FOR MEN ONLY: THE FINAL COME DOWN CAME  

By Michael Egbejumi-David

My world screeched to a halt. I took a hard breath. Then another, and straightened my bra strap. But my shoulders slumped again. I couldn’t believe what I was reading. I read a few more entries. Soon I was breathing harder than a woman in labour. No woman likes to be read her failures. But here I was reading Fred’s words; his opinion of me. Not one word was complimentary. I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised but what I read shocked me. Those words stung hard. Even my profession was assaulted like a drag queen at a Beer-fest. I went right back to the first entry. That entry was made almost five months ago!

It was early evening. Three days after Obama: Friday November 7 th. I was supposed to be on call but had returned home early as the patient was DOA and nothing else was happening. Fred had gone on his usual early evening jog and had left his laptop on. I guess he had not anticipated my being back home until well into the night or even early morning as usual. I had always wanted to see what he does on that slim laptop he cradles so often and so jealously like an Asaba concubine. I tapped the “Enter” key and I was staring at an e-Diary. His last entry was made barely fifteen minutes before I parked my car and walked into the house. He had written: “I wish Joyce would just leave; maybe go to Hell. Only thing is, she grew up in Ajegunle so she might even love it there. I mean all it takes from Ajegunle to Hell is a shuttle bus isn’t it?”

His other entries weren’t as generous. On one occasion he wrote: “I’ve been telling Joyce to keep her nose out of other peoples business, but no! As usual, she doesn’t listen to me. Never have. That’s another reason I should blow this relationship. She talks too much about her lame friends and their even more lame men, and about horrid events at her hospital. Who wants to hear all that appetite killing shit?”

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And another: “Joyce thinks she’s always right. That really gets my goat; really burns me. Even when she drives as terribly as she always does and she’s at fault, she is quick to blame and abuse the other driver. I get so embarrassed. When she tells me of yet another ‘near miss’ and I point out that she actually was at fault, she disagrees. Tells me couples are supposed to stick together, support each other no matter what. Strange. Then she goes on and on until I am forced to switch off. That’s the problem; she thinks she’s always right. Why? Because she’s a Doctor? Rubbish! Most Doctors are nothing but nerds without too many life skills and she is leader of that pack. Women think they’re always right and know better. But she’s not always right and would find out the hard way. I cook here most days but does she show any appreciation? No! She complains about unwashed dishes. Am I supposed to wash the dishes immediately? Where would I find the energy! Women love to take men for granted. Should she not be grateful for the meals I prepare for her and the ones I bring home? In fact, she should be glad to do the wash-ups and do them with a smile.”

Sadness went through my body like a ghost. I reminded myself to breath.

Another entry: “Joyce blames me for everything in this house. It is getting so that I’m glad she’s taking on extra shifts at work. Never gives me credit for the things I do for her though. For a supposed smart woman, you’d think she would know better. I had to sell my apartment, do away with most of my personal possessions and move to this dead-ass suburb just to keep her from being lonely. It costs me almost £70 a week to put petrol alone in my car just to get to work and the places I need to be. I clean up this house, do all her ironing and make her food. I massage her old body when she comes home dog-tired from work. Brought respectability to her life. But she wants more. Whines all the time like a baby in Day Care. There’s only so much a man can take when a woman tells you what to do – or what you’re not doing ALL THE TIME. A woman can wear a man down to the bone. Bad loving certainly ages a man. I’m definitely getting tired of explaining things all the time. My mother died six years ago and Lord knows I’m not looking for another. Should I really be apologising for being myself? Am I supposed to be someone or something else? Women!”

And another: “Who knew it was possible to stop loving somebody. Who knew? I think maybe I still love Joyce, but I certainly don’t like her as a person. Not the kind of person she’s become – or maybe the kind of person she always was. I’m only getting to find out now that we live together. What mocking irony. She it too selfish. She only thinks about herself and how things relate to her and directly benefits her”.

I feel lines grow on my forehead. Heat spread across my face.

Yet another: “Joyce is hardly home now. Always at work. Is this really my future? Is this what I signed up to? Even the weekends I spend mostly by myself now. Every woman on the street is beginning to look good to me. The passion in our lovemaking took flight from this relationship a long time ago. And I can’t stand that hospital smell she brings into the house. That damn smell resides in my head now – even after she’s had a bath. She’s trying too hard in the lovemaking department and that turns me off. Can’t she see that?”

There were a few more entries, but my goodness!

This was painful. Fear and anger crowded me. Sweat gathered in my collar. I took off my glasses, rubbed my eyes and the bridge of my nose, and then put the glasses back on. I straightened my back the way a person does when they are about to face the truth head-on. My thoughts as deep as a Soyinka novel.

