By Ehae Longe

Everybody is laughing.

The celebration is in overflow. I had prepared myself to participate. Picked my black velvet boubou with bejewelled details days before, insisting that I must shine. And now I’m here, feeling scrubbed out.

Sometimes, I’m just a witness at these things. Another person that can confirm the week after, that the party was good. That can speak to the fact that the Bakares’ didn’t hold back on the champagne (all French brands, all expensive) or the food (covering tables in dishes that range from Nigerian to Chinese). That they even got a DJ for goodness’ sake. And here I am, watching how the music meets my husband.

I am sitting with the women, and he is shaking his hips to the beat of Asake. Back and forth. I am not the only one watching. I notice the way the other women steal glances, how they stare at him when they don’t think I can see. How their eyes roam from his chest to his hips. I picked out that shirt. Slim fit, navy blue. And the matching trousers. But I didn’t intend that he would wear it with three buttons open at the chest. Who does he think he is? Fela? Any responsible man would stop at two. The men, also gathered, look at my husband. I hate the way we sit at these things. So ‘50s. It makes it harder for me to hear what the men are saying, what makes them laugh. What they tease my husband about.

Why must he always be the first one to dance?

And he knows there’s attention on him. He loves it. He is trying to show that he is not like the other men in their late 40s, who huddle to discuss investments and business deals, whose tummies push forward into the circle they’ve formed. Dare has stayed slim, and it pisses me off. Despite how richly he eats, despite the fact that we’ve had three children, that money has made us slower, less demanding of our bodies. Nannies to entertain our kids, drivers to shuttle us around, house helps to fetch the things we would rather not get up to find. If I were with another man, people might praise the way I look. People might notice how I have finally started to strip off the bits that stubbornly wrapped around my body for years, that my personal training sessions are paying off, and the corsets I wear are two notches looser now. But whenever we are together, people notice him, and they only seem to notice me in relation to him, like an object placed alongside another to give context to its size.

I imagine they ask themselves why he chose me. They don’t know that it happened a different way. That when I walked into that party at 22, I could have been with anyone there, even the ones that were taken. That I chose to dance with Dare, simply because I happened to be in the mood when he asked, and it was my favourite song (Poison. Bell Biv DeVoe). And here he is, dancing without me.

It is this penchant for moving without me that has gotten us into trouble in the past. That has made me the subject of punchlines and expert storytelling from people who don’t even know what they are talking about. It is the kind of talk that is always fed back to me by women I’m friendly with, as though they did not laugh, did not try to add lines to the things they heard. They always watch me when they tell me, to see if my face would give something away, an extra layer for their next gathering at my expense. But I have learned how to smile even when nothing is amusing.

We are seated around the dining table, each of us with measured servings of food, and more generous amounts of rosé. Each person offers a small part of themselves to keep the conversation going. I listen as Helen talks about the stress of being a banker; Titi talks about how her salon is doing; Chinwe lets us know how her kids outperform others at school; Lara tells us how much she spent on this year’s party. And I speak of my expanding event centre. Everything is measured, deliberate. It is a sport that we have become very good at playing. What parts to show, and which parts to hide away. I would be better at it, but Dare is a liability.

Here, a perfect example. Two girls walk into the party, breasts and asses spilling from tight dresses, curtsying to greet Lara, and then going over to Bami, her husband, where all the men join in conversation with them, and their bodies. I hear them say that they are on the way to another New Year’s party, but I see them linger on the dancefloor. Now Dare is smiling as they show him how the youngsters do it. The other women have paused any pretence of conversation — have held off on the next round of curated monologues, to watch my husband reveal himself. To witness how he makes a fool of me. Sometimes, I wonder if he despises me.

The way he collects experiences with these women like it is a source of pride for him; like he can walk around and present these moments for public consumption. Like he is a patron of some lurid sport. But I am the only one who gets to see the details. Not because he wants me to, but because I watch. I notice the moments when his glances become heavier; I see the subtle smile that flashes across his face when a decision is made. That’s what over 20 years together gets you. Still, I’m sure I’ve missed out on some. At this point, it is pathetic; some desperate perversion or self-esteem thing. Like he doesn’t get enough ass-kissing at work. Sometimes, I wonder if something happened to him. Some unresolved, buried trauma he never told me about. Or if this is just how his masculinity proclaims itself. How can one man lend his body so freely, so indiscriminately?

And that’s the thing — there is no pattern there; no suggestion of who he might like, or what else he might be looking for. They have all been different. In age, size, status. And I find that more insulting — it is not that he wants a specific version that is not me; he seems to want everyone else. He wants me too, but that’s not an option. It feels like an extreme sport to sleep with my husband, never quite sure of what he might have exposed himself to and not really wanting to find out.

