Chapter 2: Cold House, Colder Heart

I look at Ifedike Okafor’s fine, cold face for screen. For small time, my mind just scatter. I no even fit talk how I dey feel.

My chest tight as I watch am. The man fine, correct Igbo man, always wear suit wey fit am, but his face hard like stone wey sun burn for years. The same face wey strangers dey fear, na the one wey I dey see every night.

He get one kind cold way—always dey keep himself, dey calculate. Face no dey show anything.

If you see am for family meeting or church, he dey sit one side, dey observe. Dem dey call am "ice block." But na only me know say, sometimes, small melt dey show when light go off and everybody don sleep.

But e no be as people think—no be only work dey his mind. Ifedike get strong desires, and he no dey hide am from me at all.

People go talk say na only business dey his head, but for inside house, na another thing. Sometimes, the way he dey look me, e be like say na only me dey this world.

Before he travel for business, even if I dey beg or cry, he go hold me close, no matter my protest—sometimes, e no dey tire, till morning light begin show.

Na wah oh. Sometimes I dey even fear myself. After the first round, if I try run, he go just laugh—say, "Morayo, you never ready." I no fit tell my mama this kind thing—she go call family meeting.

Afterwards, I no fit hold myself, I go bite him neck. Up till now, the bite mark still dey there.

He dey always carry that mark like badge. If people see am, dem go think na mosquito, but na me dey show my mark—small rebellion wey dey sweet my belly.

That dark blue tie with fine pattern wey he wear, na me buy am for our wedding anniversary.

Na from Balogun market I find that tie, after I price tire with one Ibo woman wey no gree reduce price. I buy am with love, tie am myself that night. As I see am for TV with that tie, tears rush my eye again.

This na our fourth year of marriage.

Time dey run. Sometimes I dey look calendar, wonder how four years waka like Okada for express.

We get one fine pikin. She just clock three years.

That pikin, na my heartbeat. From the first day she open eye, I know say my life don change.

But now, my husband for name only, Ifedike Okafor, use cold, serious voice tell the world:

"I’m not secretly married, and I don’t have any daughter.

Everybody knows I’ve been single all these years."

As I dey watch am, na like cold hand dey squeeze my heart. Family group chats dey buzz—questions everywhere. But nobody call me direct; na only back talk full ground.

He raise hand, push up gold-rimmed glasses for him high nose. For inside him dark eyes, cold light dey shine, like say e dey cut through the camera reach me.

His hands no dey ever shake—even under wahala. I remember for church one time, pastor dey pray, every other man dey close eye, but Ifedike just dey look straight—no fear.

"I dey warn all those wey dey get bad mind: no dey think nonsense, no go disgrace yourself."

As he talk that last part, I know say wahala don land. For Ifedike to warn public, e mean say he don tire to explain. I pity who go try cross am after that.