Well, it is easier pleasing God than pleasing men that much I know. I am experienced enough to know that men are so simple; childish even. They always like women better before they grow, when they’re less polished, and seemingly inferior. The minute the scales fall off, men are ready to move-on – if they could – or they simply allow trouble to walk into the relationship. Men would always look for young impressionable women to dazzle or lord it over. It cuts across cultures. Men just can’t hang. It is the reason CEOs in the West leave their first wives and hook up with Bimbos. It is the reason most brilliant and assertive South Asian women are in their second marriages – usually to Whitemen. And it is the reason some Nigerian men propose to the picture of a simpleton sent from their village. As I said, men can’t hang.

Nigerian and most other Black immigrant men in the Diaspora are propped-up by their women that much I also know. The achievers among them are the lucky ones who have strong, stable and supportive women standing by their side emotionally and financially. But do brothers appreciate this? Hhmm! When the racist system in the racist society they live in beat up on them out there, to whom do they turn for support and strength? Who make them feel like the proper African men that they are? Don’t the pitiful and truly weak ones amongst them turn around and beat up on, or take their frustrations out on that stable support at home, i.e. their women? Pathetic I tell you. I have encountered too many Nigerian women abroad who had to take on two or three jobs to sustain the household while their male partners basically loll about carping about the system, waiting for some cushy job or driving mini cabs whenever they feel like it. So most times, most of them can be found gathered together just drinking and chasing after women young enough to be their nieces. The problem with most lost sheep of course is that they hang with other lost sheep and so don’t even know they’re lost. If I’m lying, I’m flying. Sisters do what they have to do and they do it selflessly.

Since I am talking about what I know, let me place it on the record that giving love is not one of brothers’ strong points. They are too selfish, prideful or defensive. Either that, or they are too soppy and that is the worse kind of turn off. Let the record also show that it was yours truly who pushed Fred to start up his own business rather than keep making money for other people. It was me that went to the bank with him. It was me that signed those loan documents as a guarantor.

And another thing; I am a curious person and I have plenty of knowledge and common sense. People do come to me about things and I offer my advice and support, especially to my fellow sisters. But some naughty people might mistake that for being nosey. Nosey I’m not!

The things Fred wrote really hurt me. Pain was in my eyes and was knotting my stomach the way a Boy Scout knots a rope. Before I knew what I was doing, I was going through all of Fred’s documents. Unbelievably I came across information about him owning a three bedroom house in Stamford Hill, North London! He had discussed with me in the past about wanting to get into the property market. Told me he wanted to buy a house or two, fix them up and then sell them off. I advised him that it wasn’t the best time to dabble in the real estate business as people are not buying. I told him that since his Consultancy is a fairly young business, he should seek to grow and consolidate that but in the meantime he could be putting a little money aside building up a nice deposit for when the property market picks up again. I told him that it is a venture we should go into jointly - as in together - when the time is right. That was the last time he spoke to me about buying houses. And now I find this! He had obviously gone ahead and bought at least one house without my knowledge! We are still living together! And here I was coming off another on-call shift I could have gladly done without. There’s nothing as unattractive as a selfish and inconsiderate man.

Fred and I have been living together a little over two years now. We’re both from the old Bendel. He moved in with me after I pointed out to him that it amounted to a waste of money for him to continue to keep and pay mortgage on his apartment in Canary Wharf when he spends virtually all his time at my house on the outskirts of London. He insisted that he would only move-in with me if he took over my mortgage payments while I take care of the utility bills. I agreed and he sold his luxurious high-rise apartment, making a tidy profit in the process. With the profit, he traded-in his Mercedes CLK 230 and got a yellow Porsche. Fred had lost his high flying, highly pressurised dotcom job a couple of years before when the reality pin pricked that over-inflated industry. He now runs his own IT Consulting firm. Most of his clothes and shoes cost more than mine. I’m sure he must have all the electronic and telecommunication gadgets ever made. He never eats a meal without Red wine. Comes home every week with a crate each of Nigerian Guinness and Red Wine neither of which I drink. I prefer white sparkling wine – those sweet Spumante kinds, but he never buys even one bottle of those. How inconsiderate can a grown man be? He has never let me in on how much money he makes and more than two years later the house mortgage is still being paid by me.

He does contribute to the house keep but not nearly enough. To make up the difference, I take on a few extra out-of-hours jobs and cover other colleagues’ on-call rota. He complains and is beginning to get upset whenever I bring up the matter of money and support so I don’t talk about it as much as I should. Because I take on extra work to earn a little extra to pick up his slack, we see each other less and less. Lately, we don’t even have much to say to each other whenever we’re both at home together. He’s become as distant as Australia. When I come home and tell him about my day at work or some non-routine intervention that saved a life or that was quite challenging, I see the disinterest in his eyes. He gives me dry monosyllabic responses, so I don’t discuss my work with him anymore. Most days I come home and the kitchen sink is filled with used pots, pans, and the rest. He is always on that damn laptop or on the phone talking to one of his buddies.

