I prided myself on my cleanliness. I couldn't stand the sight of filth and would recoil at the slightest whiff of an unpleasant smell.
I was the typical Nigerian woman, who would scrub the house, do the laundry every Saturday, and give the house a thorough clean on the last weekend of the year as it was considered a sin to enter the new year with a dirty home.
But my standards of cleanliness changed when I met him. He was the kind that could spot fingerprints on a glass table from a mile away and would gag if any soap other than lemon-fresh liquid soap was used to wash his dishes.
At first, I was amazed by his cleanliness, and his sadistic quest for perfection, and tried to keep up, but failed. And I began to develop a childish resentment for him. It kept growing and growing like a massive fetus conceived by Lucifer himself, until eventually, it clawed its way out of my loins and ruthlessly shot him.
For being too clean
Too perfect.
A perfect monster.
