Your phone beeped at a few minutes past midnight. You glanced at it. The message read: He says he is leaving me. HELP!!!! It was from Flora.
You sighed softly, irritated because you'd asked that no one send a message past 10 p.m. But it was just like Flora, the twit, to disobey simple instructions. It crossed your mind that she may have been distressed when she sent the message, but you remembered she was a drama queen, and it was more likely she sent it while lolling in her jacuzzi.
Still, she'd asked for help, from you, and from the group. And as the head of the group, you were obligated to help.
You sighed again. Tapped your phone. Opened WhatsApp. Scrolled to the group titled, 'Virtuous Wives Guild' and typed: Emergency meeting at 2 p.m.
Then, you deleted Flora's message, slipped your phone into the pocket of your silk house robe. You walked down the imperial staircase to double-check if the foyer windows were locked.
Since the time, fifteen years ago, when armed robbers walked into your former house at Anthony Village because the gateman was careless, you'd gotten understandably paranoid.
Now, though you lived in Banana Island, arguably the most secure part of Lagos, and had a top private-security firm guarding your mansion, you were still paranoid.
So, every day, you double-checked all windows and doors, and didn't sleep until everyone was dozing. Check completed, you went back upstairs to your bedroom.
You settled into the white loveseat near the foot of your king-size bed. As usual, you sat there for about an hour, watched Biodun, your husband, as he snored softly on the bed. And as usual, you prayed silently, first for the strength to get in bed with Biodun.
Your other nightly prayers were not for God's protection or help, but more about repeating your neurosis to him. Your life's journey-from crippling childhood poverty in Maroko till after you graduated from LASU; to the years of joblessness and semi-regular prostitution on the Allen Avenue and Opebi axis; to when you met Biodun in church (actually, you met him after church, when many of the congregation spilled out to Costain Bus Stop, and he assumed you were one of them, and you never corrected him); to the early years after your marriage when you lived hand-to-mouth in Anthony Village where the robbers came; to when Biodun met Otunba, who became his benefactor and helped him become the billionaire he now was-was a remarkable one.
But because you were a secret worrier, you never quite fully enjoyed the now because you were always scared that somehow, you'd go back to being poor, or someone would expose your past.
Eventually, your prayers ended, you got in bed, but ensured you slept as far away as possible from your husband of twenty years. You woke at 5 a.m. as usual and went through your routine-prayed (this time, for God to protect your children from the craziness in America and your husband from himself), did a thirty-minute Tabata workout at the home gym downstairs, showered, then woke Biodun at 6:30 a.m. to start his day.
As usual, you had breakfast together. Akara and ogi for him; half an avocado, a boiled egg, and black unsweetened coffee for you.
As usual, breakfast was mostly quiet, interrupted by the soft beeps from Biodun's iPad Pro and the occasional small talk that came from the natural see-finish of two decades of marriage. "I'm going out by 1 p.m.," you said.
Biodun grunted his acknowledgement. "I have a meeting at church. I should be back by 3 p.m." There was no need to explain, or lie, but you did both anyway. Force of habit.
"I'm going out later in the afternoon. Some young hotshots who are trying to convince me to invest in their company, have somehow, blagged entry into the members section of the Yacht Club, and want us to have a lunch meeting there.
They think that will impress me?" He curled his lips. "Me, who has been a full boat-owning member for ten years?" He shook his head and went back to his screen. As a dutiful wife, you tut-tutted your support for him and disapproval of the folly of the faceless young men.
But you remembered years ago, when it was Biodun's big dream to be a member of the Yacht Club, and how servile he was to the members till Otunba nominated him for membership. "How is Otunba?" you asked. Biodun sighed wearily. "I saw him yesterday at his place. The old man is still frail and bedridden.
Just wasting away slowly." He sighed again. "It's been three years, but he has never gotten over losing Lady Deborah, you know?" "I know," you nodded. But you don't tell him you're surprised Otunba had lived this long after the death of Deborah, his wife.
"I will go see him tomorrow and spend some time with him," you said. "I'll take him some chicken pepper-soup and read to him. He likes that."
"That's nice. Please do." "Will you be home by 9 p.m.? I plan to call the boys by then. I was hoping we can talk to them together." Since the Covid-19 pandemic prevented your thrice-yearly travel to New York, you could only video-call with your twin boys schooling at Columbia
University. You missed them so much, you cried after the end of the last video-call you had with them and Biodun. Puzzled, Biodun had asked,
"They're grown men-why are you crying so much?" And you'd replied that your babies were still nineteen, nowhere near grown men, and you hadn't seen them in almost a year. Biodun had harrumphed because he'd never understand.
Perhaps no one would understand that you cried because Kehinde, the picky eater, had lost some weight; and there was no way Taiwo, who was trying to grow dreadlocks, would have kept that ridiculous and unkempt hair if you had visited them in New York.
But you didn't say you cried mostly because, after considering the darkness of your Allen Avenue days and the deep dissatisfaction of your marriage, sometimes you were overwhelmed with gratitude that you were the lucky mother to two beautifully perfect boys.
