Chapter 2: Agreement and Goodbye

When I push the divorce agreement give Tunde, e never even reach one hour since he confess say him dey cheat and ask for divorce.

I even dey shake small as I hold the paper, but I compose myself, just like all those strong women for my family wey no dey show weakness anyhow.

According to the agreement, the house, car, and our pikin go be my own.

The lawyer sef shock say I no drag matter, but I know say my dignity dey more important than fight.

He go give me 20 million naira as compensation and child support, one time payment.

Na so life be—if person no plan well, you go dey empty hand after years of sweat. I no gree for that one.

After that, me and my pikin no go disturb am again.

For Yoruba land, na so women dey do—just carry your load jeje, no look back.

That time, Tunde dey on top conference call. He just glance down, see the divorce agreement, face change small.

I see as im brow knit small, e no talk, just dey press phone, pretend say e busy, but the thing pain am.

He nod, show say he understand.

No wahala. I waka comot.

To save both of us time, I pack all Tunde clothes and personal things for am.

Na my style be that—if you wan go, carry your wahala with you. Even pack some of him perfume wey I buy for Dubai that year.

Three full suitcases. I even add him childhood photos from attic, so I no go forget anything.

Na so I arrange am, even put small Bible on top, in case him remember prayer.

I remember that Sunday morning, when Kamsi dey crawl for parlour and Tunde dey chase am with spoon, all of us dey laugh like say wahala no fit reach us.

Last last, I see our wedding photo for corner.

I pause. Tears nearly drop. I wipe my face with wrapper, dey reason how time don waka.

For the picture, Tunde fine well well, I dey smile sweet. My gele na proper Yoruba style—big and round like crown, my neck full with red coral beads wey dey shine for sunlight. We dey hug each other, life just dey sweet us that time.

E resemble all those wedding for old albums, where love dey show for face.

That time, he go always hold me tight, dey whisper: “Wife, I love you die.”

Sometimes e go blow breeze for my ear, call me ‘Omalicha’, even though he no be Igbo, just to make me blush.

“I too lucky say na you I marry.”

That one dey ring for my head now, like song for church choir.