Prix Littéraire Rumuri

“I Love My Wife”

by Clarisse Kaneza

The bar was built from gray rock and well-squared stones, ground and fit together perfectly. It was large with columns in wood supported by brick and a roof made of dry grass. There was an extra compartment for a TV where customers could watch soccer on a big screen and video games for kids’ entertainment. The atmosphere was relaxed, with smooth music. There was a good selection of real ale and great cocktails, reasonably priced, with a nice range of high quality but inexpensive food, well made and served promptly. Many people came to Fidelity Bar. It was a good place to go, meet friends, banter, or simply sit at the bar together and drink a cold beer. Like thorns hidden in the grass, next to the main entrance of the bar was a small gate that led straight to a motel set up for people to rest (well this is what I was told). The bar was built in such a way that you couldn’t tell there was a motel behind, unless you knew.

My name is Favor. My dad told me he called me so because I was the first born of the family. I grew up in the countryside and studied there. Before I started working at Fidelity, I had never set foot in town. I am beautiful. You may think I am arrogant or imagine I look like those American divas, but I like to say that everybody is beautiful in their own way. I am neither thin nor fat. I have natural hair (I like being full African) and a dark complexion that I inherited from my dad. My mother has light skin. My two little brothers and sisters inherited her skin. I have small eyes like the Chinese, a small nose and pulpy lips.

The first day I started to work at Fidelity Bar, I was a little bit nervous. First, because it was my first time to be in town, in a very big city like this. And second, it was my first time to work as a waitress. I had no clue about the job. I was recommended by my dad to his best friend’s bar to help him run his bar while earning some money to cover my everyday needs. My father was not that poor; he was a farmer and could satisfy all the needs of his family. He had many friends in town as he used to sell goods there, but he wanted his children to be open to the world, creative and innovative, to network with many people, and to learn how to fish.

I had my own room next to the motel, equipped with a bed, a comfortable mattress and a cupboard where to store my personal things. Behind the bar, at the motel, strange things occurred. I could see men, especially married ones, often with girls in their twenties, going in and coming out. I was far from imagining that crazy things happened inside. I couldn’t wrap my brain around the things no matter which way I twisted it. Most of the time, I could hear a girl groaning, sometimes screaming and moaning like those yappy little dogs, barking as though she were in hell facing the devil itself. What on earth was that?

I remember the first time it scared the hell out of me. I had fears and confused feelings of curiosity. I felt a chill fall over me—that immense kind of cold that can make you sweat immediately. I called my workmates so we could deliver the woman inside from the devil harming her. Much to my surprise, they laughed at me—the kind of laugh that tells you you made a big mistake.

"So ignorant," some said.

"Stupid, you are," another uttered. "Go back to the bush! Do you think she is being harmed? "Nooo, my dear," she said ironically, "those screams are because she is in the seventh heaven."

I felt so humiliated at that moment. Quickly, I made sense of it, even though I had a hard time containing my stupefaction. I was completely perturbed, but I tried to put it all together in my mind. I know this may sound mean, but from that moment I understood that humans were made of love and betrayal, expectation and disappointment, lust and loss. From then on, I tried to concentrate on work and allowed my mind to get the hang of discretion.

Two years later, I knew all the facets of the job like the back of my hand. I became well used to the screaming and groaning therapy in the operations' rooms. Well used to seeing girls of twenty-something, wearing globs of makeup, sometimes dressed in skirts or pants so short or so tight you could see things better left to intimacy. Their lips had so much gloss you could see your reflection. Those girls were squired by men the age of my father or more, not even bothering to remove the ring on their finger. "Bedbugs" is what I called those men cheating on their wives behind their back! Yes bedbugs (call it vulgar if you like)! They bite, bite and bite just to dissipate the fire burning in them. And surprisingly, their hunger keeps on rising and bothers them every day. Sometimes I wondered what kind of hunger it was. Why would such tiny thing, accessible from their wives, make them so dependent on whores?

In the meantime, at the bar, I had cultivated a good relationship with most of the customers, lending them an ear when they needed it. I became a friend of cheating men (like Jesus, the friend of sinners). After they had relaxed and satisfied their thing, they could come to me without any shame and relate how great it was. Often, I would remember a song women used to sing in the village:

"Oh girl,

Never make the mistake of loving your man with all your zest,

Never love him like an eternal fire,

Oh girl,

Never a man can be trusted,

For his love is careless,

And forgets its promises.

Oh girl,

You can never stop his longings,

Bored, he will change,

Food cooked by another woman tastes good..."

Food cooked by somebody else tastes good. Maybe they were right. I got so used to it that I lost my trust in men (especially married men), except one: Innocent. He was the boss, the manager of the bar, the friend of my dad, and my friend, too.

Innocent was one of those decent and courteous men. He was tall, strong, a little bit heavy, and hardworking. He was a good friend to all the bar workers. I really looked up to him. He was married to a stunning woman and had two kids, a boy and a girl about five and eight years old. What I saw in Innocent was a good-looking guy and a gentleman, trustworthy and reliable.

One Sunday, he called me in the morning to make a reservation. He wanted to bring his wife and kids for a drink in the afternoon. They arrived around 4 p.m. His wife, Faith, had natural midnight hair and a dark complexion. Her delicate ears framed a button nose. She had a set of dazzling eyes? like an angel's, and white teeth which, when she broke into a smile, could paralyze someone. She had put on a glamorous African print dress that showed off her perfect curves and edges.

In the depths of my heart, I wished this family were the reflection of my future one. It was so charming. I welcomed them at the table I arranged for them. They ordered simple food and local beer. They were having a very enjoyable moment, and serving them was a great honor and pleasure.

