Man

by Ucheoma Onwutuebe

Winner, Waasnode Short Fiction Prize, selected by Marisa Crane

Man in his forties stops by the pharmacy as he drives you home the morning after. In the earlier days of your affair, he would persuade you to walk in and make the purchase. But thank God he knows better now. He knows you are unfazed by his fear that he would bump into someone from his church or some parent from his children’s school. He returns to the car with a small sachet of green tablets and a bottle of table water and presses one pill into your palm.

You worry too much, you tease him. The condom didn’t even break.

He watches you swallow and wipes a trickle of water from your chin with avuncular affection. He tilts your head to face him and says, I have four children, do you understand? All in secondary school. And my best friend left me his kids after the accident. So please take this second pill after twelve hours, you hear? Set your alarm, or better still, I’d call to remind you.

You understand him: Buhari is still president and with the way Nigeria’s economy has bared its fangs, no right—thinking person should have a litter of babies they can’t cater to.

. . .

Man in his twenties sees you hop down from the car, sees Man in his forties peck you on the cheek. His face clouds as he walks towards you, towards the retreating car. In his hand is an empty jerrican, perhaps he’s on his way to buy diesel for his small generator, and he holds the container like a weapon. You don’t have the time nor energy for his confrontation, for his who-was-thatness? So you summon your bitch face and duck when he tries to grab your hand. You know he’s staring at you in disbelief, feel his eyes at the back of your head. You reach for your keys in your purse without fumbling and slam the door to your apartment.

I have been calling you all night, all morning, Man in his thirties says to you over the phone. Yes, you saw his 12 missed calls, you admit, too tired to deny.

So why weren’t you picking?

I slept off, you say. Yesterday’s work was super hectic and my boss? That woman is a witch; can you imagine she didn’t let me go home till this morning?

He pauses to process the lie and you hold your breath in preparation for a counterattack. Get some rest then, he sighs, call me when you wake up.

. . .

That same night, Man in his twenties eats you out. The way he grates his teeth against your flesh shows he is still mad at you for letting that dirty old man touch you. What. Do. You. See. In. Him? He asks when he’s mounts you. You don’t answer, instead, you think of Man in his thirties who does not eat you at all. Man in his forties eats you like a feast. Like a famished traveller who appreciates a chef’s long and dutiful hours. He is not like Man in his twenties who makes love to you like he is masturbating. He’s not like this silly child performing for you now. You wonder how to teach this boy, without breaking his spirit, that coital journey is not a one—man race. But at least the boy is better than Man in his thirties. That lazy oaf. He just lies on his back, his hands behind his head and says, Ride me. But Man in his forties always asks, Are you okay? Did you like that? Should I do that again?

Man in his forties is dreamy and full of nostalgia. Everything he does is freighted with precision and tenderness. In the mornings that he cannot afford to drop you off in your small apartment in Bode Thomas, he stands by the Uber, observing the face of the driver and writing down the plate number. He says, Make sure you call me once you get home, then he presses in your palm wads of crisp notes, money you’d soon squander in Yaba night market, haggling pairs of second-hand jeans.

But this man in his twenties, now snoring beside you, is grasping for a rite of passage, which he believes can be found only in sex. He brags to his fellow corps members that he’s dating an older woman. He says these amidst cheers as he takes a drag from his bottle of stout whenever he and his friends congregate in seedy beer parlours, all of them trying too hard to cultivate the vices that will launch them into manhood. Alcohol, weed and wild oats: they attempt to outlive their last escapades and lie very often about their conquests. Man in his twenties tells his friends you are his sugar mummy, though the age difference between you two is quite negligible for such lofty claims. But in the dead of the night when he raps on your window, willing you to let him in against your better judgement, Man in his twenties nestles in your arms and you mother him and tell him he will be beautiful when he finally blooms. You stop him from popping his pimples and tell him they will heal if only he will use the astringent you bought him religiously. You tell him his beards will connect someday, his muscles will bulge in time. He is not aware of the suppleness of his body, the sheer gift of his strength and though he lifts dumbbells and grunts in the backyard, he is never impressed with himself. You tell him there is nothing shameful about asking his dad for money. You send him GMAT papers as he worries about his next job interview. You conduct mock interviews for him. But he is more obsessed with making a show of you to his friends in the neighbourhood. He wants to hold your hand in public. Showing off one more conquest is more important to him than future employment.

