Sentimentally Played (II)

Continued from Part 1

“She frequently called a number. I tried it while I waited at your door. Unfortunately, it is switched off.”

Unfortunate for whom? Butata thought. He pretended he didn’t hear. He must change the subject.

“Mrs. Runsewe won’t indulge in ridiculous affairs, would she? She is regarded as a paragon of beauty, model of cultural purity, and flawless integrity. Many of the young spinsters at work seek advice from her. I might make an exception …”

Butata knows he piled too much into the respectability of Otunba’s wife. A good husband laps that up. Not Otunba. He ignored those sentiments. He frowned and wriggled his index finger in Butata’s direction.

“I suspect you and Ronke were up to something. You stuck my daughter in a library while you took …”

The trust Butata was speedily building with this suffering husband was quickly gored. Otunba wasn’t lapping it. Otunba kicked open the guest room door. He met it partially open.

“Took what, Otunba?”

“I want to know where you hid her.”

He peeped in and saw the pile of books, a computer, and a desk but no bed.

“Otunba, I know not her whereabouts. I told you. I didn’t attend the party last night.” Butata feigned more sniffles. Otunba took steps towards the second door.

“If she is hiding in your bedroom, you may consider yourself a dead man.”

As calmly as he could, Butata blocked and addressed the angry man. He needed to take a firm position.

“Now, calm yourself down. Quit. This has gone too far. Your wife is not here. You can’t come into a man’s house and start rummaging through his things. Stop, else, I’ll call the police.”

That caution appeared to work. For a minute, Otunba stood like a deer in headlights. “Who am I fooling? I knew she wasn’t here. Otherwise, you…

“I won’t let you in. Period.”

“There is still the matter of a painting for which you were paid good money but didn’t deliver.”

He paced in front of Butata’s bedroom door but didn’t go in. He sniffed at the air around the door frame, failing to perceive her perfume or scent then he returned to the parlor.

“If you are not hiding her here, where do you hide her?”

“I don’t know what gave you the faintest idea of an affair with Ronke. I mean, Mrs. Runsewe. I mean, your wife. If you would be patient, as I was saying, I will make an exception and show you the uncompleted painting. But after I show you, I must ask you to leave and never return.”

“I’m not fooled. You can’t deceive me. Because you are younger, do you think you can take away my wife and mother of my child?”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“I can tell you now, that’s not going to happen.”

Otunba appeared to sweat more. The ceiling fan didn’t seem to slow the sweat beads rolling down his forehead. It drew a wider wet map under his armpits.

“You don’t know what it is like…” “What?”

“… to lose a woman you love.”

His face drooped, lacking color as he limped back to the center of the parlor. He marched slow like a totally-off-his-game lion, who lost a prey in a chase. Butata couldn’t believe this man wasn’t young or overseas on military training. Ronke’s husband is a blob of fat, equally lost in the dirty game she played. Too old to satisfy such a young woman.

“Oh, I can imagine…”

Butata remembered stories of the heroic boyfriend Ronke told during their affair. She claimed her lover was ambitious, sensual, and climbing the ladder of the military. This man before him couldn’t climb the stairs without puffing and panting.

In Butata’s mind, he bested a formidable challenger. This filled him with great pride, in his claim over her heart. Apparently, not so. He faced off with a toad.

In another world, maybe by the end of the year, Butata could propose and marry her before the competition returns. Nothing is better than conquering the seemingly improbable. The loser will forgive Ronke seeing that she picked Butata, the better man.

Of course, with Otunba’s revelation, a marriage proposal is unreal and unimaginable now. Butata sat, calmed. Listening to Ronke’s tormented husband, does he know more than he is letting on?

Otunba reclaimed the sofa. He poured himself another glass from the replaced lager bottle. “Shall I get the unfinished picture?” Otunba appeared spent and nodded.

Butata paced briskly to retrieve it and planted it between them for Otunba to see. He beamed at the likeness of his pretty wife. His fidgeting fingers cupped his thick lips and mustache as if seeing her for the first time. He licked his lower lip. He nodded.

“That’s my wife, alright.”

“I’m glad you approve. But like I said, it’s unfinished…”

Butata angled the painting against the wall. The frame is a woman who played him.

“But why the secrecy?” Otunba asked. The response that followed tumbled cold out of Butata. The only way it can sound honest.

“Otunba, she said something about a gift to you on your anniversary…”

What he felt was jealousy running through his entire being, to his fingertips, and to the point of rebellion. But being jealous in this lose-lose scene neither profited him nor her husband. He felt like shouting at the gullible slob sitting opposite him. Surely, he doesn’t deserve such a pretty woman. He remembered Ronke’s dark smoky eyes, dimpled cheeks,

and hipped shapely behind, itself enough allure. To know it belonged to this man and some other was just a shame. Otunba smiled like a child who stole honey.

“Our wedding anniversary or my birthday?”

“I don’t know. It could be either. I won’t hazard a guess…I’m just a painter, like you said. I got paid to do what I do best.”

“Oh, my darling Ronke. Ever so thoughtful. This is a great gift, no doubt.”

Butata was relieved. He felt he no longer needed proof of no affair between Ronke and himself. This painting confirmed their arrangement was commercial. How so true? “When will it be finished? I’m ashamed I accused the wrong man and unjustly.”

“It was a mistake, that’s all.”

“Now, I see it wasn’t you. Do you know who wrote this?”

