EVERYONE IS MAD

One night, you will calmly put a knife to your husband's penis and promise to cut it off. It will scare him so much that the next day, he will call his family members for a meeting in the house. He will not call your family members, but you will not care.

You won't need them. Your husband's family will crowd the new apartment-a bedroom and a parlour, called self-contain by Lagos agents-you got three months ago. It will feel like they surround you.

They will exclaim, sigh, frown, click their tongues, gnash their teeth, and repeat a million times that you committed an abomination. His potbellied uncle, Buraimo, who always leers at your bosom will point at you and say, "Shebi I told him not marry you? I said marry someone from your tribe. Igbo women are dangerous." He will say this while ogling your bosom.

"Well, I blame him for not handling you properly. Because if it was me who was handling you, ehn," he will beat his chest in anguish at this point, "if it was me, you wouldn't have tried this nonsense." His eldest sister, Azeezat, will pretend to appeal to your shared womanhood. "Isi, as a woman myself, I know men can be difficult. But what you have done is terrible. No woman has done this thing in our family. In fact, it is a disgrace to womanhood to want to cut your husband's member. Haba! If you cut Lukumon's member, how will you people have another child? You know we expect your next child to be a boy." You will be so amused that she calls it member, it will make you smile.

They will misinterpret your smile. "You are smiling at your evil, abi? You are not well! You hear me? You are mad!" Lati, his immediate elder sister with the tiny voice, will jump and bark at you before someone will tell her to calm down. You will stay silent as you planned. Till, your husband's older cousin, Mufu, the thief, will make you talk. "Mufu, please bring out Lukumon's watch from your pocket, and put it back on the side-stool," you will say quietly, but with clear menace. Everyone will turn to Mufu. Their embarrassed faces will confirm they know he's a thief.

But because he's one of theirs, Uncle Buraimo will try to save his face. "Mufu, eh, I know you were just . . . eh . . . admiring, eh . . . Lukumon's watch. But sha, put it back o, before she cuts your manhood." They'll all titter, nervously, forcefully, while Mufu will pull the watch from his pocket and place it on the side-stool. He'll glare at you. You'll glare back and hope he gets the message that you'd no longer stand for him brazenly pilfering things anytime he visited, partly because Lukumon was scared to call him out. You'll look at Lukumon and wonder how you came to love such a sorry excuse for a man. You will remember when you were younger, when every man wanted you, but you fell for Lukumon's natural charm. You'll remember how he used to come knocking on your parents' door, leaving you sweets, and sweeter notes. You will wonder if your life would have been better if you had chosen the soldier with tribal marks from the barracks in Egbeda.

The soldier loved you, but you'd chosen Lukumon, the beautiful man-boy who made you laugh and overfilled your heart when he said he loved you. You chose Lukumon because of his words-he wrote love letters, recited delicious poetry, whispered magic in your ears, and sang as you danced till you believed the lyrics of all the world's love songs were written just for you. "God forbid you marry a teacher. You must do better than us," your father had said. But you were so possessed by love, you threatened your parents-to elope, to get pregnant, to kill yourself. It was your first and only rebellion, and they were so confused by it, they let you have your way. "Isi, why did you threaten to kill my son?" Lukumon's mother's voice is soft, and her face impassive, as always. But you will remember she never liked or accepted you-she was just indifferent, and sometimes, it rankled more because you'd have preferred her to hate you. You will never say it, but you blame her and his five elder sisters for over pampering Lukumon. Yes, he was the last child and only boy, but their coddling contributed to making him lazy, entitled, and impotent in any adversity. Before you answer, Kitan, your six-year-old daughter will wake from her nap in the bedroom, come to the parlour, be scared of the crowd, spy you, and dash to your open arms. You'll hug her, carry her, sniff her neck and enjoy her dusting-powder scent. She'll hug you tightly as if she knows you are under fire and she wants to shield you. She'll hold you till your heart warms.

Till you'll say a silent prayer, for wisdom, for peace, for Kitan- that her life will be soft and she'll never leave you. You love her too much. It was all for Kitan. You will remember your husband, when he was pressuring you and trying to convince you, had said, "Do this for Kitan." You will look at him and your anger will rise red again. But Kitan will rub your face with her cute fingers and calm your soul so you can tell your story. You used to sell roasted corn at the junction of Unilag. When corn was out of season, you sold boli and sauce. Your business was fairly successful because your location was strategic, and there was a lot of foot traffic. Also, because you were punctilious with your business-in sourcing the freshest corn and plantains, in selecting the best charcoal for roasting, in preparing the sauce (with the famous boli-sauce recipe from Port Harcourt), and in serving with neat newspapers and takeaway packs-you had many loyal customers. Lukumon said it also helped that you are friendly and you look like Naomi Campbell (people usually said the Naomi Campbell thing, but you'd never seen it, and frankly, it irritated you because you don't have Naomi Campbell money).

