The Good Wife

The time on the clock read 6:30pm, Steve will be home any minute. A casual stroll passed the living room mirror reveals my makeup and hair are still perfectly in place. Red. Steve always loved this tight red dress with its plunging neckline. It seems fitting to wear it on a night like this- they say, I don’t know who said it but someone said, ‘at the end of everything, you always think of the beginning’.

The kitchen, redolent with the scent of the chicken luwombo fills the room and brings with it memories of the past rushing forth- memories of my mother teaching me how to prepare this delicacy for my husband. ‘A well fed man is like a well-trained dog, he might wonder here and there but he will always return home.’

A little trite if you ask me…i was always a cat person.

I pour myself more wine and smile as the delicious oaky taste runs down my throat. What is it about full-bodied wine and the way it leaves you feeling grounded. Purposeful. The greatest inventions were created by wine drinkers. I’ts a fact, look it up.

“I love this place honey, how did you find it?” I asked giddily as we walk into the wine village in Muyenga. “Jumia food”, Steve replied while looking around for a free table. We’d been going out for a couple of weeks, I wasn’t yet sure what I felt for him; but I knew it was a strong ‘like’. After having dinner and lots of wine, he suggested we go back to his place, and I agreed. The sexual tension between the two of us had been building over the previous weeks and we were now at that critical moment; the one where you both know something has to happen, that moment were you both know you want it.

The sex was…awkward, but I remember thinking about how sex is a thing that can be worked at- sort of like communication. We kept dating, the sex didn’t improve; I just got better at faking it. With all the porn men binge watch, it’s no wonder they have no clue what to do with a woman.

The sound of footsteps at the door force my mind back to the present moment, to the task at hand. I begin the process of setting the table; the finest dishes will do for a night as important as this.

Welcome home honey, how was your day? I lean in for a kiss and pretend to listen to his detailed account of the day. This man, my husband…all chiseled and good looking. I remember it now, the day he approached me for the first time at the dvd store…

“You watch grey’s anatomy too?” he’d asked, in the same voice one would use to ask “You eat avocado toast?”- like it was some secret society recruitment thing. Like it was irrefutable proof that we belonged together.

I couldn’t quite put my finger on it; was it the playfulness in his eyes? Or was it the confident way he held himself- like he expected the whole world to make way for him and his own. Sure he’s good looking but there was something extra, something pure…untainted. Yes, it was those eyes.

“honey, you look drop dead gorgeous,” he says as his eyes take the evenings worth of grooming in, “did I miss something? Are we celebrating something?”

“No, I just wanted to have dinner with you”, “I have a surprise for you,” I respond pulling myself away and reaching for my wine again.

He was always a messy eater which was something I found endearing. Tonight however, I find it especially laughable. The things we associate with innocence; the gestures and words that disarm us, the little things that leave us feeling safe in the presence of the people we know better than to trust.

Her name is Karungi. Her face book and Instagram accounts both reveal that she is a spirited young girl, fresh out of Makerere with dreams of becoming a fashion designer. She’s beautiful and she twerks like the best of them. She takes her ‘make-up game’ very seriously- Posts at least four selfies a day. We could’ve been friends, Karungi and I, in a different life and under different circumstances I could’ve asked her how she manages to contour so perfectly? How she makes her ass jiggle that way when she twerks! Yes, we really could’ve been friends.

“Honey, where are you?” he asks nervously as he reaches a hand across the table.

“I’m sorry, I must be tired from all the cooking I had to do. I apologise, what were you saying?”

I graduated with honours from law school filled with the grandest dreams and this piece of paper to prove just how possible those dreams were. They don’t tell you about broken dreams when you graduate. They don’t tell you that young women are expected to choose less intimidating careers so their husband’s egos won’t be smashed under the weight of a successful wife. They don’t tell you that your law degree will gather dust like the boxes of old albums left in the suitcase under the bed. They don’t tell you that one day your husband will give you the subtle suggestion after a long night of being horribly fucked that maybe, just maybe, you should put those dreams on hold.

“Baby, I think…” he’ll stammer as he gathers you in his arms, your sweaty bodies plastered together, he’s breathlessness giving the illusion of a job well done, “I think you should quit your job. I mean, I make enough to take care of the two of us and the kids need you, I need you…”

No, no one tells you about having a dusty law degree and a husband who can’t fuck you right. Instead they send you off into the wind with the brightness in your eyes still undimmed by an un-lived and unliveable life.

“Babe, the food was delicious. I’m such a lucky man to have the sexiest chef on the planet!” he says as he leans down for a kiss.

He always did have the corniest lines. Maybe that was something that drew me to him, like a moth with a flame- I played around it, danced around it and inevitably, i was consumed by it.

