It could have been the gloomy aura that she perceived.

Whatever it was, as soon as I walked into the hospital with my father’s provisions, my mother knew that darkness had befallen her opara.

‘Kings . . . Kings . . .’ she whispered anxiously and jumped up. ‘What happened? What’s the matter?’

It felt as if a gallon of 2,2,4-trimethylpentane had been pumped into my heart and set alight with a stick of match.

‘Ola . . . Ola . . .’

When I was a child, we had watched a documentary on television about an East African tribe who spoke with clicks and gargles instead of real words. I used to imitate their chatter to amuse Godfrey and Eugene. Now I appeared to be talking the same language, the only difference being that I was not doing it to amuse anybody.

‘Kings, it’s OK,’ my mother interrupted. ‘Calm down, calm down.’

She led me to the second chair and held me against her chest. I closed my eyes and wept - softly, at first, then louder, with my head and shoulders quaking.

‘Kings,’ she said gently, after she had allowed me to cry for a while.

I sniffled.

‘Kings, look up.’

I wiped my eyes and obeyed. I did not look her directly in the face.

‘Kings, what happened with Ola?’

I narrated everything. I mentioned the trip to her school and the visit to her mother, not forgetting the termagant and the Dolce &

‘Mummy, I don’t know what to do.’

I looked at her. She did not say anything. Pain was scrawled all over her face.

‘I don’t think I can live without Ola.’

‘Kings. Kings, if she doesn’t want you because you’re going through hard times, then she doesn’t deserve you. Any girl that—’

‘Mummy, what can I do?’ I cut in. I was not interested in grammar and grand philosophy.

‘Kings, I can’t pretend to know what you’re going through, but I don’t think you deserve the way she’s just treated you. If she can do this now, then—’

‘I think I should go and talk to her mother again. This is not like Ola at all. I’m sure—’

‘Kings . . . Kings . . .’

‘If I can just convince—’

‘Kings,’ she said firmly, ‘I don’t think you should bother. That stupid woman already treated you like a scrap of paper.’

My mother’s advice was definitely biased. She was not a fan of Ola’s mother. She claimed that the woman had seen her in the market one time and pretended as if she did not know her.

‘It doesn’t bother me,’ she had said of the incident. ‘I’m just telling you for the sake of telling you, that’s all.’

Yet she had narrated the same story to my father later that evening and to Aunty Dimma several weeks later.

‘But how do you know she saw you?’ Aunty Dimma asked.

That was the same question I had asked.

‘She saw me,’ my mother insisted. ‘I even called out to her and she just gave me a cold smile and kept going.’

That was the same answer my mother had given me.

‘How do you know she recognised you?’

‘Is it not the same woman who came to this house on Kings’s graduation day to eat rice and chicken with us?’

‘Tell me not!’ responded Aunty Dimma, the queen of drama.

My mother got fired up.

‘God knows that if not for Kings, there’s no place where that woman would see me to insult me. As far as I’m concerned, she’s nothing more than a hanging towel. I’m not even sure she went to school.’

‘I’ll go and see her again,’ I insisted now. ‘Maybe she didn’t think I was serious the last time I went to see her.’

‘Kings, I don’t think you—’

‘In fact, I’ll go today.’

‘Why not—’

The nurse walked in.

‘Have you brought the things on the list I gave you?’ she asked.

I suspended my grief and searched around. The carrier bag with the items I had purchased on my way to the hospital was lying beside a deceased cockroach by the door.

As was usual for that time of evening, most of the white plastic chairs, clustered around white plastic tables, were fully occupied. The place was bustling with the sort of men who liked places like this and the sort of women who liked the company of men who liked places like this. There were giggling twosomes and jolly foursomes, there were debauched young girls and lecherous old men, with a variety of lagers and soft drinks, and cow and chicken and goat pepper soups served on wooden dishes or in china bowls. I recognised one of my father’s former colleagues. I wondered if the man had told his wife where he would be hanging out tonight.

My father never ate out. No respectable Igbo married man would leave his house and go outside to buy a meal to eat. It was irresponsible, the ultimate indictment on any wife - ‘di ya na-eri hotel’. Take my Aunty Dimma, for example. Long before she separated from her husband, moved to Port Harcourt, and subsequently became a religious fanatic, she was considered as one of the most incompetent wives to have ever been sent forth from my mother’s whole extended family. Generally, she was a lovely woman. She was kind, helpful, always the first to turn up and support us, even if we were simply mourning a wilted plant. But my father once commented to my mother that it was a miracle for anyone to remain married to her and not lose control of themselves.

Where could a husband start in recording matrimonial complaints against her?

She always left home in the morning before her husband and did not return before him.

She had wanted to employ a cook even when he had made it quite clear that he wanted to eat only meals she herself cooked.

She was always arguing with him about what was appropriate for her to wear and what was not. Once, she even insisted on wearing a pair of trousers to accompany him to a meeting of his townspeople.

Aunty Dimma had also been known to openly slight her husband and despise his role as head of the family. Like the time when she had gone ahead and bought herself a car even after her husband had insisted that she should continue using public transport until he was able to afford to buy the car for her by himself.

Despite all this, the most obvious sign that the marriage was in trouble was when the embittered man started eating out. Matters degenerated from that point onwards. Once or twice, my parents and relatives collectively reprimanded him for raising his hand to strike her. But behind closed doors, they all marvelled that he could stop at one or two slaps.

Sixty-five minutes later, Ola’s mother was still too busy to see me. Choosing to believe that she had forgotten, I walked up to where she was giving one of her girls an instruction by the counter and gently tapped her.

‘Mama . . .’

She looked at me and scowled.

‘You can see that I’m busy, eh?’

‘Mama, I promise it won’t take long.’

She glanced at her silver-strapped wristwatch. It looked brand new. And the stones looked valid, too. She was also wearing a narrow, glitzy bracelet with a matching necklace and pendant.

‘Oya, go on and say whatever you want to say.’

I wanted to ask for a more private meeting place. Her glare dared me to make any further requests. I stood there - within hearing of any of her girls, any of her customers who cared to extend an ear - and told her that Ola had informed me that our relationship had no future. I pleaded with her to give me some more time; I was planning to move to Port Harcourt and find a quick job.

She kept looking at me with that curious expression that people have when they are trying hard to understand others who are speaking a foreign language. Then she shrugged an exaggerated shrug.

‘Well, me I’ve decided to remove my mouth. Whatever happens between you and Ola is entirely up to both of you. As far as I’m concerned you people should just go ahead and do what you people like.’

‘But Mama—’

‘I told you that I’m busy and you said I should listen to you. Now I’ve listened and told you what I have to say. I have to go back to work now.’

With that, she turned and disappeared into the smoky kitchen, from where all sorts of tongue-tickling scents were proceeding like an advancing army.