Selling roasted corn or boli was never the plan. You always thought you and Lukumon will make something of yourselves. But he lost his job a year after your marriage, and you had to leave your job as a secretary when you got pregnant for Kitan. The aftermath of Kitan's birth was tough as you were both jobless, and your meagre savings ran out. In those days, Lukumon sent you to ask Uncle Buraimo for money for food, and to get it, you endured the man bear-hugging you in greeting so he could crush your boobs against his chest. Eventually, you refused to go. It caused the first fight in your marriage, during which you flippantly said you'd rather sell roasted corn by the roadside than collect money from Uncle Buraimo. Then, weeks later, on a night after the landlord had made a scene because of overdue rent, a coaxing Lukumon reminded you of your words. "It's just to bring a daily income while I'm job hunting," he said. "Mufu has talked to his oga at work about me.

Hopefully, in another month or so, they'll give me a job. Just be patient, ife mi." That was over six years ago, but Lukumon still hadn't found a job. You'd sold corn or boli during that time and you didn't mind. It was honest work and provided for your family's basic needs. On average, you made about five thousand naira daily. Enough for food and rent for your family's one- bedroom face-me-I-face-you apartment. Enough to pay for your contraceptive pills because you both agreed not to have another child until you were financially stable. The only thing you paid a premium for was Kitan's education. You'd insisted that she attend one of the best private schools in Yaba. Lukumon had argued that you were wasting money because Kitan could thrive in a public school and turn out well, just like he did. But you'd quietly said, "My child will never go to a public school in Nigeria as long as I'm alive." And he'd looked at your face, and never spoke of the matter again. You met Ehi on a rainy Thursday in June, when he pulled up in his SUV to buy corn. He rolled the window down, "Madam, good afternoon. How much?" You greeted him like you did everyone else. "Good afternoon, sir. Thank you for stopping. It's two hundred naira for one." "Okay, give me five and six pears. Hope they're soft." "Yes, sir." You nodded, wrapped up his food, stood, and handed it to him through the window.

He gave you five one-thousand-naira notes. "Sir, your bill is only two thousand naira." "I know. Keep the change. I like that you're very polite." "Thank you, sir." He returned two days later. This time, Kitan was with you as usual every day after you picked her from school. He parked and got down. You studied him for the first time. He could have passed for average-his features, height, and build were average-but his clothes (well-tailored kaftan and designer slippers) and an air of brusque determination stood him out. "Madam, your corn was so nice, I came all the way from Surulere to buy again." "Good afternoon, sir. Thanks for coming again." "Good afternoon, sir," Kitan said. As a rule your daughter greeted all your customers. He beamed at her. "Good afternoon. What's your name?" "Olaoluwakitan," she answered. "Nice name. What does it mean?" "God's wealth never ceases," you said. He studied both of you for a moment. "Your daughter looks exactly like you." "Thank you." "You speak so well. What school did you attend?" There was a directness about him. "Yabatech." "That's nice. And how's business?" "We thank God. We are pushing it." You were thankful he didn't ask how you'd ended up selling roasted corn by the roadside. "Good. Oya, let me have the same order." You added two extra cobs and five extra pears to his food. "Here, sir."

He collected it and gave you a wad of notes. It was fifteen thousand naira. "Sir, please I can't accept it." He shrugged. "I won't take it back either." Then he smiled. "But I suggest you take it and buy something for Olaoluwakit . . ." "Kitan. It's easier to call her Kitan." You smiled and thanked him as you took the money. It was enough for you to take the next three days off, but you didn't because you only rested on Sundays. But you did as he suggested and bought five dresses for Kitan: two new ones for church and outings, and three second-hand casuals for stay-at-home. She'd been wearing the same clothes for some years. And for the first time, impulsively, you bought her new clothes in her size. And when Lukumon, who you'd told about Ehi's generosity, asked why you didn't buy her new clothes two-to-three sizes bigger as you'd both always done, you said you forgot. As he frowned, you wondered why you couldn't explain to him that for once, you wanted to see your daughter in new clothes her size, rather than her growing into them when they were faded. Ehi came to buy corn every week and always paid far more than what he bought, especially when Kitan was with you. For a child who was usually wary of strangers, Kitan, surprisingly, had a lot of time for him.