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All of our friends and other people we know are married. Fred and I are the only ones still playing “house” – well except for his mate Aliyu. That fool is waiting for his final divorce papers. He has been waiting for it since his wife caught him in a downstroke with her ex best friend almost thirteen months ago. Ugly men are always so bold. Unfortunately, Aliyu still remains Fred’s closest friend. Our sex life has almost come to a bumpless stop and - even though I try not to - I’m beginning to wonder if there’s someone else. We used to always talk about anything under the sun, but not anymore. It seems that activity is now reserved for his buddies. I came home late one evening and I could hear him from the front door talking politics on the phone with someone. He was dissecting the Nigerian situation in a way that was so lucid while at the same time ripping Yar’Adua a new bum hole. I wondered if he speaks about me with the same kind of passion – I mean with words that drip with life and honey. But I doubt it. To make matters worse, he hasn’t placed a ring on any of my fingers. I’m still as single as a dollar bill. Resentment crept-in and has been living in my soul for a while.

Whilst I was still lost in thought, Fred came in all sweaty from his jog. I wanted to confront him but I hadn’t had the time to plan what I was going to say; and after reading what he had been writing about me, I am a little hesitant so I decided to play it cool and buy myself some time. Our eyes collided. He asked me when I got home. I didn’t answer. Tension swam two quick laps in the silence. He shrugged his shoulders and hit the shower singing. Sounded like he was in a good mood. I suppose he would feel good after dissing me in his e-Diary just some ninety minutes ago. After a short while, he came out of the bathroom butt naked. I guess you can say he still looks good if you get past the receding hairline, especially as most men past their mid 30s only look good in Italian suits and not so much in their birthday suit. He was dripping water all over my dresser for the millionth time. That reminded me that I haven’t had my bath since I got in, so I went into the bathroom. His jogging clothes and underwear were on the floor less than six feet from the empty laundry basket. I had a quick shower then put my clothes in the laundry basket. Left his where they were. Wrapped myself up in a short white towel and went into the bedroom.

Fred was still butt naked, sitting on the bed watching women’s Beach Volleyball. China Vs Brazil. The Chinese pair would have been better off wearing long trousers. I took my time drying off. I applied Revitol on my inner thighs, abdomen and upper arms. Damn cellulites are not going to get the better of me! Then I applied Oil of Ulay over the rest of my body. I was slow and deliberate because I was thinking and was still unsure how to begin the conversation with Fred. Now I wished I had confronted him as soon as his flat behind walked in the door.

All of a sudden I felt his arms around me. Hadn’t seen him approaching. I wanted to push him off but again I was undecided. He took Oil of Ulay and rubbed it on my already creamed back. He guided me to the bed. I didn’t want to but I still hadn’t decided how to play my hand yet. He rolled me onto my stomach and got some scented massage oil from the nightstand, poured a little into his hand, rubbed his hands together to make the oil warm and then began rubbing around my shoulders. Soon he was working those tense muscles and massaging all down my back. I bit my bottom lip. Then he started to rub my left foot. I bit my bottom lip again. Minutes went by and he switched to my right foot. Soon he was making those contentment and aroused noises – oh sorry, those were coming from me. I clamped my mouth shut and bit my lip harder. When he started to knead under the centre of the ball of my foot, a low deep growl escaped me and desire dampened me. I hated myself for it, but when he slithered up, turned my head up a bit and kissed me, I kissed him back. Then he loved me; took me to that special place. I didn’t want to acknowledge it. At least I hope I didn’t acknowledge it – too loudly. When it was over, he pulled the cover over us, cradled me in his arms, kissed my shoulder and asked if I was okay. I wiped my mouth before I said my driest “uh huh.”

I woke up and it was morning! Had not realised I was that tired and stressed out. Time is certainly a thief when you’re undecided. Fred was gone. He did not leave a note as to where he went. I sat up in bed and did some heavy duty thinking. I decided the best place to start would be a visit to his secret property in North London just to be sure. I had to work later in the day, but all of a sudden I was so pressed by a sense of righteous mission that I practically ran into my clothes. Went into the bathroom, brushed my teeth and washed my face. Applied a little makeup and bounced downstairs. I made a cup of tea, took a sip and poured the rest down the sink. Then I drove 42 miles to Stamford Hill. I got to the street where the house was located a little over an hour. However, I couldn’t drive far into the street at all. Most of the parking spots were taken as the bloody Cable Company was digging up the whole place and had blocked off most of the street. I managed to squeeze my car into a tiny space in front of house number 11. Got out and began to walk towards house number 62. Before I had walked five yards I spotted Fred’s yellow Porsche. I walked over to the car, placed my hand on the hood and the thing was slightly warm. My chest tightened. I swallowed. My saliva went down like Quinine. I resumed walking towards number 62; every step heavier than the one before.

