 |
| This was how the pot I prepared looked like |
Without hesitation, I quickly dipped my hand into my pocket and brought out a packet of crispy N1,000 notes that I withdrew earlier in the day over the counter in my bank and gave her N20,000 (twenty thousand naira) out of it.
She took the money from me, without saying ‘thank you’ and quickly slipped it into her purse. After that, she carried the pot to her bedroom and kept it for me there.
Not long after that day, just within three days interval, my wife and I fell out with each over an issue bordering on money. While we were arguing over that issue, she dashed into her bedroom and return with that same pot that I gave her to safe-keep for me.
“What do you want to do with that pot?” I asked, pretending to be shocked to see her with it.
“Do you know that your life is now in my hand?” she threatened. “If you provoke me beyond this level, I’ll smash this motherfucker pot on the floor and send you to go and meet your ancestors in the great beyond.”
“Please, dear, don’t do that,” I pleaded. “Why would want to do that? Would you like to have hands in the death of the man you call your husband? Has it come to that? Please, don’t break the pot. Forgive me, I won’t quarrel with you again.”
After much pleading and kneeling down for her, she warned me sternly never to provoke her again, before returning the pot reluctantly to where she brought it out from. In addition to begging her for several minutes that day, she also demanded for a ransom of N10,0000 (ten thousand naira), which I obliged her.
Each time we had a misunderstanding, after that day, she would threaten to break the pot, so that I would die, and each time she did that I would offer her some money and plead with her not to do so.
One cool Friday evening, during the Xmas and New Year festivities, something funny happened. I lied to her that the native doctor who prepared the charm for me had just informed me that my ancestors are angry over the way the pot was being harassed.
Consequent upon that, I told her to go and bring the pot for me to keep it in my own bedroom and face whatever consequence that might arise should I mistakenly break it. I had hardly completed that statement when she started shouting at me.
“Why should I hand over the pot back to you?” she barked. “Were you not the one who gave it to me to keep for you?”
“Yes, I gave it to you to keep for me,” I replied, “and now, that I don’t want you to keep it for me any longer, can I have it?”
“Have what?” she asked militarily. “Over my dead body would you have the pot back? You gave it to me for safe-keeping, so leave it with me.”
As I stood from where I was sitting, pretending to walk towards her bedroom, she sprang up from where sat, ran into her bedroom and locked the door behind her. After a few minutes of silence in her bedroom, she came out with the pot. And before I could say ‘what do you want to do with the pot?’ she had smashed it on the floor.
After wreaking that havoc, she stood at a corner with her hands on her waist, probably expecting to see me slump and die, but that never happened. While she was still watching what would happen to me or what my reaction would be, I majestically picked up my phone and started making some calls.
The people I called were her parents and some of her relations, as well as my parents and some of my relations. I briefed them of what had just happened and invited them to my house the next day being Saturday.
Fortunately for me, all of them honoured my invitation. It was a plenary meeting.
After thanking them for coming, I went straight into the matter of the day, without wasting much time. I supported my complaint with the unedited video recording of the making of the pot as captured by my friend on my Android phone.
After they had listened to my story and after watching the video, which I connected to my large screen television, my wife’s eldest brother shook his head in disbelief and sighed. After a few minutes he added: “I don’t think there’s anything anybody has to say to what you’ve just told us and showed us than to plead with you to forgive her.”
While I was contemplating of how to react to my brother-in-law’s plea, my wife exploded and said to her elder brother: “Why are you begging him? Is he God? “Will I die if I leave your house?”
Immediately after saying that, she walked out on everybody that was present at the meeting and left for her bedroom. On sensing that somebody might be coming behind her, she slammed the door behind her and locked it with key.
When she emerged from her bedroom some minutes later, she walked past everybody at the sitting room, venue of the meeting, and drove off in her car, leaving even her parents and relations behind in my house. This left her mother crying and begging.
At that point, her eldest brother said to me: “My dear in-law, I think you’re free to take whatever decision you want to take on this matter because I can’t understand why my own younger sister would treat all of us ignominiously. Thank you for inviting us here.”
My wife did not return home for more than a week after that day. When she did return, she refused to talk to me, even when I was glad to see her again.
All she did was to open her bedroom, which she had locked for days, and moved all her belongings into her waiting car. After that, she drove off, without saying a word to me. I didn’t say a word either. Neither did I stop her from going away with the car, which I bought for her with my hard-earned money.
Guess what! She has been sending people, including her relations and friends, to come and plead with me to allow her return to my house. Her emissaries call me on phone every blessed day over the matter. Isn’t that funny?
Do you know why she seriously wants to return to my house? Because the man she left me for beats and punches her almost on a daily basis, even when the man uses her car to carry other women all over the town.
A few days ago, one of her friends showed me one of the photographs she took after her strange lover had beaten her black and blue. That was something I never did to her throughout our 12 years of marriage.
I now understand why our people say that a woman may not know the value of a good husband until she marries a bad one. Whether I will forgive her or not is a story for another day.
The End.
Story By John Usiyen