However, Man in his thirties is anxious, gasping for the jaunty days of his twenties. He is under pressure from his mother to settle down. He wants babies. He wants a woman, his woman. He asks if you can cook if you can sweep if you can iron. He tests you by leaving a heap of laundry by the door on the days you visit. He worries that your photography job would not augment family upkeep. He promises to find you a Federal Government job because he wants a home with financial stability. He tests you by leaving week—long dishes in the sink when you visit. He is testing five other women. So far you have made it to the third position. You pretend not to know of his ongoing auditions when you hop into his car after church to spend Sunday evenings with him. You keep up appearances because Man in his thirties looks like a final bus stop for your tired feet.

. . .

You wake up to a deposit alert from Man in his forties. Six figures. It is for a new lens you covet: Hasselblad 80mm f2.8 for portraits. He is eager for you to complete your half-hearted project of photographing deeply melanated people like you. Your studio is your living room and some of the models you scout from the streets want more than you can pay. You are hoping for an exhibition, to grow a body of work. Other times, you are invited for private shoots: birthdays, engagements, weddings, but you are slowly running out of patience from chasing clients to pay up what they owe. Man in his twenties is your constant muse and he refuses to charge you a dime.

The money gift from Man in his forties is from a huge commission for a recent body of oil paintings in his gallery. These days business is booming. Expatriate collectors pay hard currency for the artworks by the local artists he manages. You two would vacation in Epe Resort this weekend and you are eager to dine and groove. The resort staff know you now and they judge you with their eyes as they carry your small overnight suitcase to your room— small girl following big man. When business is bad for Man in his forties, he takes you to a friend’s apartment and laments in your arms, fondling your hair in one hand and silencing his wife’s calls in the other.

Man in his thirties works in a cable network company and is paid in dollars. He doesn’t say much about his job because he thinks you will not understand. He only says he is paid in dollars and that is enough for you. You hand him the CV of Man in his twenties, say it is your cousin who needs a job quickly. He looks at the CV and says, I can’t promise your cousin anything, but I hope he is a smart kid. I am tired of the dullards at work.

Man in his thirties was a former schoolmate though he was classes ahead of you. He was nerdy then and couldn’t look girls in the eye. Now those many hours spent in the laboratory have paid off and the nerdiness is replaced by an outsized ego. He believes only lazy people make excuses for their poverty.

If I, the son of a school teacher can earn in dollars in this Nigeria, he says, then no one has an excuse.

His recently acquired vanity sits poorly on him and he spends time tending to his receding hairline. He has more money than he needs but he does not spare it. He says he’s opened a trust fund for your kids—yours and his. You’re sure he says this to the other contestants to keep you all from billing him. His mother visits very often and she fancies you. She calls you, “my wife.” Until you learnt that she fancies all the other choir girls that drop by her son’s house, all of them, contestants. She hails you “my wife’ when she sees you washing week-long dishes her son ate with. She tells you stories of his childhood, how he cried each time he did not take the first position in his class. His father, who is now late, was the school headmaster and was hard on his son no matter how much the boy strived to impress him. If only he was alive to see his boy doing so well now, his mother says shaking her head. But she tells this same story to the other contestants, choir girls like you. One Sunday his mother came to church and Sister Nancy hugged her all too familiarly.

The woman slipped and called her, My wife, tugging at Sister Nancy’s cheeks. She did not know you were within earshot. Then she touched Sister Nancy’s hair the way she touches yours and complimented Sister Nancy’s afro. You are envious of Nancy’s full hair, so long, lustrous, but you console yourself with the fact that Nancy cannot touch you in wardrobe. She is not a slay queen and her style is too proper, too coordinated. She matches her outfits too carefully and hides her insane figure, the kind we are told men admire. As for you, you love your eccentric wardrobe. A waterfall jacket thrifted from the night market, a broad-shouldered blazer. Oxford shoes. Wide glasses and print dresses that borrowed their style from the 1980s. No one else dresses like you in the choir. You look like an artist. And even though you are very cordial with Nancy and never fail to compliment her beautiful hair—that one thing she owns you covet so much—you do not like her because you two are interested in the same man. You are sure Nancy is the number one candidate on the list of contestants. She is a true Christian and won’t even visit Man in his thirties to avoid sin. You see the way she squirms when he hugs her at the end of church service whenever Pastor says, Give your neighbour a brotherly hug. Her last birthday party turned into a small house fellowship and after dancing to only gospel tunes, she led prayers that lasted two hours and some people even wept for their souls. You hold no candle to Nancy’s piety. She will be crowned the winner of this contest.

However, Man in his thirties does not propose to you but he asks for your mother’s number one day as you join him in the car to his house after mid-week service.

Ma, he says to your mother on the phone, I think I like your daughter.