And it was because of the little things he did-always fist-bumping her, making funny faces with her, listening as she prattled about school and Lola, her best friend. You nearly cried the day he gave you two hundred dollars for Kitan. You thanked him and prayed for him, and you noticed he was uncomfortable. He never stayed for more than twenty minutes, but you'd later realise that time was an escape for both of you. Over time, you developed a warm, understanding companionship of sorts. He didn't speak much about himself but you got to know some basics-he ran an international freight company, Ehioze was his full name, he was in the middle of a bitter divorce, and his two children lived with his soon-to-be ex-wife in London. Over time, you told him about yourself-first daughter of three of an ex-soldier and a military nurse, married to your first love, now mother of one. You didn't tell him about Lukumon's unsuccessful job search till the day he asked what Lukumon did for a living. When you also told him, without prompting, that Kitan was always with you after school because Lukumon couldn't care for her while job-hunting, you realised it was untrue- Lukumon hadn't actively searched for a job in months, and spent his days idling at home. After you finished speaking, Ehi said, "If he doesn't mind, he can send me his CV through you, and I'll see what I can do. Let me know what he decides." "Oh, thank you, sir." "Please stop that. Call me Ehi." At home, you told Lukumon about your conversation with Ehi, and asked for a copy of his CV. You were disappointed he didn't seem enthused. "Okay," he said absent-mindedly. "When will I get it?" "Isi, you can see that I'm about to get on a queue to use the toilet. I need to get there before Ngozi messes up the place with her smelly shit. After that, I'll queue to take a bath. I hope I don't go in after that useless Alao who uses two hours to bath." "Okay, my husband. Give it to me when you finish." "I have heard." When two weeks passed and he hadn't given you the CV, you wrote one out for him, went to a business centre to get it typed and printed, and gave it to Ehi.

You didn't mind doing such things for Lukumon because, generally, he was a good man to you, just a bit lazy. When you gave Ehi the CV, he studied it carefully. "I think I can fix your husband in somewhere in my company." Then, he looked intently at you. "What about you, Isioma?" "What about me, how?" "Do you want a job?" "Not really, because it won't give me time to take care of Kitan. I want to take her to school and pick her up every day." "So, you're going to do this business forever?" "God forbid." You looked away. Then, because you'd grown too comfortable with him, you shared a plan you hadn't even told Lukumon. "If I save enough money, I hope to open a grocery store to sell food items. There isn't one in my neighbourhood, so I should have an advantage. I can get good produce from suppliers I know in Mile 2 Market. Plus, I'll be closer to home and Kitan." You shrugged and sighed, "But it's just a dream for now." "How much does your dream cost?" You took a long pause before you answered. "I did a costing last month. Rent, furniture, and first stock came up to almost eight hundred thousand naira." His face was impassive when he said, "Isioma, you're a beautiful woman.

I want to help you but, I'm also human and selfish. So, here is my offer-I will give your husband a job in my company. And, I will give you two million naira. All I want in return is you spend this weekend alone with me in Osogbo. I'm going there for some business. Yes, this is a proposition. If you agree, you don't have to see me again after the weekend if you don't want to. If you reject my offer, I'll understand. But, I suggest you think about it first." How dare this man insult you? "Sir," your tone was cold, "please don't buy anything from me again. I'm a married woman. My husband is man enough for me, and I'll never cheat on him. You've insulted both of us and -" "It's an offer, not an insult," he deadpanned.

Then, his voice softened, "You have my number, Isioma. Think about it." As he drove off, you felt a tear run down your cheek. You went home early. You were still fuming when you told Lukumon about Ehi's proposition. You expected his rage to match yours, thunder to your lightning, but he stayed silent for a long moment. Finally, he asked, "Isn't that the man who gave Kitan two hundred dollars?" "Yes." "Foolish rich man." "Yes." Lukumon stood, grabbed a rumpled t-shirt from the clothes hanger, and pulled it over his head. It was the sign he was going out to play draughts with some of the men in the neighbourhood. He paused by the door, "You're my woman. You will always be my woman no matter what. You understand?" "Yes," you said, even though you were puzzled. "Why do you want to kill my son?" Lukumon's mother will repeat her question and return you to reality. You still won't answer. You will stroke Kitan's rough but soft hair, and make a note to loosen it, and weave fresh cornrows later. You will whisper in Kitan's ear, tell her to go play outside but not leave the compound. You will promise her sweets when she returns.

Everyone will sense that you won't speak while Kitan is in the room. So, they will stay silent, with bated breaths, as she leaves, reluctantly. Lukumon's shrill sister will be the first to speak. "Oya, answer Mummy's question. We are waiting." You will make them wait. On that Friday, your first night in Osogbo, Ehi made you wait. Earlier in the day, he had taken you with him on his business, viewing tobacco farms he was considering buying at the outskirts of the city. He asked you to sit with him through meetings with landowners and farmers, introduced you as his associate, asked for your opinion, and asked you to take over the last meeting. When you returned to the city, he took you shopping, then to a late lunch. In the hotel suite, there was an awkward silence as he sat on a couch and watched you perch uneasily at the edge of the bed. He asked if you wanted anything. You said no. He ordered a bottle of red wine and sipped alone. Then, he asked for your account number.

