Round the table somewhere among
the most popular lounges in Ilorin,
postpartum wives will come together
to exchange each and every one’s marital grief over steamy plates of pepper soup
topped with half to brimful glasses of wine.
It’s now your own turn to speak up,
but you first had to turn down
in your wont of slightly raised eyebrows
fully complemented with a disapproving grin
the waiter’s request to make your empty glass
feel and fill rightfully among.
Your first child came. A boy.
A striking replica of your husband.
You can’t even remember the last time
you and him tossed the parlor’s cushions
at each other, playing the lovers’ hide
and seek. Your son has replaced you,
every of your husband’s tosses goes to him
after his evening return from office work.
Steam from the pepper soup now wants
your eyes to be as good as teary, but it only
makes your story appear more compelling.
How the sight of your beautiful daughter in the world
silhouetted the unneglectful side of
your happy husband, now a proud father of two.
It didn’t last long.
Your defiance to the service
of the poor waitress didn’t last long either.
You take a sip and continue.
It tasted so hard and bitter,
just like how you felt in the mouth
when you made your husband realize
he slept more with your daughter than with you.
Since it’s a weekend,
Your husband is right at home,
decides to take care of the bedroom behind your back, only to be surprised that having cautioned you times with the number insignificant for a mother of two, you still chose to clean your shoes and leave
the shoe rack untouched and unkempt.