Bleeding Perfection

REFLECTIONS.

Taiwo picked up the pot. The stew was burned. She’d smelled it at 5:40pm. Tomatoes turned bitter. Pepper turned to ash. Scalloped edges of onion turned to black lace. The same stew she’d made every Sunday since she was twelve and Mum said

"A woman who cannot cook stew cannot keep a home, especially not a home like the Adeyemis’. Stir to the left, Taiwo, or it will catch. The spirits of bad marriage live in the right side of the pot". She sometimes wondered how she didn't see that she was being groomed to be Femi's wife, she wondered how her parents could pretend this was something new.

Today she’d stirred to the right. She’d been reading 'lol'. She’d been reading it and reading it. Looking for the joke. Looking for the haha. Looking for, "sorry babe, I’m with my guys", or an explanation, maybe even an excuse as to why he would not be here. There was no haha. There was no emoji. There was no "babe". There was just lol. A sound. A door closing.

She set the pot down on the table. The wood was old. It would stain. Dad would see it later when he gets back from his trip and say,

"Taiwo, you’re not careful".

Then, Mum would say, "It’s okay, we’ll cover it with a mat".

Mrs. Adeyemi would see it if she ever came and think manageable, but not trained.

Her hand didn’t shake.

6:12pm

Is he cheating?

The question had started three months ago. Not like a light switch. Like a dimmer. Slow. Insidious. It started when Femi stopped saying goodnight and started sending "seen at 11:47pm". It started when he left his phone face-down on the table when they went to “family dinner” at his parents’ house, the screen like a secret he was sitting on.

But she didn't want to read much into it, because it was Femi. Femi didn't cheat, he would never, he was not like his father, or her father. She also didn't want to think about it, because Femi cheating meant she was not enough, that she was not perfect, and she was. She was enough, and she was perfect.

He may not love her, but he had been polite, respectful, and would check up on her everyday, but now it was different. It started when he stopped asking about her day at the Ministry and started talking about Canada in the abstract.

"The system works there". "People are orderly". "You can actually plan a life without NEPA".

Taiwo had said, "We can plan a life here. Our fathers have the connections. We will be fine".

Femi had smiled. That smile. The calm smile, the kind people put on when they are tired of trying to make people see their perspective. In reply, he just said,

"You are so calm Taiwo, and you are easy to live with", to which she just smiled.

Easy to live with.

Like a chair.

She did the math again. Slower this time. Showing her work, like Mrs. Bankole taught her in Further Maths.

Lol_ + 8 hours no reply + Deola’s words + Canada visa + he’s not coming + Sunday + no Happy Easter + you’re calm + easy to live with + manageable = 81% probability of infidelity.

Margin of error: 19%. Deola lies. Deola breathes lies. Deola told their HR Taiwo was “frigid” when Taiwo didn’t dance at her birthday.

But 81% was a B. 81% was a pass. 81% was enough to ruin an arranged marriage. Enough to make Mrs. Adeyemi say, "I told you that girl was not our level".

A flash hit Taiwo. Not a memory. A single frame, like a photo someone slid under a door.

Age twelve. Tank stand. The one behind their primary school, St. Agnes. Rust flaking under her palms, orange on her skin, in the lines of her hands.

"I’ll go first", she’d said to her sister. Because she always went first. Taiwo meant to taste the world, to have the first taste of the world. Kehinde meant the one who comes after, the one who arrives behind. Their names were a story their parents told at parties. Taiwo came out first, but she was holding Kehinde’s leg! They didn’t want to separate! Everyone laughed. Taiwo didn’t.

Taiwo climbed. The metal was hot from the March sun. It burned her hands. She slipped on the third rung. Her foot went through air. Kehinde grabbed her wrist, nails digging in, four little moons. But gravity was older than twins. Taiwo hit the ground. Chin first. On concrete. The sound was a c***k, but not bone. Teeth. Blood. On the grey. So much red, like the stew. Like lol.

Kehinde had screamed. A sound Taiwo had never heard before or since. Kehinde had jumped down, not climbing, just dropping, knees bloody. She’d taken off her uniform shirt, the white one with the blue collar, pressed it to Taiwo’s chin.

"Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to let go, I didn’t mean to, sorry".

Taiwo hadn’t cried. She’d looked at the blood on the white shirt, at Kehinde’s face, at the sky, and said, "See? Not deep. It’s just blood. Blood stops. Mummy will shout, but it will stop".

Later when they got home, their mother blamed Kehinde. She spent hours insulting and blaming her, while she just looked. And then when their father came back from work, he flogged her with the koboko he kept in his room and swore not to stop until she cried. Kehinde did not cry, she never did.

Should I ask her to find out?

The thought came quiet. Clean. Not desperate. Practical. Like making a list.

1. Buy rice.

2. Pay NEPA.

3. Find out if your fiancé is cheating.

Kehinde could spy. Kehinde was good at chaos. Good at walking into places and asking questions Taiwo would never ask because what would Mrs. Adeyemi think?

She would ask, "Eh, Femi, why are you not with my sister on Easter?" Kehinde would say it. Loud. In front of his friends. In front of Deola. Kehinde didn’t care about being calm. Kehinde cared about being right, about saying what was on her mind. Kehinde would go to Femi’s place, knock on his door, say, "Taiwo sent me to check if you’re dead or just stupid".

Kehinde would look in his eyes and know. Kehinde had always been able to tell when people were lying. She was the one who told Mum that Dad was sneaking meat during fasting,

"I saw the bone in the dustbin, Mummy". She was the one who told Taiwo that boy in JSS3 didn’t like her, he liked her, "because we are twins and he thinks it’s a package deal".

Taiwo opened her mouth. The words were there, thick.

"Kehinde, can you go to his place? Can you check? Can you tell me?"

Then she closed it.

No.

The reason was also math. If she asked Kehinde, then Kehinde would own the answer. Kehinde would be the one who knew. Kehinde would be the one who came back and says,

"He’s with someone" or "He’s not, you’re paranoid, you’re just insecure because of his mum, because you know he would never chose you if he had an option".

Kehinde would be the one Femi called "brave" or "real" or "not like you, Taiwo, not all tied up in rules". Kehinde would be the one with the story to tell at the next family gathering.

"You remember when Taiwo thought Femi was cheating and I had to go and find out for her because she was too scared?"

Aunty Funmi would laugh. "Ehen! I told you! Taiwo is too soft!".

Taiwo didn’t give Kehinde stories. Taiwo was the story. The first. The perfect. The one who didn’t need help. The one who didn’t need her twin to fight her battles because what would Chief Adeyemi say? That we can’t raise daughters who stand on their own? The one who didn’t bleed in public.

She would do it herself.