Walking on my toes, silently, from the bedroom into the kitchen; I cut into the big loaf of bread with the sharpest knife on the cabinet long before you wake. I want no sounds heard; this silence is my power and warm bed. Your food is served- ready to be dipped into when you awake. My mind doesn’t want the bother of words that hold no water, have bad taste and stink like a soiled bed wetter’s mattress. No words, just like it was yesterday.
I walk on my toes to the room, lie down beside you and pretend to sleep when I feel your weight move off the bed. You glance at me- idiot, I curse inside. What is left of me but the poundings of anger, neglect and disgrace? Two deaths and promises that fell into the thin air of nothingness. I stood by you when you had nothing, now too much money has stuffed your stomach with pride. Your lies, cheating and insults have shaved all hopes of new beginnings like the drums of bleakness beating in an average Nigerians heart.
I have resigned to fate, I will be the maid you never let me have, the whore that opens her legs as easily as you roll your roll-on under your arms, and a fashionista that smiles as we take the perfect picture. I am the first lady that feels like the last. My death acceptance is my Nigerian norm.
Tell me, where does a Governor’s wife run when her husband is the law of the land? She dies to the travails of living without rules and laws, yet baptised in political lies and unrestrained power.