Ashamed, you replied that you didn't have a bank account (after you'd left your job as a secretary, you'd let your account go dormant, and couldn't even remember the number now). He asked if you had any ID. You said you had a voter's card and a national ID card. He called his account officer and told her he was going to send you with a cheque on Monday, and she should help you open an account. Then he wrote, and handed you a cheque-two million, eight hundred thousand naira. "For your dream, and then some," he said softly. Though you were conflicted by it all and the extra money, you managed to retort, "For my soul, you mean?" "I know this is hard for you, Isioma. In another world, I believe we'd be perfect for each other. But we're in this world, and the best we can get is this-this glimpse of what we could have been." "I thought this was an offer. A transaction like the ones you do every day." He sighed, "One of my many flaws is I negotiate for everything in this life, even for things that money can't buy. If I'd told you, I think you're amazing, and I'm crazy about you, and I want you in my life, Kitan too- you'd have said no, right?" Surprised, you nodded. "That's why I negotiated for your crumbs." You never understood why those words toppled your walls, eased your mind.

So, it felt natural when you both lay on the bed and talked, when he held your face and called you beautiful, when you kissed and tasted the wine on his soft lips and it all went to your head. A part of you was disappointed you only cuddled till you slept that night, but you understood he didn't want to rush you. You woke the next morning alone in the suite. You went to the bathroom, washed your face, and brushed your teeth. He came in, smiling and sweating in sportswear-he'd gone for a run. He took off his clothes and stepped into the walk-in shower. You smiled as you heard his off-key singing above the swish of the shower. He stopped singing when you slipped into the shower beside him, naked. Silent apart from the kisses and moans, you washed and massage each other first. You were both burning under the cold spray by the time you were through. Then, he pinned you against the wall, and you lifted a leg to welcome him as he slid into you. For the first moment, he stayed still, while you felt and stared at each other. He started to move slowly, but with the poky space, and slippery floor, it got awkward quickly. You hurtled out and bounced on the bed still wet, water and body fluids. He lay on you, while you wrapped your legs around him. He was amazingly different from Lukumon-savvier, kinkier, unselfish. With your nipple in his mouth, his right hand gripping your left buttock, his left thumb caressing your clitoris as he settled into a thrusting rhythm, your racking orgasm was a pleasant surprise.

As you pulled his hand from your clitoris because it was too intense, you realised that you both forgot to use a condom. Though you were on regular contraceptives, you preferred not to take any more chances. So, you pushed him gently off you till his back was on the bed. You knelt between his legs, pushed them apart, cupped his balls, slurped his penis till he burst in your mouth and hand. Later, as you lay on his chest, you were fascinated by how fast his heart was beating. It was still beating fast on your last night together. "Stay with me," he whispered. You stopped your light drumming on his chest. "I mean, when we get back to Lagos, come and be with me. You and Kitan. I know my personal life is a mess, and your marriage is complicated, but I also know we'll be good together." You don't speak for a long time. Then you exhale heavily. "You're negotiating again." He chuckled, "I know.

I don't know how to stop." "I don't want you to stop." Finally, you will answer your mother-in-law. "Ask Lukumon," you will say. Lukumon in the corner, with his head like a dried kolanut, will be startled to hear his name. He will reach for his watch which Mufu had returned, and your eyes will meet. You will both remember that you bought the watch, an original Tissot, and the only luxury purchase from your windfall, for him because he'd always wanted one. You will wonder if, in the circumstances, his pride will let him continue wearing it. He will look away from you as he straps it round his wrist. "What should I ask Lukumon?" "Ask your son why he made me sleep with another man for money," you will say quietly. Your words will suck out all the air from the room because nobody will breathe. Their eyebrows will raise, eyes widen, jaws go slack. Uncle Buraimo will put both hands on his head and throw both feet up. "Ah! Ah! Ah!" "When I say he made me, I mean for three days, he quarrelled with me, refused to eat my food, didn't touch me, and even begged me to do it to secure our daughter's future. He's here-ask him why." Lukumon will stare at the ground, refusing to look at you. "Lukumon, please tell your family why you made me sleep with another man for money, but treated me like a leper when I returned.

Explain why you refused to take the job the man offered you, but you insisted that I took the money, rent this house, and buy you that stupid watch. Tell them why you have refused to touch me but you're sleeping with every girl in the neighbourhood. Why did you say yesterday that you don't think Kitan is your child?" You will take a deep breath and look at your mother-in-law dead in the eye. "One last thing-if Lukumon doesn't move out of this house, I will cut off his penis and use it for money rituals." Then, you will smile.your eyes will meet. You will both remember that you bought the watch, an original Tissot, and the only luxury purchase from your windfall, for him because he'd always wanted one.

