This Hell Called Marriage

The marriage to Alhaji Gidado Tukur was rushed before any red flags could be raised. Popular recording artistes flown in via private jet, imported exotic flowers from Malaysia, the head chef from Aso Rock made all the Nigerian dishes while the chef from the Ritz in London made foreign dishes.

World renowned Vogue photographer captured the event and a street was named in her honour; the first to recognise her new name as Tukur. Ice sculptures filtered the drinks; there was a cigar and shisha bar for the many important men who attended-including the Vice President. Lifestyle magazines had field day, "long awaited marriage of the remaining Bello offspring", was one newspaper tagline. Nabila's absence explained as "an unfortunate illness."

Kaka was on hand with the smooth lies, speaking into microphones what a tight family they all were. Rabi had eight outfit changes and was called 'lucky' more times than she cared to recount. The day was a blur of colour, she recalled very little of it. Apart from an hour which she managed to steal away from the falseness of it all...she had no memory of the event. But the glossy magazines proved it had in fact happened, her fake smile on every front page nationwide fooling everyone.

Rabi sat up in her bed and surveyed her large room with morning light. It was too much space for her broken heart. She caught her reflection in the large gold mirror, one of four hung on the white walls. Jamal adored her like this. The just roused from sleep look. Hair tousled, feet bare, he loved her shoulders exposed, and he loved her personality. She didn't have a voice anymore. It had been reduced to a pretty face that laughed at chauvinistic jokes spewed from the mouths of Big Men. It was required duty in her role as Hajiya Rabi Tukur. She was unhappy but by Allah she deserved it.

A flurry of feet approaching her door told her the face painting was about to begin. She wrapped a silk robe around herself and let them in. One after the other they curtsied. Re-introducing themselves although she already knew their names. Bilkisu was her hair dresser, Hauwa her makeup artist and Fatima her personal stylist. Immediately they got to work filing her nails and applying cleanser on her face. Her wardrobe was opened wide and fabric after fabric was dumped on the bed to be examined and scrutinised. Shoes and bags were placed side by side; jewellery held up against the light to ensure glittering power...it was the same dance as each morning.

This morning was different, this morning Rabi intended to ask her husband for permission to return to work. She had already missed out on countless hours and she craved the independence, though that would be the one word she would not use during her appeal. The fertility clinic was to be her life's work; but the experience she hoped to gain in man hours was being swindled away at useless functions with loud music and flashing photographers.

Rabi rehearsed a submissive way to broach this at breakfast. Two hours later, preened and smacked with lipstick she slowly entered the breakfast room, kneeling to greet she averted her eyes from his. Alhaji liked it when she did that; played shy. He as usual had already begun his meal and gulping hot coffee, gave her an approving once over; smiling at the carnival red lace she wore with matching lipstick that made her mouth resemble a slice of tempting apple. Rabi waited for him to shovel yam into his mouth before she began, in a whisper soft voice of course

"Alhaji I was hoping you would grant me an opportunity to discuss the hospital"

"Are you sick?" he seemed to back away his chair

"No. It is about my job"

Alhaji Tukur hissed. When Rabi frowned he signalled her to continue

"It could be arranged for my hours to lie within 9am-5pm that would not be a problem at all."

"MEANING..." he was impatient already. Rabi waited a heartbeat to continue

"I would be here when you leave in the morning and back home before your return."

"I see" he said. Alhaji Tukur picked corn beef from his teeth, sucking at the spaces with a slurping noise. The blue plastic containing toothpicks was right in front of him; Rabi worked hard to keep her annoyance off her face. Just take one she thought, barely containing a sigh that threatened to break out when he bypassed the toothpicks to reach for a serviette still with that irritating saliva action.

Rabi waited for him to deliver his verdict; she waited through his sucking teeth action, waited through his 15minute phone-call and waited while he instructed the driver which car engine required warming up. If she pushed it might upset him so she must be patient. Finally

"What exactly will you be doing?"

Rabi blinked. What would she be doing? She's a doctor. What did he think?

"Assisting with paperwork, and copying reports for the matron" that was part-true. If her husband wanted to pretend she would not be treating bloody accidents and delivering injections on men's naked backsides, then she would play along. Alhaji Tukur was quiet once more

"No" he said. "I don't not see what you intend to gain from that. You already have your degree inMedicine that is good enough for me"

Yes, but this is about me

"Maybe later. When the children are grown and starting school then you can have this asibiti[hospital] as a side project"

Rabi could not believe it. Her eyes repeatedly blinked as if to shake away what was being said. Alhaji Tukur belched and asked the plates be taken away. Rabi just then realised she had not eaten at all. The pieces of yam on her white china had been soaked though by the palm oil. Her coffee had cooled, the milk forming skin on the surface of the liquid.

"Come to my room early tonight" he said gathering up his phones; Blackberry, Sony Ericsson and Nokia, "I like this attire you are wearing. You are very beautiful in red" he smiled, admiring his possession.

Rabi wanted to lie she had her period and so could not make it but she was scared he would ask that she prove it.

"It has already been over a month fa Rabi." He said with a suddenly serious tone, "If there is no news within the next two months people will begin talking. Kuma [also] I for one can say I have no problem in that area as you know..."

Her husband walked out of the door, into his chauffeured Range Rover and drove away leaving his words hanging heavily like wet laundry on a washing line. Yes, Rabi Tukur's marriage was a level of Hell she never knew existed.