I was one of those teenagers who always knew where she was going and what she wanted to be. This knowing, this certainty, made me intimidating to boys my age. I never felt the need to feign innocence. I recall the look of disbelief when after a lot of fiddling and mishandling things, I simply told Ssembi, “I don’t think you know what you’re doing, call me back when you do!” This certainty would remain with me all through-out law school and into my marriage.

“I can’t just quit Steve, I’ve wanted this my whole life. I love my job. I wasn’t created for the sole purpose of being your wife; I have dreams Steve, real big dreams. I won’t quit and that’s final.”

That had been our biggest fight. A fight the givers of university degrees didn’t tell young women they might have. A fight the givers of university degrees didn’t tell us we might lose.

But I did lose; Steve needed to be the man…and in order to be the man, his beautiful wife had to stay home; cook, clean, take care of his children and be horribly fucked. No more chasing big dreams for you. Life becomes a long and badly scripted movie- the plot is all wrong, the characters suck and there is you, the lead role, playing your part; cooking, cleaning and being horribly fuc…you get the point.

Karungi’s text messages all sound the same- what the girl lucks in vocabulary, she makes us up for in the enthusiasm with which she strokes his ego. She’s probably sent him a folder full of selfies.

“My darling Steve…” They always start this way, as if he couldn’t possibly be anything but.

“Today was boring. I and the girls are at legends, come through”.

“My Darling Steve, the way you make love to me is truly magical. I only want to be with you”.

“My darling Steve, last night was so beautiful. I love the way you comforted me after I told you about the baby. You are not like any other man I have ever known Steve. I know my parents will love you just as much as I love you.”

They had grand plans, this husband of mine and his side chick. They had already met his parents as a couple, hers were next. He was to leave me of course and start a new life with his twerking fetus. They were going to build a beautiful house on the land in Gayaza- the land we bought together in the early days of our marriage. Land i made the down payment for because he couldn’t afford it at the time but thought the deal was “too good to pass up”.

This husband of mine who always took up too much space- the kind of person you could not love fully and live fully, you had to choose one or other. Did she know about his incessant need to prove his manliness in the most trivial ways- almost like if there was even a little doubt as to how much of a man he was, these little acts would soothe in the cracks and restore him to his rightful place? Did she prefer his lousy love making or did she pretend to clutch the sheets while his little thing made inconsequential movements inside her? Did she really know this man she so willingly sent selfies to?

I sound jaded, maybe i am…years of faking orgasms will do that to you.

“Baby, I’m not feeling so well…” he mumbles in between coughs.

I look at him, this knock-off Hercules struggling as the poison takes its effect in his body. Did I love him?

“Liz, i have something to tell you, actually I have something to ask you,” he’d said to me as he took my hands into his and kissed them gently. We’d just returned home from watching a movie, it’d been a regular date night- so regular in fact that I wasn’t even dressed up. I had on an old sweat shirt, jeans and simple sandals. I wore my hair in long braids that were asking to be given a break. During the course of the night I’d noticed him watching me…almost like he was waiting for something. He was nervous too, which made me nervous.

“Liz, you are the most amazing woman I’ve ever met. You are intelligent, funny, loving and don’t get me started on that ass! I love you, and honestly, I feel as though I’ve waited for this moment all my life. Liz, would you do me the honour of being my wife?” he’d asked, on bent knee. It was a fairy tale, the kwanjula, the wedding, it was all like something scripted out of a Hollywood romance movie- the good ones with the sappy music and perfect lighting.

I look at my husband in his final moments and think of the life we could have had, the places we could have gone to. We had plans too not so long ago; we were meant to go to Paris and sip wine at one of those cute roadside cafes. He’d always wanted to watch a few world cup games live- that would’ve been his birthday gift next year. We’d wanted to farm passion fruits together because everyone knows ‘there’s money in passion fruits!’ All this he was ready to throw away like it was garbage.

I clear the table like the good wife I’d always been known to be-The wife who quit her job to make room for her husband’s ambition, the wife who rejected advances from other men because she was faithful and would never step outside her marriage, the wife who listened to her husband’s boring stories all the while dreaming of a future she would never get a chance to experience, the wife who moaned like a porn star all the while wishing he’d get it over and done with it…the good wife.

I wash the dishes, and finish the wine in the bottle. I’ll need to move his body to the bedroom before I call the neighbours to report my husband’s heart attack. I’ll scream and pull my hair out, I’ll wail and moan and refuse to eat or talk to anyone. They will remark, “How sad, they were so in love and he was too young to live his beautiful wife alone.” They will commiserate and offer help- I will accept it- the pitiful looks, the grief. I will take it all in and mourn the man I’ve lost . I will wear black all year round and talk of the amazing man I married like the good wife that I have been.

It’s been said, if a woman kills a man by poisoning him, it means she really loved him. I feel a single tear snake its way down my cheek. Did I love him? Yes, I think I did.

THE END