You will wonder if, in the circumstances, his pride will let him continue wearing it. He will look away from you as he straps it round his wrist. "What should I ask Lukumon?" "Ask your son why he made me sleep with another man for money," you will say quietly. Your words will suck out all the air from the room because nobody will breathe. Their eyebrows will raise, eyes widen, jaws go slack. Uncle Buraimo will put both hands on his head and throw both feet up. "Ah! Ah! Ah!" "When I say he made me, I mean for three days, he quarrelled with me, refused to eat my food, didn't touch me, and even begged me to do it to secure our daughter's future. He's here-ask him why." Lukumon will stare at the ground, refusing to look at you. "Lukumon, please tell your family why you made me sleep with another man for money, but treated me like a leper when I returned. Explain why you refused to take the job the man offered you, but you insisted that I took the money, rent this house, and buy you that stupid watch. Tell them why you have refused to touch me but you're sleeping with every girl in the neighbourhood. Why did you say yesterday that you don't think Kitan is your child?" You will take a deep breath and look at your mother-in-law dead in the eye. "One last thing-if Lukumon doesn't move out of this house, I will cut off his penis and use it for money rituals." Then you all smiled Ican see this is your first time at a bachelor party for Iggy? How do I know? I organised the two previous ones and I didn't see you there. Yes, this is the third bachelor party I've thrown for Iggy. And knowing him, I suspect I'll throw at least three more for him before we grow old and die. Even worse, I fear my hell in the afterlife will be to throw bachelor parties for him every day for eternity. Be ready sha, because I'll invite you for all of them. How do you know Iggy? You don't? A friend dragged you here? That's great. I'm happy you're here, and I think you're meant to be here, because in my experience, there're only a few random events in life. How do I know Iggy? Ha! Iggy's like my brother. But no, that doesn't make me the best person to answer your question of why he keeps getting married? But if I was to guess, I'll say maybe he's looking for something he'll never find. Me, I don't know what it is sha. My own is just to organise the bachelor parties and turn up big time at the weddings. Why? Because he's my Day One guy, and because it's what I do for a living. I organise music festivals and events; and I own a lounge that turns into a nightclub at weekends. The party never stops for me. So, I'll throw a dozen bachelor parties for Iggy if he wants. But I swear, the biggest and best bachelor party I will throw will be for Seni. Who's Seni? You see that tall guy talking with Iggy? Ah, I'm glad you described him as handsome-you have good eyes. Yes, that's Seni. He's my guy and like my brother too. What's that? Seni has an aura of sadness around him? Hmm, I see you're perceptive. Why haven't I thrown a party for Seni? Because he's single. Yes, I mean single-single, never-been-married single. Hard to believe for such a correct guy, right? No, nothing is wrong with him. In fact, he's the best one of us, a gem of a man: any woman would be lucky to have him. So, why isn't Seni married? Hmm, it's a long story sha and truth be told, a part of it is Iggy's fault. What happened? Should I be telling you all this? You have a trustworthy face, and I'm a bit drunk, but still. Okay. Okay, stop begging. To tell that story, our story, we'll need a full night and plenty of alcohol. Luckily, we have both. It's an open bar, so grab yourself a drink. Enjoy the party a little. I need to go check on the chefs and the kitchen. I'll be back. 9:34 p.m. Hmm? I am sorry I didn't hear you. Oh, you heard Iggy is marrying Pamela tomorrow for her money? Yes, I've heard that before, and frankly, I can understand why people will say that. Yes, she's wealthy: rumours say she's worth thirty million euros, inherited from her late husband who was a mogul in the mining business. And there's the obvious, almost twenty-year age gap. Yes, I believe she's sixty. But Iggy insists he's not marrying her for money. He swears he loves her. Look, I've seen how he dotes on her. Do I think he's acting? If he is, he's fantastic at it, and he's probably done it for so long that the lines have blurred. Anyway, like I said, there're only a few random events in life. Understand that Iggy has always been charming, even from childhood. We met in Isale Eko, Dosunmu Street to be exact. I know when people hear Isale Eko they think about three things depending on who they are. They think crime, Awori people and slums. These things are all true. Isale Eko is an ancestral home of Lagos, and yes, it is now cluttered with poor housing and the streets are riddled with crime. But that's not what we are about. When you're truly from Isale Eko, you care about family, community. I'm not talking about the mummy-daddy-two-kids type of family. I mean ragtag, non-blood related, bound by loyalty type of family. Anyway, we met when we were both eight. His mother, Mama Perpetua, used to cook for my family during the festive seasons, and we all attended the same church, St. Joseph's. I remember seeing Iggy a couple of times, but we didn't speak till one day when his mother brought him to our house, and while she cooked, he wandered off without her knowledge and explored our house like he owned the place. I remember this because he walked boldly into my room and asked me who I was and what I was doing. I was playing Ludo alone. I played by myself a lot because I was an only child, and I was shy back then. Anyway, without invitation, Iggy sat on my bed, picked the dice, shook them, and said, "My name is Iggy. Let's be friends." And that was it. We became best friends and brothers. I say brothers because we became so inseparable, when I threatened to drop out of private school to join Iggy in public school, my mum offered to move him to my school. Eventually, my parents moved his family of three to our boys' quarters, but he was never there because we shared my room. Through the years, we shared everything else including clothes (though he coordinated outfits better, and carried himself with a certain style that always stood him out).

