For Bread… and Women

Photo: Pinterest 

At the core of Mushin’s chaos and utter insanity, where the loud voices of pedestrians and generators overwhelmed dreams and hopes, and hunger reddened the eyes and roughened the palms of most boys, Emeka hustled. Not because the street made him excited or because he was loyal to the street, tsk, I mean, where would loyalty emerge from? His hunger? But because the street never gave him enough love to compensate for being born into the madness. So he had only one option: make it out from the crooked corners of the place he’s known nearly all his life before becoming a robber or someone who constantly did immoral things to survive. 

At twenty-nine, Emeka became exhausted. Not the kind of exhaustion a few hours of sleep or a bottle of chilled Guinness Stout could fix, but the exhaustion that sits in every part of your chest where rest used to live. He had tried everything humanly possible for the average Nigerian man living in Nigeria; hawking phone accessories and tiny bottles of perfumes on Third Mainland bridge, screaming, “Buy your original charger, eeaarpod, and eeaarpiece! Original eearpiece for sale! I get perfume too! Very affordable and qualitized!” to passengers and passersby who simply looked away due to lack of finances, or passengers who sat scowling, courtesy of the exasperating traffic congestion. He was also known for riding okada, selling pieces of home furniture, beddings, and even swindling a little when things got really intense. But his real talent? Talking. Charming. Convincing. He literally and figuratively could make a reverend buy sin without thinking twice.

With that trick in hand, he met Naomi. 

Naomi wasn’t from the street of Mushin, or any street at all, which featured youths waving broken bottles at one another, shop sellers, or passersby in the name of a feud. It was evident in her voice, in her style, and in her skin—untouched by the struggles of the harsh realities of Lagos sun which ends up leaving a stain on everyone—that she grew up within a gated community, with educated strict parents, like the ones in the Nollywood movie Emeka saw some days ago. She was serving at a nearby firm, staying in a small rented flat fully paid for by her father. Naomi was sharp-witted, and her laugh was like layers of silk. Emeka drowned in love pretty fast, the way poor men drown—wholly, foolishly, desperately, resisting on the surface, yet willing to yield to every demand of those they were in love with. 

At first, he pretended, like he usually did whenever he was with someone several social classes above him. Wearing sparkling, ironed shirts, speaking like he went to Birmingham City University, and telling numerous tales of a business “about to blow” or a container “about to land”. But lies have short legs. When the truth became more than a fetus, Emeka expected Naomi to bounce.

She didn’t. Instead, she laughed at and admired the efforts he invested in trying to impress her. She brought him food. Bought him clothes. Introduced him to her friends and colleagues. Helped him start a legit business of selling thrifted clothes online. She even taught him how to take photos and how to communicate with the ‘big boys’ and ‘girls’ of Lagos who patronized his business because of her.

By the second year, things were sailing smoothly. Not blow-level as Emeka had anticipated, but the hustle was capable of feeding both of them, not like she needed his money anyway. Soon, Naomi finished her youth service and stayed in Lagos for him. They made plans to relocate, rent a better place, probably buy a house if they could, get married, start a family, and give birth to as many kids as Naomi could carry. However, when Lagos’ jealousy struck, they were its latest victims. 

After Naomi got to retain her job at the oil and gas firm in VI, earning six figures a month, an official car, and HMO—everything shifted. Naomi was still sweet. Still kind. Still accepting. But her eyes? Different. Cold. Withdrawn. Like they held back the words her mouth was supposed to spill. She started coming home late. Blamed it on work. Laughed less—at least around Emeka. Reduced her phone’s brightness more when they were together, or simply made her phone lie on its screen. When she spoke on the phone, she spoke in hushed tones, and when Emeka asked, she’d say, “It’s work.”

And then came Michael. Tall-affluent-polished-American-accent-supple-lips-and-a-slender-frame Michael. He was a partner in the firm she worked at, and Naomi swore he was “just a colleague”. But Emeka had grown up with the ability to read people the way others read books. Comprehending their actions without breaking a sweat. Weeks passed. They fought more. About Michael. And over other petty things, like Naomi leaving strands of her hair in the sink, or Emeka’s refusal to close the toilet seat when he was done using it. He said she was changing. She said he was insecure. 

On one of the nights Naomi stayed out late and wasn’t answering her phone, Emeka panicked. Wondering if she was okay, he called her office, only to hear Naomi had left work hours ago. When she finally waltzed in smelling like alcohol and a cologne Emeka didn’t wear, he didn’t say anything. Just served her food and went upstairs. The next day, he quietly deleted their joint Instagram account and moved out of her apartment. On the night he was to move out, when he’d asked her why she did what she did, she looked him in the eye, alcohol reeking from her breath, and said without stuttering, “Love doesn’t always pay the bills, Emy.” 

And that was when he realized it truly was over. She had outgrown the struggle. Outgrown him in less than two years. He left the next day. No drama. Just silence, and the muffled hum of what could have been.

By Precious Nelson Esate