The Two Strangers

I had put three heaped spoons of salt in Tobe’s food instead of two.

No, no, it wasn’t on purpose, for as much as our relationship has been strained in the past months, I wouldn’t do something as petty as making his food unpalatable.

It is such a shame really that I’m only realizing my mistake now, not when I was cooking or before I set his food, but rather when we are seated across each other on the dining chairs, with Tobe monotonously eating the ukodo and me monotonously eating my Coco Pops until my mind goes, salt! and the spoon halts midway into my mouth.

In my defense, I wasn’t paying attention when I was cooking. I hardly pay attention to anything nowadays. I didn’t even taste the food before serving; me, who is a chronic food taster; me, who loves ukodo. I don’t even know if the catfish got cooked through or if it is too tough, if I put too much pepper soup spice that might’ve left the soup with a bitter aftertaste, if the amount of pepper would make him reach for water and go, “Ah, ah!”

I guiltily raise the spoon of cereal to my lips, then peer up at my husband.

Tobe cuts a piece of yam with his fork and, using his spoon, scoops it with the pepper soup into his mouth (I’d always thought it was weird that he used both a fork and a spoon and used to tease him about it – “You can use just your spoon. It’s not like we are out in public” – but I don’t say anything about it today). His face is impassive as he eats. The only part moving is his jaw with rhythmic, monotonic motions. Just like a robot.

Actually, there are two robots here. Me and him. Tobe and Lisa. Spoon in the bowl, spoon up, spoon in the mouth, chew, swallow, spoon back in the bowl. Rinse. Repeat.

I have made this mistake a few times, putting lots of salt in our food, and Tobe’s reaction was usually extreme. He would wince at his first spoon and say something like, “Babe, it looks like you added the food to the salt,” or “Lili, remember that it’s me you married o, not Lot,” and then we both would laugh about it. He would still eat the food though, but tease me so much about it that we’d have a fit of giggles anytime we remembered the incident. But now, he doesn’t say anything. Neither do I.

I want to ask him how the food is, but I know he’d either give a shrug or make some motion with his face and then he’d be silent, eating, and I’d be silent, staring at my food, or sometimes up at him, a lot of thoughts running through my head, foremost of which would be me wondering when the Silence Between Us crept into our marriage and how it happened so suddenly yet so gradually, so naturally, that I realized it too late.

I suppose it shouldn’t bother me as much. A Nigerian man getting progressively worse at communication as the years go by? My Ma would scoff at me for worrying. At least he still sleeps in the house, she would say, still eats your food, doesn’t have four or five kids from baby mamas. And maybe the unease I feel, as if the ground below me is unsteady, is her rolling in her grave. I’ve always had differing views about men from my Ma, and while she was content with the barest minimum, I wanted more. I wanted love, support, a home. Tobe was all of those things.

But now? I don’t know.

I sigh and take up my spoon.

My bowl of cereal is my savior from the salty ukodo. It twirls round along with the spoon, bleeding into the milk like my skin would if its colour could bleed, rich hues of brown swirling in white. My thoughts are in spirals like the soggy contents of the bowl, deep down the road to having a breakdown because my husband doesn’t love me anymore.

The milk is now a rich brown, the pops have bled out. And I’m staring at the cereal, thinking of how I won’t eat it now it’s soggy, how Tolu hates wastage but I have to throw it out.

I look at his face, his clean-shaven jaw. He has always been handsome, an envy of my friends when we started dating. We were the perfect couple, and we became perfect marriage mates, but our marriage is far from perfect. Tolu makes an effort to look neat because his marriage could be in shambles, but his appearance would never be. He never misses his haircut appointment, he always smells good, and he shaves every other day.

Oh, that reminds me. There were a few strands of short hair in our bathroom sink.

“You didn’t wash the sink after shaving.”

He looks up, surprised that I’m talking to him, that I’m talking at all. Then he gives a
small shrug. “I forgot to.”

There’s a bit of silence, then Tolu says he has a meeting to attend in a few minutes. He starts to talk about his assistant, Faith, and how hardworking she is despite being so pretty because she chooses not to rely on just her good looks. He talks so much about her beauty that I start to wonder when he switched from liking women with their natural hair out (me) to those with wigs and frontals (Faith). “Your afro, Lili,” he’d say back when we were dating, “it’s beautiful! It’s you!”

“Lisa,” he says now, bringing me out of my thoughts, “say something.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” he echoes.

I heave a tired sigh. “What do you want me to say? What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to fight,” Tolu says, a hard edge in his voice. “I want you to fight.”

I want to say there is nothing to fight for. I’m tired, tired, tired, of fighting. I’ve been fighting for years – for a courtship, with his mother, through the miscarriages, for my life, for us- and now he wants me to fight.

“When did you start sleeping with Faith?” I say instead.

Immediately I say the words, I want to take them back. I trust him and I know he would never cheat, but I just laid an accusation that feels like a nail in the coffin of our marriage. His face slumps, eyes wide with disbelief like he doesn’t believe I just said that. His heart is on the floor, stomped over by my feet, shattered into a million pieces like the bowl. His eyes turn sad and red. And now he’s the one staring at me, and I can’t meet his gaze.

With trembling hands, I pick up my bowl, wishing it would slip off my fingers so I can occupy myself with picking up the pieces instead of thinking about the pieces of Tolu’s heart. I down the contents in the sink. Watch it swirl. Scoop the soggy cereal into the trash. Leave my bowl in the sink.

Check out the next story from our finalists in the Short Story Challenge#1