You are going to kill him. Yes. Death is the ultimate punishment for his actions. And he deserves nothing less. Ah, Femi. Femi why? You cry deep in your heart. But Femi does not answer you even though he is lying next to you, on the bed you two have shared for twenty-five years. Femi is snoring like one of those distressed Dangote trucks. Zero regrets. Zero remorse.

You imagine yourself in Femi’s shoes. You would have been on your knees, wailing and begging for his forgiveness till now. Yet here he is, oblivious to the pain he has caused you. If you tap him awake now, he will call you “woman” at the top of his voice and tell you to hold your peace till dawn.

Femi has been a good husband and father for twenty-five years. And when he’s not in one of his foul moods, which is never often, he calls you “ife mi” and the endearment does sweet things to your body. You are about to smile when you catch yourself. You glare at his back, at his greying hair and big body. Femi used to be lean and tall but the years have made him gain some weight and lose some of his height. Still, he remains the only man you’ve ever loved.

Iya Ronke had caused this union to happen. You were a fresh secondary school graduate, looking forward to going to a Teachers’ College when Iya Ronke visited your home with Femi in tow. She always talked about her handsome nephew who was in the UK and how he would come back and marry you but Iya Ronke was a jester, you never believed her. Till she showed up with this nephew of hers.

Your husband is here oh! Iya Ronke had called for you with her commanding, but sweet voice. She was dressed in another beautiful iro and buba, her favourite attire. Her fingers and wrists were adorned in gold jewelry with oversized sunglasses on her face. Iya Ronke always dressed like she was going for an owambe. Who knows where death will meet me. I have to always look ready. I can’t die looking like a peasant. She would always say.

Hi, Femi had said to you with an embarrassing smile mirroring yours. He was in a short sleeved shirt and slacks. He prostrated in greeting when Mama came out to the living room. Ekaro Ma.

Femi was not pompous. For someone who had gone to live in the UK since he was ten, he still remained pretty well bred in the intricacies of the Yoruba culture. He was respectful and could still speak Yoruba, although with an accent. You were seventeen. He was twenty-two. Two years later, you two got married.

You honeymooned in London. It was the second best thing that had happened to you since your trip to Obudu Cattle Ranch when you were eight. You would have loved to stay, but Femi wanted to raise his kids in Nigeria. So you two came back to Lagos.

Aduke was born a year later, Kola, two years after Aduke, and finally, Busayo. Your children have grown up into beautiful and handsome adults. You couldn’t have asked for anything more in life. Everything had been going so smoothly. Too smoothly sef, you now realize. Maybe you’ve been blind to all the signs. Marriage is not a bed of roses, they say, but Lord knows you’ve been seeing more roses than thorns. You would almost classify your marriage as “perfect” but ah! who would have thought you were married to a deceiver. A snake. Ye, Femi! Femi has killed me.

You retie your wrapper around your chest and jump out of bed. You cannot be in the same bed with such a man. A man who can stab you while you’re asleep. You shouldn’t even be in this house but you and Femi agreed to always sort out your marital problems within yourselves and never have to sleep in separate beds, no matter what! Tonight is an exception. You’re going to the living room. He can have the entire bedroom to himself.