Marriage – Page 3 – PurplePretoria

This used to be my fantasy; going home with you, waking up next to you.

But a good wife never longs, never desires. She cooks and cleans until her hands are rubbery and peeling in white patches.

A good wife waits until you come back late in the night, with a happy face, a how was your day and a hot plate of food. If you detect any resentment in the “how” or “day” or how she opened the door, you quiz her out. “Why are you so angry? I almost had an accident on my way home!” … And I’m drunk and its 2:00 a.m.

Once the kraal you reeled her into was closed, you were off to conquer another project, off for another adventure. Your home was in good hands. When you had just met, you had whispered something like, I like you because you are the kind of girl who prays for her man. She was uneasy about it, not sure what it meant, but she does spend most nights awake looking for warmth in the arms of God.

It was supposed to be the beginning of life, finally, successfully off into the sunset, but walls are a cage if you are the only one within them.

A good wife produces beautiful obedient children who love you and take up your name. She always speaks well of you. She is always there for them when they need her, like if they run into a door knob and blood comes gushing out of the side of their head and she knows that she will be there for them but that there will be no one there for her.

A good wife must take care of her own self. You have important work to do. More importantly, your mother and friends need you. If you suspect that she really is sick and in pain, then declare that you are sicker. She must always take care of you, in sickness and in health. You did the chasing and now that she’s yours, her lifelong subservience to you as the accursed helper is your entitlement.

A good wife changes her name, her identity. You are an avalanche. She exists only under your own existence. Her story, her dreams, her self come second to yours.

A good wife wears her ring even though you hate yours, you can’t stand jewellery and besides, everyone knows you are married.

You remind her of when she was growing up. Children, to an African man are a nuisance in his path, an inconvenience – except to add to his manly stature when called upon the council of other men. Such is a wife to the curriculum vitae of her husband- good on paper. If they be bad, then what a loss, and if they be good, well, more accolades for him. His life is neither moved or tampered with, by the miniscule details of their own.

The good wife begins to crack right around the eyes- her expanding waist no longer of interest, she remains intact along paths untamed but no longer explored. She eventually becomes the matron that all good wives are- plump, forever tired, always within a second of delivering a slap to the maid or a neighbour’s child, her haughty laughter growing louder at every wedding.

Last night was foggy. She had jumped out of bed that morning, her hairstyle still brushed and firmly lying upon her head and it made her furious. He had rolled out of the bed next to her but today he had not asked her why she too was up early. Then he went to read for his exam and she could vaguely remember him murmuring, about two hours before about if she could take the baby to his bed. And even in her sleep she had made a mental note to keep calm about it because there was little room for feminism in marriage.

It would come out later though at the cocktail evening he would plan for her, calling her while she sat in the boardroom of her workplace, filling out her desire to be wanted, to be seen, to be important- working on a project she had just happened to be dropped into that morning. He said it as if he had planned it all along. Are you free for lunch? What about later on this evening?

It always came out, -the frustration, even though it was never supposed to. When she did think about it, he seemed to enjoy it. She had asked him once, how a man like him who found excitement in danger, risk and the forbidden had decided on marriage. Things were not exciting until the steam was a halo above her head and she had calloused her tongue from chastising him.

That morning, before he rolled out, she had whispered, loud enough for him to hear.

Why do you like doing things in reverse? You couldn’t wait for me when I wanted you to and now you have me and you are waiting for me. He didn’t respond. He never did. He was cunning in that way, just like his eyes. It was both a learned defense and a compliment to his nature. It left her brewing while he waited patiently for her to burst. But things were changing because she was studying him too.

It didn’t help that his dark black skin was smooth and gleaming at lunch time, his square intelligent face passionately butchered by her words. And, on a whim, he had taken her to a place of her choice which she would never have chosen had she not been annoyed. It was the type of place she usually reserved for her father’s- where should we go for dinner?, because no one looked at the price when he was paying. But this time, she didn’t feel sorry for him, she didn’t care about being the considerate wife.

“I’m learning how to spend money now. Why don’t you just give me the money and I go and eat it? I don’t care anymore. You go work hard. I’ll go work hard. And we can take care of our child,” she stung. It was the last thing she wanted and yet she threw at him often.

His eyes were the last thing she saw before she disappeared. That was how she wanted it. He lived for danger and excitement. He insisted she take the dry martini. Another one maybe?.. No! she replied. The people at the table behind them had stopped what they were doing. She could tell they were listening in on their conversation and by the sudden soundlessness from their conversation, they were highly entertained.

You can’t take half of me and leave the other. If you want me to be the guy I used to be, then I can’t be the guy you want me to be now-

Is that a threat? she interjected.

You know how I used to be. And I changed for you…

I changed you? she exclaimed.

I’m trying to be kind and listen to you. But now if I tell you anything, you refuse. I hate that. I hate it. Fine, you are not taking that green juice. Have a drink. And then-

And then what? I’m not that 19 year old girl anymore. I do what I want.

Fine. Then go.

She shifted her legs under the table and her legs brushed against him. It irritated her that his legs were too close.

I just – I’m going through a lot. But you won’t understand. Let’s go to the parking lot. This is not the place. These people can hear us.

No. Tell me, what are you going through. I planned for us to come here and chill and spend time together. He was using her words against her.

How was your day, she asked.

It was the refresh button. He understood this.

She followed behind him, the cocktail making everything woozy and mildly blurry. She loved that restaurant. He knew she did. The Indian man who handed him the keys stole a few glances at her. Finally he took a picture of his I.D and promised to send the password to the WIFI. He directed this last statement at her, as if she was only here because of the WIFI. She wanted to tell him, that she was not here to be murdered. But what else could he think? She sat there quietly on the dining room chair, with no eye contact, hiding behind the expensive glasses his insurance had bought her, desperately wishing she could be found.

This place is fancy, she said, when the door had been closed. She had already began to wonder if she had wound herself up too tightly earlier before.

It is, isn’t it?

The fog had waned by morning. He jumped out of bed uncharacteristically when she said she was already on her way out.

I just wanted to say Good morning, he said, holding her closely.

She checked his face. Why?

And that I love you… And, I forgot to tell you that I was leaving for work today.

It was always like that with him.

Tag: Marriage

The good wife

A foggy night