We also started chasing girls together, and again, he was also a lot better at it than me. I remember when we were about eighteen, we used to sneak to eat at the legendary Iya Lati's buka in Tinubu Square. Men came for the delicious food and to ogle the girls, while women came to side-eye the girls who were taking their husbands but couldn't resist the food. Many men lusted after Iya Lati's girls, but they all had crushes on Iggy. Usually, they were notoriously rude, but they smiled and fell over themselves to serve Iggy whenever he came. And his food got larger, even though we all paid the same amount. Then, one of the girls started delivering food to Iggy at home. When I asked him about it, he just smiled, "Bro, na grace." I didn't understand what he meant until about a week later when a big catfight-complete with flying pans, scratched faces, and torn clothes- broke out among Iya Lati's girls. It turned out that one of the girls, who considered herself exclusive with iggy had found out he was sleeping with three others. Her name was Grace. The first time Iggy got married, was three years after NYSC. That was young, right? But by then, he was already a big boy compared to most guys our age. Although he was a pure Isale Eko boy, by the state- of-origin rules, he wasn't considered a Lagosian for NYSC posting. He used this to his advantage to work his posting to Lagos (I was posted to Enugu). During that one-year of NYSC, he worked at a family-run logistics company, which surprisingly, rented a furnished two-bedroom apartment in Lekki for him. He was still working there when I returned to Lagos after the NYSC-year, and as bros, he asked that I move in with him. I did, and quickly discovered that he'd gotten all these perks at work because he was dating Folakemi, the oga's daughter, who ran the company. They had a nasty breakup when Iggy switched jobs six months after NYSC and joined a fintech in VI. No, it wasn't simply because of the new job. He was head-hunted by a senior madam in the fintech. And yes, you guessed right-he and his new madam had something, and Folakemi found out. Omo! Because she'd just renewed the rent for a year, Folakemi wanted to evict Iggy from the apartment. What saved him was, the receipt and tenancy agreement were in his name. Also, the apartment was in a gated estate, so he told the security men to stop letting her in. Those were crazy and wild days for Iggy, and us. I can't remember which lady bought him a BlackBerry (those were BlackBerry days), his work- madam got him a Toyota RAV4 (codedly, of course), another woman took him on a vacation to Mauritius, some girl redecorated the apartment, and others kept sending food to us. Omo! Me and Seni were amazed by Iggy's moves. Seni? Oh, he and Iggy started working at the fintech at about the same time and bonded when they discovered they were fellow Isale Eko boys. Eventually, Seni moved out of his parents' house and into the apartment with us. He and I shared a room, Iggy stayed in the other. Understand that this was about two years post-NYSC, and there we were, still boys at heart, not quite men, living the dream lives of young Lagos bachelors with the girls, apartment in Lekki, clubbing and bar-hopping on weekends. We developed some system: I identified the fun places to visit and the parties to attend; Iggy came with his car, some money, and his pull of women; and Seni, the calm and sensible one, kept an eye on us, protected us from thieving women and bar brawls when we got drunk, drove us home and carried us to our beds. Anyway, Iggy's first marriage, right? So, we're chilling at home one weekend, when Iggy comes and drops the bombshell that he's getting married. We ask: Dude, aren't you too young? Man said no. Okay. We ask: Which of your women? Man said: Odunola. We said: Who? We don't know this girl. Long story short, we got to meet her. Unlike the women Iggy liked to roll with at the time, she wasn't much of a looker. She was quiet, had no airs, preferred to blend into the background, but looked up to Iggy like he was God. We tried to figure out his angle, but he didn't say anything. He took her to meet my mum, who stood in for his mother (who'd passed on in his last year at uni). Even my mum wondered if he wasn't rushing things, but he said he knew what he was doing. I threw Iggy's first bachelor party. And I'll never forget it. Not because it was a great party, but because it gave me direction. I mean there was a moment in the middle of it, I stood in a corner watching everyone dancing and having a good time, and boom, I had an epiphany-I could start a business for partying and events. And that's what I did. But that's another story. Anyway, back to Iggy. So, they had a quiet wedding next day. Her parents gifted them a duplex in Parkview where they moved into. Six months later, they moved to the US together, and he gifted me the RAV4. He was there for five years and though we kept in touch, it wasn't quite the same. Anyway, after five years, Iggy came back alone, divorced. Seni and I asked: Dude, what happened? Man said nothing, they just drifted apart. What's that you asked? His angle for marrying Odunola? Well, he came back with an American passport sha, if that's what you're hinting at. Turns out she was an American citizen. Anyway, like I said, there aren't many random events in life. 10:45 p.m. Iggy's second marriage? Sure. I'll get to that. First, we put the band back together like The Blues Brothers. Iggy, Seni, and I. Some things stayed the same. Iggy and Seni started