How ironic that he assesses risks for a living. Finds them, calls them out, tells others how to side-step them. At one point, I wondered if his behaviour was triggered by his success, leading to a surplus of arrogance, or whether it was triggered by mine, leading to a desire to assert himself. But it was neither of those things. I think perhaps he has always been this way. After all, the night we met, he may have left with me, but he had come with someone else. And even while we danced to Poison, showing off our best moves, I saw how he took in the room, or rather, noticed how the room was taking him in. Like he does now.

One of the girls whispers something in Dare’s ear, and then the two of them leave him on the dancefloor. They come to where we are sitting and curtsy. “Goodbye ma”, they say to each of us. The only one that answers is Lara. On the dance floor, I see my husband has taken out his phone and is typing something. Of course. It is hard to be taken seriously, to show the depths of my disappointment and displeasure, when I have opted not to leave. When I have been scared of what this gathering of women might say if I do. Or my children, who must already notice that he sleeps in the guest room. He knows this, and that’s what makes him reckless.

Last year, I came close. At a party just like this one, where I saw him in the corner by the food, grazing the hand of a woman I was friendly with. It was just a quick moment, but it spoke of what had gone before. And then I called her to another corner, smiling through caged teeth, sharp against my lashing tongue, whispering with champagne-stained breath, that I must never see her at another event.

I went to my parents’ house that night, and I let them see the cracks, too tired to keep hiding. My mother was silent and sighing, but my father gave me a hug and told me words that brought me comfort.

“Any time.” he said. “Remember that.”

I whip out my phone and send a message.

When I finish, the women are going round and talking about their New Year’s resolutions. I hate this question. This pressure we put on a flip of the calendar; the weight of hope this transition brings, like time will suddenly be better to us, just because we heralded it with a countdown. And then it’s my turn.

“Lolade, what’s yours?” they ask.

“Peace.” I shrug, after seconds of thought. “Seek peace more.”

They nod like they know what I’m talking about.

Suddenly, my husband stands before me. He pulls me up, strokes my cheeks and kisses me deeply. It’s like he noticed that I had stopped looking. Was craving attention. I can taste the whisky. I pat him on the back as he walks towards the men.

“What more peace could you possibly need?” One of the women asks, coating her jealousy in humour. I laugh. And I continue laughing, even when others have stopped. My phone vibrates and I send another message.

Sometime later, when day one has turned to two, when the alcohol has tipped his balance and all he can do is sit and arch his head, when other couples start to stream out, praising the Bakares’ for how excellent the party was, he searches for me. He turns his head and finds me with his eyes, pleading, like one of our children, that I care for him. That I get him home. I look away. I join the laughter in front of me that I know nothing about. He is laid out like a broken doll till I decide I’m ready. And then I go to him. He is asleep, snoring softly, some droplets on the side of his mouth. I shove him to wake him up.

“Lollipop,” he says.

It used to make me smile, but now the name just grates at my skin. He leans on me as we head towards the door, as I say to Bami and Lara that he obviously had a great time. As I force the laughter out through my teeth. As I see them exchange glances that they will transcribe later. As I gather my boubou and gather my husband, and lead him downstairs to the car, where Usman is waiting.

I send another message.

“You know, the only problem with their parties is too much alcohol.” Dare says, his syllables extended by the effect of the whisky. He dips and bobs freely with the car’s movements.

“Mhmm” I say, more focussed on the road, trying to make sense of the darkness.

“Did you have fun, Lollipop?”

“Not like you did. Never quite as much as you.” I turn to look at him, smiling.

He is furrowing his eyebrows, his lips wavering as though he is deciding whether to smile too. Usman glances through the mirror at us and throws his eyes to the front when I catch him. I wonder what else he has witnessed. Where he has taken my husband or brought him home from.

The car slows, and I notice the make-shift checkpoint in front. A few wooden planks. A few men in uniform. One of them looks at the plate and approaches the car. Tap tap tap. The officer is at Dare’s side. Dare winds down.

“How can I help you?” My husband asks, barely looking up. He’s strained the alcohol from his words, but he is still slow.

The man opens the car door and Dare stares in surprise.

“Who do you think you are? My wife’s father is the former police IG” he says. “You better get out of here.”

“Good evening ma.” the officer says while he reaches for my husband.

Dare is blubbering now. Certainly not the alcohol. Usman is jerking his head. I am smiling.

My father offered to teach Dare some discipline whenever I was ready. Just a couple of days. Dare is screaming my name now. Lolade, not Lollipop. I wonder how many other women’s names have left his mouth. They put him in the back of the car. Easy to bundle despite his protests — he has stayed slim after all. Seconds after, they are gone.

“Drive me home, Usman.” I say, tapping the driver who is shaking now. “Oga has gone on a business trip.”

When I said ‘peace’, I meant it. 

Ehae Longe (@_ehae_) is a writer of prose and poetry. She also works in Finance and International Development. She grew up in Lagos and now lives in Paris after living in London for 15 years. These dualities— of passion and culture — form an important part of her identity and inspiration. She formerly ran a writing platform called inktippeddreams. Her writing has been published on the platforms of Brittle Paper and the Lagos International Poetry Festival amongst others.

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