.

"So the ones at home — what are they called?" he asked.

"I don't know. Are the ones at home of any quality? What rubbish are you spewing from your mouth?" I snapped, steering it into an argument.

"Ehnehn. So you also want to start doing more than you can carry right?" He questioned. I ignored him, rolled my eyes, and hissed.

"Okay. What about your children?" he asked.

"They'll be at home. It's just two days — I won't stay long," I stated.

"Haaa — two days? You didn't even say you'd go and come back the same day. Two whole days?" he exclaimed as though it were something monumental.

"Ehn, what's two days? Wait — are you against me? Did you marry me just to cage me so I can never have a good life? Answer me!" I turned to face him squarely.

"I am not against you in any way, but I need to understand why you would leave your children for two days just for shoes and a bag. Reason am naaa," he replied calmly.

"What if something happens to you? What if they kidnap you?" he added quietly.

"God forbid. I will not be kidnapped, in Jesus' name. Don't you ever put such a curse on me again," I warned him.

"I'm not cursing you. I'm only stating the facts," he replied.

"Woo — that's your headache. Lagos — I will go and return safely, inshallah" I declared as I rose to leave.

" Iwo lo mo.But if you insist on going, please first inform your family members," he replied calmly.

All I gave him in response was a long hiss and a murmur under my breath.

---

The next day came as expected. I woke up as early as possible and began packing the children's clothes, getting them ready for school. The moment my husband woke up, I gave him a cold face — I did not want him speaking to me at all.

"Are you still traveling?" he asked.

I nodded.

"And you said you'll be back after two days?" he asked again.

I nodded once more.

"Okay." He said nothing more than that, picked up his things, and left for work.

I returned from dropping the children at school only to receive a phone call from my mother's younger sister — the only motherly figure I had left in this world.

"Hello, Iya Aba," I greeted as I picked up the call. That was the name we had fondly called her, long before my mother passed away.

"Toyo, how are you? How are your children?" she greeted warmly.

"They are fine, ma."

"Pele, oko mi. Your husband called and reported you to me. Why are you no longer treating your husband well?" she asked.

"I don't understand — did he say I bit him?" I replied with a rude edge to my tone.

"So it has to come to biting or slapping before he can complain that your attitude has changed?"

"It is well. That's not even why I called — who is Omosalewa?" she asked.

"Omosalewa? She's my friend," I replied.

"I'm not saying she's not your friend. But why is she asking you to come to Lagos?" she pressed.

"She wants to give me some things," I replied.

"Things like what?"

"Ha, mama — ewo— I've already discussed it with my husband. Why did he bring it to you?" I snapped, my irritation growing.

"Because he knows you won't listen."

"Does that your friend even know you are married? Does she know you have children at home? Because I'm very sure that if she did, she wouldn't be asking you to abandon your home and come to Lagos," she added sternly.

"But she's not asking me to come and spend eternity in Lagos — just two days," I countered.

" O je bi. She should have asked you to spend eternity then…" she paused, then her voice rose sharply. "Do you even know that you no longer have parents? I don't have the strength to be searching for a grown woman up and down. If you allow them to kidnap you and use you for rituals, that will be the end for you, and nobody will even know where to start looking!" she cried before raining more harsh words on me and hanging up the call.

I sat in silence for a long moment, a dull ache settling in my chest. Her words stung — deeply. So because I was an orphan, I had no right to move anywhere? What a pity. Meanwhile, her own children — younger than me by several years — traveled across the country on a weekly basis without anyone raising an eyebrow.

---

That night, when my husband returned from work, I was waiting. I had spent the entire day crying, and by the time he walked through that door, everything I had been holding inside came charging out.

"You heartless man! Why did you report me to Iya Aba? What exactly have I done wrong that made you run to her? All because I said I want to spend two days in Lagos — not two weeks — and you've already turned it into a crisis!"

"So you think that because I'm married to you, I've lost the right to move? You must be mad. Oponu. Oloriburuku. Oloshi. That's exactly why you're not moving forward — because you hate good things!"

"Look at all your brothers — they are making it! Only you is drowning in this poverty as if they swore you into it!"

"Oloshi. O wa ni won fe ji oungbe. ( Idiot.You talked about kidnapping). It is you and your bad luck they will kidnap, you foolish man!"

" Alakisa! You think I'm going to sit here and rot in this your abject poverty? God forbid! Any opportunity to better my life and that of my children — I will take it. Since poverty is not ready to leave you, and you are not ready to leave it, you can die in it!"

I screamed so loudly that I knew our neighbors could hear every word. It was the first time — in all our years together — that any sound of conflict had ever left the walls of our home. We had always been known as a loving, quiet, and contented couple.

He reached for his phone to answer a call. The moment I caught a glimpse of the screen — Iya Aba — something in me snapped. I lunged at him and grabbed for the phone.

"Leave me — leave me — my phone!" he struggled.

"Give me that phone!" I wrestled with him.

The phone slipped from his grip and crashed to the floor. At the sight of it, he shoved me — roughly — and I stumbled backward, my back slamming hard into the shelf.

Ouch!.Ouch!.

The pain shot through me, but I did not stop. I rushed back at him and grabbed his shirt with both hands.

"You must kill me today. Since my own people have given you permission to treat me anyhow — kuku kill me today!" I said as I locked his shirt.

I started punching him. I bit him. He struggled to free himself, and we wrestled like strangers — like enemies — in the same room where we had once laughed together, held each other, and built a life.

Our children screamed and wept at the sight of us. The noise brought our co-tenants rushing in one after another, pulling us apart with alarmed voices.

" Iya Ope, kilosele?" someone cried.

" Baba Ope… ha!" another gasped.

They finally pried his shirt loose from my grip. I stood there, heaving, my chest rising and falling. The room was full of people, full of noise — but in that moment, something felt terribly, quietly wrong.

I looked at my husband's face.

He wasn't angry.

He was looking at me the way a man looks at something he has already lost — with a sadness so deep it frightened me in a way his anger never could.

I stared at the cracked ground beneath my feet, then Omosalewa's voice echoed in my hair once more.

'Once you are ready, you will come to me'.

Come to me — as what, exactly?

What is this new Omosalewa?