working together again, this time in their own fintech company which they co-founded. Their company developed payment processing platforms and solutions. Seni did the core tech and operations work, Iggy ran the marketing and business side. Their clients were mainly companies, and while they had some success and steady growth, I remember Iggy used to say they needed one big contract from the government to make a killing. And some things were different. We didn't live together: I'd recently opened a lounge and grill in an old bungalow and moved into the BQ behind the bungalow because of the late hours I worked and so I could monitor my business. Freshly divorced Iggy did the same thing, by living at the converted BQ behind the duplex in Ikoyi, where his and Seni's company operated from. Seni had retained the old apartment. Every day after work, they came to my lounge/grill to hang out, and we had dinner and drinks together. That was where we met Jamilah. One evening, she came in wearing jeans, Converse sneakers, and a hijab -then she ordered takeaway pork chops like a teen boy buying his first condom. I must have smiled as I took her order and passed it to the kitchen because she muttered: Don't judge me. And I said: I'm Catholic, it's Good Friday, and I've had both pork and lamb chops today. She smiled and said: Wow, you're going to hell. And I said: See you there. And we laughed. Turns out she worked at the ad agency down the street, had a weakness for the pork chops, and only came for the first time because the security man who usually bought them codedly for her wasn't around that day. I convinced her to join our table while she waited for her order. She ended up having dinner with us, and she fitted in comfortably like we were old friends. It quickly became a thing for her to join us for dinner twice or thrice a week. There was something about Jamilah. No. Scratch that. There were many things about Jamilah. She was stunning, yes, but it was as insignificant to her as a yawn. There was a light to her, as if she could lift anyone's spirit with a listening ear and a warm smile. She was incredibly funny, got our jokes, and I can't explain how important this was. Forget sex and food-nothing steals a man's heart faster than a beautiful woman who genuinely laughs at all his jokes. Seni was smitten. Iggy too, though he tried to play it cool. Me? Not really. I'd just started dating my wife then, but more importantly, I understood there was no point pining for Jamilah because the religious difference was always going to be a problem. Seni knew this too, but it didn't stop him from falling for her. Did he tell her? No. Did he try to date her? No. But they got so close, that I remember some of my staff assumed they were dating. Anyway, about six months after we met Jamilah, Iggy came to me one day, and said he'd converted to Islam, and taken the name Iqbal. I couldn't place it, but I sensed this had something to do with Jamilah and it was going to go bad. So, I said: Don't do this. But man, acting all innocent asked: Do what? So, I said: Ignatius? Man said: Yes. I said: Your mother, God rest her soul, named you after St. Ignatius of Loyola: what the fuck is an Iqbal? You can guess the rest of the story from here, right? Yes, the newly converted Brother Iqbal made his move, turned on his charm, and Jamilah agreed to marry him. It's one of those things I still can't understand because she knew who he was-I mean we were honest about his escapades when we all hung out, right? Or maybe, being in her early thirties at the time, she was under pressure from her family to get married and she had no other eligible Muslim men in her circle to vibe with. I don't know. All I know is, I was asked to do another bachelor party. Man said: Make it halal. And I said: God punish halal! Why? Because I never believed he was truly a Muslim. Anyway, later I said to him: Look, I'm bringing strippers, a Blackjack table, a Roulette wheel, and enough alcohol to host a carnival in Isale Eko-if you like, come, if you like, don't come. Of course, Brother Iqbal came. Seni didn't come though. Seni? What do you think? Nothing was the same. First, he'd tried to play it cool by congratulating them when their surprise engagement was announced. He even came to the wedding, and pink-eyed with pain, drank more than I'd ever seen him do, and for the first time in my life, I had to carry him and make sure he got home safe rather than the other way round. I spent that night with a broken man, and all he kept slurring was: I hope he treats her right. He took a leave from the company after they returned from their honeymoon. He didn't return. He called me from Abuja to say he was transferring his shares in the company to me. A few weeks after, the shares became a lot more valuable. Turns out Jamilah's uncle, a devout Muslim, was a big shot at the federal revenue service, and through him, the company was given a contract to process incoming tax payments to the government for a percentage. This was the life-changing contract Iggy had hoped for the company and had finally gotten. A cynic would say that was his angle for marrying Jamilah. I also understood why Seni had given me his shares and walked away- any money made under that contract, would have felt to him like taking a bribe to lose the love of his life. I took the money, but I've never touched it. It's in an investment account yielding interest. If I can't convince him to take it back one day, I'll use all of it to do something for Isale Eko people.