They were the best and purest things in your life, a nod to God and his mysterious ways. "I'll be back by nine to talk to them." He grunted and continued reading the news from his device.
You guessed the small talk at breakfast was over. You left for your meeting with the group around 1 p.m. You drove yourself in the 2014 Range Rover Sport, because it was the oldest and least ostentatious car in the house.
On days like this, you'd have preferred to drive any of the pre-2010 black and battered Toyota Corollas ubiquitous in Lagos, but Biodun, the now-insufferable car snob, would never allow you drive anything so plebian.
You drove to the largely empty parking lot of the Church of the Nativity in Parkview. You waited. The meeting was scheduled to hold in an Airbnb apartment in Lekki, somewhere behind Ebeano Supermarket. When Deborah started the group years ago with you as her first member, you could meet for lunch, or in each other's houses or cars, where you communicated in coded whispers.
But as the group grew, meetings at homes or public places became riskier because no one could take the chance of a servant or waitstaff eavesdropping on the conversation.
You didn't wait for long. You watched a maroon Ford Edge drive into the church, and park next to you. It was Gbonju, in her least ostentatious car. She was to give you a ride to and fro the meeting.
You put on your big shades that covered half your face, stepped from your car, and slipped into Gbonju's. "Good afternoon, Aunty," she greeted you with a smile, as she slipped the SUV into gear and rolled out. You always liked Gbonju, especially because she was punctual, respectful, and discreet for one so young.
She was now thirty-two and had been married for eight years to Dipo, now an oil magnate, who you'd introduced to her when she was twenty-three. You'd chosen well with Gbonju. You'd chosen her for Dipo, who at the time, was a rising mid-level executive in Biodun's oil company.
The then-naïve girl had believed in their perfect whirlwind romance. Till date, theirs was the biggest and most flamboyant wedding you'd attended in Nigeria.
You know this because Biodun sponsored most of it. And as you'd sat at the wedding reception and watched Dipo and Gbonju feed each other cake, you caught Dipo's eye for a second, and you both remembered. You'd both remembered that night, a year before.
Somehow, Biodun had misheard the return date for one of your trips. You'd come home unannounced and walked to your bedroom. You'd found Biodun and Dipo, both naked on the bed. Biodun was spreadeagled, and Dipo, bent over Biodun with his hairy buttocks in the air, worked a slurpy blowjob.
It was Deborah who had paid you a surprise visit the next morning. "I hear you've found your husband's secret," she'd said in her soft but firm voice. "Welcome to the club." Your eyes had been puffy from crying all night, but you felt them pop. At that moment you knew-Biodun had been and probably was still to Otunba,
what Dipo was now to Biodun. Deborah, a woman of few words, had nodded her confirmation, and said, "Chin up, dear. These men, as much as we love them, are not worth our tears.
Instead, allow me to show you the best way to thrive." Her rationale was easy to understand. She had given the best years of her life to her marriage with Otunba before she discovered, eleven years and three children later, that he had used her to hide the fact he was gay.
Instead of a divorce which, in her opinion, would result in a chunk of Otunba's considerable wealth frittered away by his paramours, she opted to stay in the marriage.
"I thought like a man and took a cold-blooded business decision. For myself and my children," she had explained. She couldn't stop Otunba, but she collared him somewhat.
By a combination of the force of her personality and the logic in her arguments, she convinced Otunba to stop affairs with the undesirables (i.e. single, younger, poor men, some of whom were probably gay-for-pay and could resort to blackmail).
The ideal choice for Otunba became men in bearded marriages, who had something to lose if their sexuality became public knowledge. It also helped if such men were industrious and smart-she understood they would make money for themselves and Otunba, rather than simply leech on him, and that way, everybody won. Biodun was such a man.
It was Deborah who, without telling you how, negotiated Biodun's apology to you. It came in the form of a transfer to twenty million naira to your account that evening, and an all-expense-paid holiday and shopping trip to New York for you and the boys.
She also taught you how to stretch that apology till now without breaking it-by getting him to fund your international real estate and importation businesses.
You were now worth twelve million dollars, and yes, you could have left Biodun a few years ago, and still be fine but, as Deborah always said, "Misery loves company, dear." She was also fond of asking rhetorically, "Why spend your money when you can spend his?"
So, yes, you just needed Biodun to finish paying the boys' fees at Columbia. Besides, over time, you'd grudgingly grown to tolerate and even like the idiot.
More importantly, because you learned well from Deborah, a year after finding out his secret, you'd gone to Biodun and said, "It's best for everyone if Dipo gets married soon. It'll protect both of you." And he'd nodded.
And when you'd suggested Gbonju, who at the time was a bright girl trying to sell you insurance, it was sealed.
It was Deborah who took you under her wing, and quietly pointed out the closeted gay and bisexual men in Lagos' high society, and the mostly clueless wives of those who were married.
With Deborah, you attended the weddings of those who took wives later, where you gave lavish gifts and danced with some of them, while feeling sorry for all the wives.
It was Deborah who came up with the idea to create a support group for some of these women. After all, she mused, your husbands had fucked most of their husbands.
To be continued......
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*****
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