62 Cranston Street was a one storey modern brick house. There were expensive looking curtains in all the front windows. By the Rubbish Bin was an old gas stove. Next to the old stove was an empty crate of Nigerian Guinness sitting on top of a box of Jacobs Creek Red Wine. Large potted evergreen plants were everywhere. My jaw clenched and unclenched. I rubbed the back of my neck, walked up to the doorbell and leant into it. No answer. I stood there and continued ringing that bell for the better part of twenty minutes before I gave up. I had to be at work within the hour so I walked back to my car, got in, closed the door and fished out a small writing pad and a pen that I’ve had in the glove compartment for a while. I tried to write a short note so Fred would know I was there but the damn pen wouldn’t write. I moved the nib furiously across the writing pad but still no luck. In anger I threw the pen out the car window. The useless pen hit the closed window, bounced off and hit me painfully on the head, just above the right ear. I cursed the hopeless pen in three languages, opened the car door and kicked the worthless thing out.

At that moment a taxi pulled up close to my car and a woman got out. As she was struggling to get money from her shoulder handbag, a few items fell from the handbag onto the floor. One of those items was a pen. I closed my car door and approached her. I smiled at her as I bent down and began picking up the fallen objects. She thanked me with a Nigerian accent and a smile. I asked her if I could use her pen real quick and she nodded yes as she paid off the cab driver. I wrote: “Hi Fred darling, Joyce was here.” I dated it and added the time, 12:13pm. The sister had finished paying the cab driver and was opening the back door. She was slim, tall and light skinned with a gap tooth. She had on black jeans and a short burgundy jacket. On her feet were tanned sandals. Her weave looked slept-in. Though her accent was Nigerian, I couldn’t tell which part of the country she was from. She retrieved a small travel case and a weary looking plastic Tesco shopping bag from the back seat of the taxi. Some people can be so tacky. The taxi backed up and drove away.

I handed back her pen, thanked her and began walking towards house number 62 again. But I quickly noticed that the sister was walking in the same direction and was just a couple of half steps behind me so I slowed down and we walked side-by-side. I volunteered to carry her travel case. As we walked I asked her if she lived on this street but she said no. Said she was visiting her fiancée. She said that last word with a fake French accent; the kind you hear in West Africa. I looked more closely at the sister. She looked like she just got out of college. Couldn’t be older than twenty three. She’s got more curves than Milliken Hill. Her breasts looked better than mine ever will. I could see that she was feeling chatty and was kind of excited. She informed me that she was from Port Harcourt and was merely visiting for a very short spell. I asked how long she had been engaged and she giggled as she said “not very long.” Said that with glittering eyes and a Pepsodent smile. She also told me that this was only her second visit.

Soon we came by house number 62. I stopped and handed back her travel case. I told her this was my destination and thanked her again for the use of her pen. As I talked, the Port Harcourt sister was again digging in that shoulder handbag of hers. Again, things came tumbling out from the bag onto the floor. Again, I bent down to retrieve them. As I did so, she fished out a set of keys, walked up to the front door of Fred’s secret house, inserted a key in the lock, turned it and threw the front door open. Down at the ground level, I froze. Every ounce of air was sucked from my body. My left hand was clutching the note I had intended to leave for Fred, and my right was on the ground on top of an Estee Lauder Mauve Mocha Crystal Lip Jewels lipstick. I could smell something burning; realised it was the wooden bridge under my feet……….

© 2008. M Egbejumi-David

demdem@hotmail.co.uk

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*** This would be the last in the very short “For Men Only” series. I had originally intended a regular feature as I find that writing only about the Nigerian political situation is becoming bad for my health. However, I had received a lot of kind reviews and emails even from places and people I never would have guessed read stuff that I write. A few of those have urged that I look into writing a novel. I have decided I would give it a shot. In truth, the whole idea scares me silly, but I must admit also that I feel challenged and excited as well. Problem is, I have no idea whatsoever what I’ll write about!!! Perhaps I’ll write out this story in full……We’ll see.  

I want to thank all NVS peeps that responded to previous ‘“For Men Only” articles. I also want to thank very sincerely the people that sent encouraging PMs. If I don’t pull this off, it will be your fault! I particularly want to thank Joan who, out of the blues, linked me up with a former Literary Agent and Book Editor. Thanks everyone.

MED