Different views

The sight of Jamal at the door sent Nabila's heart beating faster. It was like she had been caught cheating. Theirs was not a marriage you advertised and to speak ill of it- despite the truth contained- was equal to a violation of their wedding vows. Nabila could only stutter...

"Do you want me to hang up?" Amaka whispered

Nabila nodded like Amaka could see; but as best friends do she somehow got the message and soon Nabila heard the soft click of disconnection. She still kept the phone to her ear because putting it down would mean giving Jamal an answer; and he eagerly awaited one as he had barely flinched from the doorway. When Nabila noticed it, the enjoyment he was deriving from putting her on the spot, her embarrassment ceased to feel appropriate. Her husband was not hurt by her remarks but he intended to milk his disapproval nonetheless. Then the reverse happened. She was hurt that he wasn't hurt. To her, it was equivalent to not feeling jealousy at the sight of another man with your wife. The Lack of Care; the very same lackadaisical attitude that left her feeling helpless; exhausted at being the only one who gave a damn that they lived like zombies confined to the same tomb. He was still standing there...

"Amaka" Nabila answered tossing her blackberry on the blue sofa. It landed on a pale green scatter cushion

Jamal drained of his former amusement uncrossed his feet and shut the door. He tossed his keys alongside hers in the silver tray and proceeded to walk across the living space to the stairs. Their ritual was about to begin... Jamal would climb up the curved staircase slowly using the banister to hoist himself a little higher; almost like his weight had doubled since he got home. Nabila didn't want the war dance again. She rushed behind him; her abayah trailing behind like a bridal train

"Dan Allah. Ka yi hakuri (for God sake don't be angry)" she apologised. Nabila had never said sorry before and this stopped Jamal in his tracks; he spun 360 and faced her. It had been months since they had stood in such close proximity and Nabila looked at her husband's full lips; sensual and soft. She wished he would kiss her.

"Apology accepted" he replied and continued upward and out of sight. Nabila leaned on the oak staircase and traced the decorative grooves in the wood grain, ran her fingers along the hand twisted metal that separated the steps from the hand rail. She remembered when Jamal would come back from work and jump her. She would lie on the couch pretending to sleep and he would begin to kiss her, smelling like the vanilla air freshener in his car. Every day the same game, every day the same result. They barely made it upstairs and would have to scurry away like naughty school children when they heard the cook come in the kitchen, prepared to make a late lunch. She did not remember when last that happened. She could cast her mind back but it would only depress her further.

Nabila could not hear it but she knew the shower was turned on now. Her husband was in there, alone, without her. His lynx shower gel making soapy suds; he would leave his wet towel on the bathroom floor too and close the door behind him giving no chance for the steamy room to clear out. She missed having to scold him about that. Now their shower times were so different they may as well have separate wash rooms. At lunch he sat opposite her on their dining table and his hair stood in disorganised curls from the forceful towel drying method he had adopted. Nabila looked on as it dried and the curls magically became discreet. The ridges of his hair cut tapered down to his thin sideburns which slimmed to a very thin goatee shaping his jaw line. Yes, his hair is the first thing she noticed all those years ago, and still was what made her stare. She loved the variations of brown within it: rusty, sandy, bronze, and russet. He hated it and had wanted it dyed black. She loved it; especially in the sunlight. The shades were easily distinguishable then.

The blue Pyrex bowls were trooped out one by one and laid out in beautiful presentation and the cook, as was his way, informed them dinner was in the oven and he would be retiring for the evening. As she did not cook, Nabila utilised a catering service which sent out domestic helps. They were loaned out to her on a monthly basis and arrived an hour before Jamal left for work in the morning. Breakfast was prepared for her as well when she finally woke up and whatever else she decided to munch on. On Jamal's return from work, 'late lunch' would be served, and dinner was kept warm in the oven. As it was, Nabila's fridge, although alien to her was never short of food. There were bowls of stock juices for speedy stews and soups; sachets of marinating beef and chicken pieces, jugs of kunu, and lemonade and pre-kneaded dough in the pantry. Meat pies, masa, chin-chin, kuli kuli, puff puff, were all produced at her bequest.

Nabila had not asked the name of this cook this time and as he placed his time sheet by the salad bowl for Nabila to sign, she pretended not to see him. I have barely begun my meal she wanted to scream at him. She focused instead on the sardines, carrots, tomatoes, lettuce, cabbages, slices of hardboiled eggs and baked beans tossed in mayonnaise. Nabila knew what it meant when the cooks were in such a hurry to leave; he had probably double booked another family. Usually off the books and for half the price; collecting money behind management's back. As she had no proof, she could not report him but the idea annoyed Nabila and so she ignored him, wasting his time. He waited beside her quietly

"Bring it here" Jamal ordered. The cook handed the sheet to him and Jamal signed it. "Thank you sah." From the gratitude in his voice Nabila was sure Jamal added on hours the cook had not worked.

"I hope you beat traffic in time" Jamal said with his mouth full

"Ah sah I hope o. I suppose waka before" the cook said

Before his wife could stop him, Jamal reached in his wallet and handed the man a wad of fifty naira notes. "Take okada" he instructed. The man thanked him as he hurriedly ran out of the house. Nabila raised her gaze to her husband; his shoulders were forward, braced for an attack but she could already see how it would play out. Jamal would call her a social snob, insist she knew not of the hardship people less fortunate than themselves went through to put food on the table. Ask her why she cared who made the catering business money and lord it over her that it was not theft but merely a chance to double their earnings. She would accuse him of promoting bribery by encouraging the cooks to go against the rules and facilitating their corruption by chartering them to secondary locations. Why did he have to give the man money? Jamal would start his speech of how it was his money and he gave it to whomever he chose. Nabila didn't see the point in going down that road today.