"Prepare Room 4, I need it," Innocent texted me. At first, I found it odd, but I remembered one night when he had watched soccer with his friend John at the bar and it had ended late. Instead of going home, they preferred to stay and sleep in Room 4 of the motel. Maybe he liked the room and he wanted a friend of his to sleep in it, I thought to myself. Anyway, I told the receptionist to fix Room 4 since it was needed by the boss.

The bar was picking up slowly. "Go and lead the lady outside through the small alley to Room 4." It was another text from him. I was stunned dumb but I went without delay.

A model with a fat ass was standing outside. Her hair was long, black and straight like a doll's, and it flowed over her shoulders. She had a black complexion, so plastered with makeup that she almost looked white. She was dressed in a short, tight black skirt and a transparent blouse that let you see her bra. I took her to the room. She walked purposefully, her long legs bare, her high heels cracking against the ground. Once inside, she ordered a whole chicken and a bottle of wine, which at first I found outrageous, but I served her majesty her food.

My mind was baffled. What was going on? Who was that lady? Was she his friend or his sister? Who on earth was she? As far as I could recall, Innocent had three sisters and I knew all of them. My head was full of questions with no answer. Another text came from Innocent: "I hope she is alright, put what she ordered on my bill." What the hell was going on?

I went back into the bar. Faith was sipping her beer slowly. The kids were playing video games. Innocent stood up, took a cigarette and went as though to smoke outside the bar. My eyes kept on following his movements. Outside, instead of lighting up, he moved inconspicuously toward the small alley and straight to the motel. He entered Room 4 and I heard the door lock.

My heart was sinking. Not him, not Innocent, not him! My heart was beating like a clock as though hoping for a miracle to happen. I could not believe it, not him. Maybe they were talking, I told myself. I went close to the door and put my ear to it. I could tell from the kind of voices and noises being let out of there that it was something else than a conversation. Even though my mind was running away from the truth, I knew what was going on. He was dissipating the fire surging through his loins, playing the mattress mambo with a bitch (call this vulgar, too, if you like!). The thought of it was a dead weight on my whole body and essence.

I went back to the bar and sat down. His wife was still sipping her beer. The kids were still playing. For a split second, I tried to put it all together in my head. I was so pissed off, what was I thinking? The only thing I could think was… I wasn’t thinking. I just couldn’t deal with what was happening. I knew I should have been enraged, but all I felt was numbness that kept me in my chair as if Mr. Superglue had a hold on my ass. I kept thinking about what I should do rather than just sitting there. I should have been screaming at the top of my lungs, spilling the beans, but no, there I sat, saying nothing.

Thirty minutes later, Innocent came out, sweating as though coming from jogging. He was buttoning the last button of his shirt and belting his jeans as fast as he could. The expression on his face said he was anything but not relaxed. He checked if his trousers were securely on him and hurried out of the motel.

He entered the bar. The two kids were now with their mom, fed up with playing. One of them, the little girl, was sleeping, a signal it was time to go back home. Innocent paid the bill and told me he was coming back in twenty minutes. I could not utter a word.

Twenty minutes later, he was back. He went straight to hell's gate, this time, readier than ever. I could imagine the two bodies jumping apart together?, the woman maybe screaming, throwing out her arms as she moved around and the libido of the man at one hundred percent, a rush of hunger, fast and furious.

They came out at midnight. The girl took a taxi and called out as though she was fleeing something behind her. Innocent came to the counter where I was sitting. He seemed relaxed in a way. I guess that is the secret of after biting.

"How can you?" I asked, glaring at him, trying to read shame on his face, but in vain.

I felt torn in half like an old shirt made into two rags. He seemed to be satisfied and happy but what for? "Eat shit!” is what my mind shouted when I looked at him.

"Well…why are you groveling? Or acting wounded? You are looking at me as if I have killed someone." He said this as if he was as clean as day.

The song women used to sing in my village came again to my memory:

"Oh girl,

Never make the mistake of loving your man with all your zest,..."

Surely it is a big mistake.

"Never love him like an eternal fire,

Oh girl,

Never a man can be trusted,

For his love is careless,

And forgets his promises,

Oh girl,

You can never stop his longings,

Bored he will change,

Food cooked by another woman tastes good..."

I raised my gaze to his.

"You’ve been married for twelve years to a wonderful wife, with two beautiful kids, what else do you need? Affection from a bitch?" I asked.

He laughed.

"You are too young to understand," he started. He sipped his beer and continued. "My marriage has been in the toilet lately. My wife is not as active as she was; she is too busy with our two kids. I am a man of action but I don’t blame her."

He paused and took another sip.

"When I met the cocotte, I didn’t feel like saying no. When you get married, you will taste how fucked things can get and how crazy it can make you. I love my wife more than you can imagine. She is the mother of my sons."

What a strange definition of love, I told myself. I remembered something I had read somewhere:

"Love is not like the falling fruit,

Not the dying tree,

Love is a durable fire,

In the mind ever burning,

Never sick, never dead, never cold, and never bored..."

"So does she deserve to be cheated on behind her back? Why don’t you talk to her to resolve your misunderstandings?" I asked. “It’s like being half a husband to an adoring wife, or being a shadow to yourself."

"As I said you are too young to understand. When you get married, you will,” he said, finishing his beer. "I'm going home now so I can catch some z's. See you tomorrow."

How astonishing, unpredictable are the difficult truths of secrets we instantly recognize. The deceit that lies in wait under the polite surfaces, and the strange, sometimes incomprehensible, comical desires of the human's heart.

He went outside and entered his car. It roared into the ears of the silent night. All I felt was emptiness. My chest was heavy and I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I stood there looking for the lights of a car I could no longer see.