Chapter 2: Jealousy, Portraits, and Police Wahala

I find one stack of Ifeoma’s portraits for Tunde’s safe!

I just dey clean room when I see am—hidden like secret ballot box. My hand shake. Wetin this boy dey hide?

My own picture no even dey, na only Ifeoma face full everywhere. E pain me. My head scatter. This boy don finish be that!

Omo, na so my mind turn upside down. This one pass disrespect—na pure madness!

No time, I rush go slap am twice, even scratch im face join!

The kain vex wey grip me, na so slap land, fingernails drag skin—nobody hold me o! I show am say woman fit fight.

At first, na dodge e dey dodge.

E quick like rat, try sidestep, but my anger no get brake!

But as e panic, e push me commot!

He dey try form hard man, but I see fear for him face. As e push me, I bounce back like ball.

“Wetin dey do you? You dey craze?”

The way e shout ehn, you go think say na me start am. I no fit blame am; everybody dey craze small for this house.

I grab the portraits, use am slap im face!

Picture waka for air, land for im jaw—na so paper scatter everywhere!

“Na me dey craze? Na you be the madman! You dey draw your sister-in-law for back—no be abomination be that?”

I squeeze face, voice high. "You no get home training? For where dem born you?"

As the sketches scatter for ground, Tunde eye red like person wey see blood.

The way e look me, if to say eye dey kill, I for don faint. Na so e eyes just dey burn—Naija pepper no reach!

“Amaka, I never see person wey wicked and dirty reach you!”

He shout so neighbors hear. I wan laugh, but vex dey my chest. If to say dem dey share trophy for wahala, na our house for collect.

“You just dey jealous Ifeoma, dey carry bad belle! But you no reach her level, not even small!”

E add salt join injury. Jealous Ifeoma? Na today?

“Why e no be you wey die that time?”

I don hear that yarn tire.

Na the chorus for our house. If e be song, e for top chart.

But every time e enter my ear, my own madness dey follow!

Anytime I hear am, na like something dey cut inside me, I dey see red!

I grab one stool, charge am!

I no send. Make we scatter the whole house sef—let police come!

“Go die!”

That day, na so we drag fight reach police station for Makurdi!

No be small thing. People gather watch us, some dey record with phone. Dem go say, "Na wah o, see couple for news!"

One police look me with pity: “Madam, na domestic violence you suffer?”

Im eye dey shine like torch, dey try pity me as if na me be victim pass.

I hiss.

Abeg, make e carry im pity go one side. Na mutual battle ground be this!

“Who you dey look down on? This one na two-way fight o! Mutual!”

I balance leg, voice high, make sure everybody hear—no be only me dey receive blow!

Even though my hair scatter and my face swell—

My wig shift, make-up commot, but I no send! War na war.

But Tunde head dey bleed!

E dey press im head, blood dey flow small small. I for pity am, but, abeg, war is war.

I win that round, no doubt!

One officer even dash me pure water, say make I cool temper. Na so I dey dance small inside my mind, even as pain dey my arm.

As we waka commot police station, we dey point finger for each other nose.

Two mad people, two stubborn goats. "No try me again!" "You dey craze!" Policemen dey look, dey shake head.

“This marriage don finish!”

“Anybody wey no divorce na bastard!”

Omo, we for fit do reality show with all this drama—Naija no dey carry last!