Love Bite: Entry #8
This fictional series contains foreign language, Nigerian slangs and some inappropriate use of diction. This is for the proper portrayal of the character.
Love Bite #Entry 8
Leke had vanished. For three days now, I got to hear the annoying, high pitched voice which announced that his phone was off. He wasn’t at the church, neither was he at Pastor Remi’s. He hadn’t spoken to his siblings in six weeks. His mother suspected nothing when I asked if he had called her to say hello, instead she began to talk about grandchildren. Somewhere in her lament, I heard a sniffle. She was coming to see us, she announced choking back her tears, she’d arrive in two weeks-- right after the Women of Proverbs 31 Global conference. This year was the year she would carry her grand babies.
After several unhelpful calls, I focused on calling Leke’s phone every ten minutes.
On the evening of the third day of his disappearance, Abigail drove me to the police station, and we filed a missing person’s report.
The lanky policeman had snickered as I scribbled Leke’s profession on the form.
“Maybe he don runaway with one choir mistress for church with tin leg.”He joked, the bulge in his neck bobbed as he chuckled.
By day four, I sat at home, numb, exhausted. I wanted us to move on, to get past this. That was what I had told him that night he saw me stepping out of Jare’s car. He had listened quietly as I spoke about Jare and I. It had meant nothing. He meant nothing to me. I said it over and over.
I told him about the videos.
I told him about the gateman; of Ngozi.
I kept hoping he’d interrupt me, maybe throw the coffee table against the wall, scream at me. Instead, he leaned against the backrest of the armchair, his chin cradled in his palm, his eyes glazed over. A part of me wished his eyes would cloud up with tears. They were clear. Dry.
“You slept with this man over and over”, His tone was even, “While I was building a dream for us?”
Building a dream for you. I thought to myself. I didn’t grow up as a little girl dreaming of the day I’d be married to a Pastor, wearing strange hats and having people call me Mummy.
“You aren’t home.” I said. Almost a whisper.
“But clearly he is.” His tone was controlled, disciplined, like a trained counselor‘s.
Was this how all couples talked about these things?
”How many times did it happen?” He leaned his upper body on one elbow and his other hand lay on his knee.
”Leke, is it really necessary? I—“
”A couple of times—“
He leaned forward in a flash. The thunder of his fist on the glass stool jarred me.
”How many?!” Still, he didn’t yell.
”Seventeen!” He was chuckling now, a low, almost secret chuckle. The glass had cracked.
“All in that house? And you didn’t get caught? Until that night?”
I remained still.
”Leke, it didn’t mean anything.”
”Did you think of me at all? While you were with him?”
The silence spoke for me.
“I want to be with you. Not him.” I wished he’d scream at me and not lecture me like a child.
“And at that, I should be delighted?”
He got to his feet and walked into the bedroom. Three heartbeats passed, then I followed him. The bedroom door was locked. I kept knocking.
I spent the night on the sofa. In the morning, our bedroom door lay wide open.
Leke was gone.
Copyright ©2017 by IkeOluwapo Adegboye