Otunba wasn’t done. He produced another piece of evidence. It was a folded one-pager from his side pocket. Butata slowly extracted the letter from his stubby fingers. It was a message in cursive, torn from a yellow pad. He examined this as someone seeing it for the first time. No doubt, it could be assumed to be in the hand of, no other than Mr. Yakubu Ajayi, General Manager. If this dog doesn’t let go of this bone he might, someday, get to the marrow.

“It is initialed and not fully signed. It may be a lover’s code. Read it.” “This is not my handwriting. I don’t write cursive.”

“Read it.”

I saw you last week. Leave POST OFFICE, DROP IN, BOX 1200, 5000, Green Backs. Will see you at the party on Saturday. Y.A’

Otunba brushed back tear beads and wiped his face dry with the back of his sleeve. “Hmm,” Butata sighed.

“Is this a code or a joke?”

Does he have the foggiest idea of how many men Ronke plays?

Otunba reached out to extract the folded note from Butata, interrupting his thought. He pitied the helpless man. How terrible he must feel fetching his wife from under different men.

“Let me look at that note again.”

He felt victorious yet wished to console the poor man. “How could she have done this to me?”

“I suspect this is a game she played with a friend at work.” “Earlier today, I found it in one of her gowns.”

“It was signed with a single initial Y. We won’t know who wrote this. But if I’m to guess, it was probably a prank written by Yetty, one of the girls in the pool where your wife works. It must be. Maybe she writes in cursive. Not many do. Mrs. Runsewe is a good person.” Butata dropped the letter on the coffee table between them instead of his outstretched hand. This princess has no heart or soul. She is a philanderer and serial fornicator.

“The General Manager hired her shortly before we were married. He attended our wedding. He gave her excellent commendations too. How kind he is? It couldn’t be him, could it?” Hearing that, Butata almost broke into laughter. How blind can husbands be?

“I will kill the person and kill myself. My wife …? Ha.”

Butata was kin to this fat soul. Both were cheated out of a promise of affection and handed illusion. Butata wished he could tell all to Otunba.

Ronke played cheating, a men’s game better than her four lovers. What is the point of making this man, who loves his wife and daughter feel more loss than already suffered?

Butata realized Ronke’s talk of royalty is as fictional as her painted smile.

He wished he could tell this man how Ronke rolled out styles under covers. Butata wished to expose Mr. Yakubu, a hypocrite who fired bank employees over office relationships. “If I recollect, Ronke mentioned your craft several times. I suppose I was too busy and failed to pay attention. From where I sit, it was money well spent.”

Butata looked him over with pity. The poor man is lying. Now, he is trying to feed their solidarity. If it were true, will he come here accusing him or fishing in her gowns for clues? Butata was sure Otunba caught her infidelity in time past. Only he is a shameless man who won’t tell himself the truth. Rather, he will accuse her collaborators of poaching, and that irritated Butata. It is now time to kick him out of his apartment. What can he say to push him out of the door?

“I will complete the painting in about 30 days. It will be delivered to your address.”

“She stays pretty. Do you know she is the best cook ever? You must come over to the house sometime. I’ll ask her to invite you to dinner, soon.”

Butata wished he would leave. That’s a dinner that may never happen. He hasn’t told co-workers he put in a month’s notice or that he leaves for foreign clime soon.

After he emptied his second bottle, he gave him the third, Otunba didn’t waste time with that either.

The sun toned its shine as the fiery clouds took over the sky. The clock on the wall chimed five times.

“You are not married….”

Otunba said between gulps of the last bottle of beer. He toyed with the wedding band around his left fourth fat finger. Butata rose and walked ahead of him to the front door. “My partner is finishing off at the Island nursing school, next year. Then I shall join the happy matrimonial journey of life, like the rest of you.”

At the door, the fat man hugged Butata’s neck like they were siblings and men of like passions.

“You renewed my faith in humanity. You showed me understanding, patience, and integrity with candor. I shall never forget. There is only one thing that remains a bother on my mind.” “What is that?”

“This telephone number.”

Butata examined his number Otunba stored on his handset with a shaky hand.

“It is 10 digits, alright. Maybe it’s a telephone number. It could also be an account number. Even if you think whoever it belongs to is having an affair with Ronke… I mean Mrs. Runsewe. There is nothing but regret to be discovered, following the path a woman wished covered. You should know that by now…”

Otunba squared his shoulders, straightened up and smiled. “You’re right, regret is an ache in one’s bones that never stops.”

“The game of love is a woman’s invention, run by women, and mostly, lost by men.” Otunba retrieved, looked over the yellow pad note and tucked it away.

“You think if I find out it’s a man’s number, it is still my loss…”

“You may spend money, get farther tracing the handwriting and maybe…but if I were you, I’d think twice. That is all I’m saying.”

“I suppose I should go home, hug my daughter, and wait for Ronke to return where she belongs.”

“Do that. She probably has a good explanation for all this.”

After Otunba left, Butata sat on his doorstep, fished out his mobile phone, slipped in the second and tossed the old SIM card, onto the muddy streets. He powered the handset. It dinged.

“I see. Drop in Box 1200 got paid 5000 Greenbacks. Well played, Ronke. Maybe Yakubu will get toasted if Otunba is smart enough to keep asking questions. What is it to me? In a few weeks, 5000 greenbacks will cushion my start yonder.”

END