By Damilare Kuku

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-contained’ 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.  

Excerpt from “Cuck-Up” copyright © 2021 by Damilare Kuku, in Nearly All The Men In Lagos Are Mad (Masobe Books).

Damilare Kuku is a creative artist who has worked as a radio presenter, scriptwriter, film producer, and director. As a child, she was drawn to the enduring magic of books, and saw writers as spell casters. Naturally, she was entranced to become one.

- All rights to this story remain with the author. Please do not repost or reproduce this material without permission.