For
better or for worse, but how worse must worse get?
Kante
already knew what awaited him downstairs and he was in no mood to
deal with it. He looked at his reflection in the bedroom mirror,
finishing with a cuff link and adjusting the knot of his tie. He had
worked hard for all that he owned, nobody could deny him that. But
what was money without any peace of mind? What was all the riches in
the world compared to the smile of one's own child? Kante's
reflection showed him a sad smile then. With a deep sigh, he picked
up his briefcase, walked out the room and down the stairs.
The
living room was a massive, dome-shaped chamber and the faint glow of
a glass chandelier threw dancing lights against the six polished
pillars that encircled the room. Kante made his way between two of
them, strolling up to the dinning room where someone was humming. The
sound stopped as he came to the doorway.
“Good
morning, dear,” Yelu greeted, forcing a smile. Her eyes were red
and puffy. She had been crying.
Kante
tore away his gaze, his eyes falling on the table between them. On it
was a tray of sliced bread, a packet of Lipton tea and honey, a jar
of milk and powdered cocoa, a block of butter, a bowl of fruits and a
plate of fried eggs.
“What
is all this?” he asked.
His
wife's smiled faltered a little. “Breakfast.”
“I'm
not hungry,” he replied even as his stomach grumbled. “It's too
early. I have a long drive to Buea.”
The
woman was not deterred. “But you can't travel on an empty stomach,”
she said, picking up two slices of bread and reaching for the butter.
“Here, eat this at least. You will...”
“Don't,”
he snapped, turning away.
“Why?”
Yelu called, following him into the living room.
“I
am not hungry.”
“You
used to be hungry when we got married.”
Kante
turned to face her. “Yes, five years ago,” he said and realised
his mistake almost immediately. The restraint visibly crumbled behind
Yelu's eyes.
“So
my cooking isn't good anymore?” she shrieked. “Is that the only
thing that isn't good enough? Is that why you are never home? After
our conversation last night I thought all this will be behind us, but
I see you are determined to forget all that we have been through
together, all that I sacrificed for you. I even put my hostess career
on hold to be a present wife to you. Even after last night you won't
look at me. What more do you want from me?”
“A
child.” Both of them looked over to see his mother leaning against
a pillar. She was wearing a nightgown of butterfly embroidery and a
deep scowl. Their voices must have awoken her. “Give me a
grandchild, Yelu,” she went on, “or has the foulness from the
hundreds of men you slept with infested your womb?”
“That
is uncalled for, Mama.”
“Shut
up, Kante. You are just as weak as your father. If you won't say it,
I will. The girl is barren, when will you see that? She...”
Yelu
had heard enough and she sprinted for the stairs, her face buried in
her hands. Kante made to follow but one look from his mother banished
the idea.
“Have
you received the doctor's call yet?” she asked him.
“He
was supposed to have the results last week but he postponed to today
instead.”
“Good,”
she said flatly. “The sooner I put an end to this fiasco, the
better. Now get out of here, and remember to return early. I am
leaving for Yaounde tomorrow.”
“I
will, Mama,” Kante replied, kissing her good-bye.
It
was unseasonably cold as he cruised out of his driveway. He was
barely aware of his neighbour honking in greeting as he drove past,
his mind only on his failing marriage. Yelu was a good wife and he
had tried to be a good husband. But after five years without a
child, without even a miscarriage, the pressure had been unbearable.
Kante heard the rumours, of how he had sacrificed his unborn children
to the devil in exchange for wealth. Nobody said it to his face but
he saw it in their eyes, the suspicion. And the most worried of all
was his mother, her frustration understandable. He was an only child
and, with the memory of a bicycle accident that had seen him impaled
by a wheel spoke, her fear was always close to the surface.
Well,
though he waited for the doctor's call, he already knew the answer.
He was fine, but perhaps the result would give him the excuse to end
his unhappy marriage. Surely nobody would fault him then.
Before
long, he was driving through the gates of Chariot Hotel.
“Welcome,
Mr Kante,” the girl at the desk greeted.
“Thank
you, Ebot. Is she here?”
“Yes,
sir. Room 25.”
Upstairs,
he pushed open the door marked 25 and found himself in a dim room lit
by scented candles flickering on a table. Kante remained in the
doorway, his eyes darting from the table to the bed, the painting on
the wall, a small box in the corner.
“Where
are you?” he whispered.
“Here.”
She stepped out from the shadows behind the door dressed in a short,
silky purple bathrobe.
Kante
stared at her silhouetted form, speechless. Her oiled skin shone in
the candlelight, her firm breasts with the imprint of their large
nipples, the curves of her waist and hip. With a dry throat, Kante
closed the door and walked over, kneeling by the bump of her belly.
“I missed you, son,” he said, kissing it.
“Son?
It's only been two months.”
“It
is a boy, I just know it.”
“And
is that the only person you missed?”
Kante
rose, smiling. “I missed you more, booboo.”
“Prove
it.”
Kante
pulled her closer, breathing in her sweet perfume, the bathrobe
falling to the carpet. She was naked underneath, her skin smooth and
warm beneath his fingers. Then he raised her head and found her lips,
tasting apples. As she reached for his belt buckle, his phone began
to ring.
Caller
ID: Doctor Elakou
“I
have to take this,” Kante said, turning for the bathroom and
answering the call. “Good morning, doctor,” he said as the
bathroom door slammed shut.
“Good
morning, Mr Kante,” a guttural voice replied on the other end of
the line. “Is this a bad time.”
“No,
it is fine. I have been waiting for your call.”
“I'm
sorry about the delay. I had to retake the test to be certain. Do you
mind coming to my office?”
“Sure,
but can I will like to know the results first?”
“I
will rather we meet, Mr Kante. I am not sure this is a conversation
for a phone call.”
Kante
bit down on his irritation. “It is fine, doctor. We can talk now
and I will come to your office for a copy of the results. I can
handle the news, whatever it is.” That is what he said. I can
handle the news of my wife being barren, that was what he meant.
“There
is good news and there is bad news.”
Even
over the phone, Kante could sense the man's hesitation. “Give me
the good news first,” he pressed.
“Your
wife is healthy, fertile.”
The
revelation hit him like a physical force and his grip tightened
around the phone like a drowning man holding onto a reed, suddenly at
a lose for words.
“Mr
Kante?”
“Still
here,” he managed to squeeze out the words.
“I
am sorry to say it, but you are the problem. I had to run more tests
to be certain. There are many causes of these things and I remember
you telling me of a childhood accident to your groin. We might need
to observe the extent of the damage, if that is the cause. But
whatever it is, it has affected the vitality of your sperms. You
can't father a child at the moment.”
Kante
sagged onto the toilet seat. “Are you sure of this, doctor?”
“I
am a hundred percent certain. Some procedures...”
The
phone slipped from Kante's numb fingers, clattering to the tiled
floor.
“Are
you alright, booboo?” his secretary called from the bedroom.
***THE END***
By J.E. MFOMBEP