Our group? We broke up like P-Square. Seni stayed in Abuja. Me and Iggy weren't quite the same. I think the last time they saw each other before today was when they came for my wedding. But it was awkward. And the bastards didn't throw me a bachelor party. Iggy and Jamilah? What do you think? The contract lasted for five years, till her uncle retired. Their marriage and Iggy's Islam held for a year after the end of the contract. Life has few coincidences. I still call him Iqbal sometimes though. Just to fuck with him. Incredible story, right? I hope it was worth listening to. Seni and Iggy have spent all night talking? Oh, you noticed. Yeah. It seems to be going according to plan. They have a lot of catching up to do. Plan? Yes, the plan, my plan, is that they'll patch things up somehow, especially as Seni is moving back to Lagos. They don't have to be as close as before, but, if it happens, I'll welcome it. I miss my boys. I think I started by saying there're only a few random events in life. Let me come clean with you. I hope you won't get mad. Your friend, who's also a good friend of mine, didn't just randomly drag you to this party. And, I didn't just tell you all this for fun. The plan, our plan, is for you and Seni to meet. Don't call it a blind date. Just a meeting. We think you'd both be perfect for each other, but no pressure. Just meet, have a chat. Come, let me introduce you. You can kill your friend later. And if this works out the way I suspect it will, you'll hug and thank her instead. I like that you're smiling and seeing the funny side. What's that? If it works out, I shouldn't throw a bachelor party? You're killing my dreams, woman, but okay. The Anointed Wife Do you think it is easy to be a pastor's wife? How can you know what it means to be the partner of a man with a divine calling, made of flesh but instructed to lead with the spirit? Any ordinary wife has their work cut out for them in loving their husbands, in serving them for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, but a pastor's wife has to help her husband maintain his holy anointing, and to do so with an invisible hand. "I didn't do it. Mummy, do you believe me?" How long has it been since I became the mummy of our organisation, the mother in our marriage? I can't remember. It feels like forever since I had the pleasure, the intimacy of hearing my own name fall from my husband's lips-my real name, not Mummy, sometimes followed by one of the children's names. I look at him now. His pleading eyes and downturned mouth. His hair is impeccably groomed, his salt and pepper beard neatly trimmed. We have been married for over twenty years. Our love has gone beyond compassion, beyond butterflies in the stomach and settled into a form of kinship. Tade and I are members of an elite, exclusive club, we couldn't be closer if we had shared some kind of blood covenant. "Of course, I believe you. I am working with Demilade from PR, my press release will be on our Facebook page within the hour." He smiles broadly, it reaches his eyes and brightens his aura. He takes two steps towards me and when he's close enough, reaches out and rubs my arms. Up and down. Three times. He stops when I pick up my notepad from the table to look over my handwritten letter. It is meant for the members of our church and the wicked, judgmental general public. My dear hopefuls, It is with a heavy heart that I write to you. As you go about your daily activities, please do not let the devil take hold of your mind with fake news. Two weeks ago, an article was released accusing pastor of sleeping with a young lady on the 19th of June 2020. The young lady claims that my husband, our daddy in the Lord, picked her up from Festac, took her to a hotel close by to have inappropriate relations with her. She says she is coming forward because she saw Daddy on television preaching and she didn't think that it was right for an adulterer to be the one to guide people on their spiritual journeys. I am not saying this young lady is a liar but on the date that she claims they met, our daddy in the Lord and I were in the house with our three children rounding up a three-day weekly fast. We always round up this particular fast with a prayer and vigil which is mostly heralded by our daddy. That evening, I led the prayer because Daddy had to rest his voice for the next day-we had a retreat for pastors all over Lagos. However, throughout the vigil, Daddy was with me, encouraging me and making sure that I never felt alone. Hopefuls, I don't think you can know a person completely but if my husband-our daddy in the Lord was a twin, I think his wife of twenty years would know. Unless the young lady met my husband's long-lost brother that we have never heard of, then her claim of staying with Daddy throughout the night is false.