So they, he and your mother, fix a date for the customary introduction. Many questions race through your head. Why me? You ask yourself. Why does he want a woman with a wardrobe he often calls ‘odd’? Why does he want a woman he always tells in bed, This girl you are spoilt. Who taught you bad thing? But you smile and hug him. Your mother can finally let you breathe.

Man in his forties asks you if you love him, this fiancé of yours. You are at the resort when you break the news to him. He sits at the edge of the bed, lighting a cigarette. He paces the room naked and unashamed of his potbelly. Age comes with confidence in one’s skin. Look at that hairy butt, those fallen breasts. He has taught you not to fear the passage of time and its wear on the body. He is greying slowly. By his fifties, there would be no dark hair left on his body.

How much would you need for the wedding? He asks, pulling out his chequebook.

. . .

Man in his twenties does not know yet. Of what use is it for him to know? Lately, he’s seeing a girl his age and he ghosts you. You see her crawl out of his house gingerly in the morning, shy and self-conscious, wearing the guilt of the night before on her svelte frame. You meet them at the gate as you hurry for work and your chest tightens. He doesn’t say Good morning. You do not say Good morning too. You hail a bike and speed off. After two weeks of pretending you do not exist, he raps on your door by midnight and you undress him but leave him hanging. He begs you to touch him further but you feign sleep. You do not ask about the girl. When he tires of begging you, he lies beside you and doses off. You remember the day you met him, the day he moved into the compound, in the spare bungalow by the gate. You spot him while taking out your braids and watching your laundry billow in the wind. He has a trash bag in his hand and asks you where the dumpsite is. You tell him to throw his waste over the fence. No one will see. He is sceptical. But he does it. In the general meeting with the landlord and the other tenants, he suggests money is donated to buy a big bin and he would coordinate it. He rallies the grown men and women in the compound till a big dumpster appears. You like his boldness. One night, you call him to help you kill a snake lizard in your room. And after the kill, you serve him cornflakes and let him peruse your shelf. 11:00 pm; power goes out and he still lingers. You do not mind. He tells you about the music videos he shot, shows you his works on YouTube and you are impressed with his aesthetic. You lend him a book on Art Installation to give him ideas on creating his next set. Then he hugs you long and hard by your door. And when he gets home, he sends a text: You are the highlight of my day. The next morning you are at his door, he makes room for you in his bed.

Man in his forties texts you, You know we have to stop after you get married, just saying. You know this is bait. He means the opposite. He means he’d miss you and doesn’t want this to end. He needs reassurance. He always needs reassurance. Like the night you first met him at his gallery opening, Your best friend, a photographer like you, had an exhibition in his gallery and you were there on the day of the exhibition, running around checking for wine because his staff acted like they could not be bothered, especially the girl who sat at the reception, whom you later began to suspect was your rival when you two became lovers. When he panicked that guests may be delayed because of the heavy rain, you and your friend comfort him and tell him the opening would go well. It didn’t go well and you and your best friend go to Freedom Park to drink away your disappointment. And there he was too. He smiles at you weakly and you notice the sheen on his wedding band.

Can I buy you a drink? he asks.

If only your wife wouldn’t poison it, you say, pointing at his finger.

She is not here, she is on maternity leave in the States.

That night you exchange numbers.

. . .

Morning comes and today is your last day at work as the resident photographer for Stylish Magazine. It was Man in his forties who helped you get the job. His auntie’s best friend is its founding editor, a magazine that survived recessions and waning public interest. Nigerians no longer buy magazines with the advent of blogs and Instagram. But Madam Sussie’s faith is staunch; older women who are not won over by the fast pace of technology still read the magazine and their patronage keeps it afloat. But now, Madam Sussie is retiring and handing the reins of affairs to her niece. Hot—blooded, driven, with a tongue as sharp as a blade, she talks down on everybody and employs and sacks at whim. Salaries are deducted with no explanation but you stay because you love the creativity of the job. However, Man in his thirties has this better government job for you. A family woman needs a stable source of income.

You won’t give up on photography, you tell yourself as clear your table. You will shoot the streets as you used to on weekends, you will ask hawkers to smile for you, women tending their wares to pose for you. You are interested in the market women. You are hoping for an exhibition of your collection of women. Women who look like your mother. Women with simple needs.

Women faithful to their faithless men. Women who count the profits from their petty trades in the middle of the night with the aid of kerosene lamps. Women whose needs and appetites are easy. Women who love only one man.

Ucheoma Onwutuebe is a Nigerian writer. Her works have appeared in Prairie Schooner, Off Assignment, Bakwa Magazine, and others. She has received residencies from Yaddo, Art Omi and The Anderson Center. She is currently an MFA student at the University of Nevada Las Vegas.