So, this man came and parked in front of the barbing salon, his car completely obscured by the darkness save for the little wisps of light from the generator powered barbing shop when the woman whom I'd later find out was his wife, came crashing a pestle on the wind shield of the man's car.
It happened in a spit second and I was horrified by it all, by the crashing sound of pestle and that of the falling glass; I imagined it was my golf taking such a hit and so, I panicked even as I was able to phantom what'd just happened - raging wife confronting a cheating husband.
My heart beat fast because I didn't like staying close to fracas especially this type which had the woman armed and fighting like a crazed bull, screaming in a hoarse voice, "you idiot! You he-goat! You're finished! I will totally destroy you! You men are worse than animals!"
I panicked because I was a man and men were being called 'worse than animals' just a few feet away.
The woman let the pestle fall hard again and again and again on the car,- a shinny new Lexus sedan whose screeching alarms and hazard light made the torture it was going through look like a beautiful thing, like it was being beaten to shape and not totally being destroyed, like it was being handled the way girls around this hotel were handled by the men who came to pick them up.
In a short time, a scene was created as was normal whenever a voice was raised on this street, this immoral space around this ever busy hotel which always had uncountable number of prostitutes swirling around, looking for men to take them home. Once, I was coming back from work late night and one with big breasts approached me, saying in the most lustful of voices, "come let's go home. Come, let's go home." I ran.
They were often overtly painted and scantily dressed. They ranged from the wrinkled 50 year olds who scrambled for the lowest of men, the only one who'd be interested in them, to the 35 year olds who were desperate to make a living before losing their youth, often taking only men in cars. There were also the young teenagers who in their naivete often settled for the little keke boys on whom they learnt how to satisfy men, in readiness for when they'd become the 'hot cakes' in their 20s.
They all gathered around to watch the scene and to laugh and to try to rescue one of their own who was now being threatened by the woman with the pestle. "Dirty girl! I will carve out that thing in between your legs and feed it to my dog!" the woman screamed.
The man was trying to restrain his wife from smashing the girls head since she'd been locked in the car and couldn't get out easily. She looked so terrified, a girl of about sixteen. She was pleading, "madam abeg, face your husband, not me. I am only trying to survive and feed my siblings who all depend on me. I am orphan oooo!" Her eyes glistened with desperate tears.
Her voice was so soft and poignant that I felt like going over to help her, to hold her and shield her from the chaos and terror. But then, Nnaemeka, you're an ọzọ title holder and if that pestle lands on you and these people make a video of you with all sorts of captions like "a married man caught with a prostitute and his wife smashed his head with a pestle," what will you tell your ancestors?
That idea terrified me and so, I quickly decided to leave the scene entirely.
I walked fast, out of the barbershop and onto the other side of the road where the night girls stood laughing, and threatening to kill the woman if anything happened to their colleague. Beside them was the suya man's stand. I often bought from him on many nights I felt like chewing spicy meat on my way back from work. The light of the hotel gate and the white lights of the street made the smoke from the fire look like a war from afar. I must leave without looking back.
After a few steps towards my street, I heard the man's voice, tearful, weak, pleading, "Ifunanya you have to stop this. You really have to leave this girl alone! What did you expect me to do when you hate me, when you totally are disgusted about me and my life, when you have refused to have sex with me for the past 3 years? What did you expect me to do when all I've gotten for all the love I've shown you, was a total rejection?"
I looked back. But I couldn't see much now in my dimmed view. I only heard the voices. The pleasing. The woman pounding the car into a heap of mangled metal.
***
But in your opinion, who's at fault here. Was it the woman who refused to give the man sex or the man who took to cheating as an outlet?
©Nnaemeka Ugwu.
