Couples issues

*"Couples Issue" - Chapter 1: The Crack*

### *Chapter 1: The Crack*

The rain in Yaba did not fall. It attacked.

It hit the zinc roofs like thousands of small stones and turned the gutters into brown rivers carrying pure water sachets, banana peels, and the dreams of people who lived on one income. By 8:47pm on a Thursday, Allen Avenue was already drowning. Danfo drivers were shouting, okada men were charging double, and the NEPA light had been off since morning.

Inside flat 4B, 12 Adekunle Street, the generator next door was screaming. It made the walls vibrate.

Tunde Okafor sat on the edge of their bed and stared at his phone. The screen was cracked in the top left corner. A spiderweb that had been there for 3 months because fixing it was 18,000 and 18,000 was school fees for the twins.

His Bolt driver app was red.

*ACCOUNT SUSPENDED*

*Reason: Passenger complaint - Item missing*

He had not stolen anything. The passenger was a girl in a short skirt and big sunglasses who left a iPhone 11 on the back seat. Tunde drove her to Lekki, dropped her, and only saw the phone when he was already at Ojota. He called her. She didn’t pick. He drove back to Lekki to her address. The security man said she traveled.

Two days later, Bolt suspended him.

“Ah Tunde, we are investigating. Please wait 7-10 working days.”

That was 12 days ago.

He could hear Amaka in the kitchen. The sound of plates. Too loud. The sound she made when she was angry but didn’t want to shout in front of the kids.

“Daddy, when is light going to come?”

That was Kemi. She was 5. Her twin brother, Kunle, was already asleep on the mat in the parlour because it was too hot in the room.

“Soon, baby,” Tunde said. His voice sounded like someone else’s.

He stood up. The room was small. One bed, one wardrobe, one small fan that only worked when there was light. On the wall was their wedding picture. 6 years ago at CCC church in Surulere. Amaka in white lace, glowing. Him in a rented suit, smiling like the future was a straight road.

He walked to the kitchen.

Amaka was washing plates with a bucket of water she had fetched from the borehole down the street. 500 naira per 4 jerrycans. She didn’t look at him.

“Babe,” he said.

“What.”

“My account is still suspended. I need 50k.”

The plate in her hand stopped moving.

“50k? For what?”

“To clear it. My guy said he knows someone at Bolt office. 50k and they will unsuspend me today. If not, I can’t work. If I can’t work, we can’t eat.”

Amaka turned. Her wrapper was tied tight. Her face was tired in a way that makeup could not cover. She sold human hair online. i********: business. @AmakaLuxuryHair. But sales had been slow for 2 months. Rent for her shop at Tejuosho went from 250k to 400k. Landlord said “dollar”.

“Tunde, we don’t have 50k.”

“We have to find it.”

“Find it where? The last money you gave me was 20k two weeks ago and it finished on food and light and school books.”

“She’s lying, that passenger,” Tunde said. His voice went up. “I swear to God I didn’t take anything.”

“I’m not saying you did.” Amaka’s voice was flat. “I’m saying we don’t have the money.”

From the parlour, Chike shifted on the couch.

Chike. Tunde’s younger brother. 26. No job for 1 year and 4 months. “Just for 2 months bro, let me stay until I sort something.” That was 14 months ago. He ate their food. He used their light. He watched TV all day and played FIFA and told Tunde “the economy is bad, who is hiring?”

Tunde looked at the curtain that separated the kitchen from the parlour. He knew Chike was listening.

“Can we talk outside?” Tunde asked.

Amaka dried her hands and followed him to the small balcony. It smelled like rain and sewage. The generator next door made it hard to hear.

“I’m serious, Amaka. Without Bolt I’m finished. I can go back to driving Uber with Chinedu’s account but he’s collecting 40%.”

“Then do it.”

“40%! That means if I make 30k in a day, I’m left with 18k. Fuel alone is 12k.”

Amaka crossed her arms. “So what do you want me to do? Should I sell my hair stock? That’s the only thing keeping us afloat.”

“I’m not asking you to sell—”

“Then what?!” She finally raised her voice. “Tunde, I’m tired. I’m tired of ‘next week’. I’m tired of ‘things will get better’. The twins need shoes. The school called today. They said if we don’t pay second term before Friday, they won’t let them write exam.”

Tunde ran his hands over his face. He had not shaved in 4 days. “I know. I know. Just give me until Monday. Let me hustle—”

“Hustle what? With what car? Your car is with the mechanic and he’s saying 80k for the gearbox.”

Silence. Only the rain and the generator.

Downstairs, someone was playing Wizkid too loud.

Tunde felt something hot rise in his chest. Shame. Anger. Helplessness. All of it mixed.

“I’m the man of this house, Amaka.”

“I know you are.”

“Then act like it. Don’t talk to me like I’m a child.”

“I’m not talking to you like a child. I’m talking to you like a wife who is scared.”

Her phone rang. Ngozi.

Amaka looked at the screen, then at Tunde. She answered and walked back inside.

Tunde stayed on the balcony.

Inside, Chike was now sitting up. He scratched his stomach. “Bro, wetin dey happen?”

“Nothing,” Tunde snapped.

“Because I dey hear una voice from here. You and Amaka dey fight again?”

“Go and sleep, Chike.”

“Ah, I’m just asking.”

Tunde went back in. Amaka was in their room, talking on the phone in a low voice.

“…I’m telling you, Ngozi. He said 50k. Where will I see 50k? …No, I’m not leaving. I’m just tired. …Yes, the kids are fine. …Okay, I’ll call you tomorrow.”

She ended the call when she saw Tunde.

“Who was that?”

“Ngozi.”

“What did she say?”

“Nothing. She was just checking on me.”

Tunde knew what Ngozi was saying. Ngozi was Amaka’s best friend from university. Married to a banker in Lekki. Two cars. Duplex. Ngozi always had opinions.

“Girl, you’re too fine to be suffering. Leave that man. I know someone who can connect you to a job in a bank.”

Tunde hated Ngozi.

He lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The fan was not moving. Sweat started forming on his forehead.

At 11pm, the light came back. The bulb buzzed and came on. The fan started spinning. Kemi clapped from the parlour.

Tunde didn’t sleep.

He was up at 4am. He went to the mechanic at Yaba. The man said 80k or he wouldn’t touch the gearbox.

He went to two of his friends. One said he would get back. The other said business was slow.

He stood at the BRT bus stop and watched other Bolt drivers pass with passengers.

At 2pm his phone rang. Unknown number.

“Hello, Mr. Tunde? This is Bolt support. We’ve reviewed your case. The passenger insists the phone was in the car. We are going to permanently deactivate your account.”

The world went quiet.

He stood at the bus stop with people rushing past him and felt like the ground had opened.

He didn’t go home until 9pm.

Amaka was feeding the twins garri and groundnut. Chike was watching Big Brother.

“I lost the account,” Tunde said.

Amaka didn’t look up. “Okay.”

“Okay? That’s all you’re saying?”

“What do you want me to say, Tunde? That it’s fine? It’s not fine. How are we going to pay school fees? How are we going to eat?”

“I will figure it out!”

“When? Tomorrow? Next week? I’m tired of figuring it out!”

Kemi started crying.

“Don’t shout in front of the kids,” Tunde said.

“Then don’t bring problems to the house!”

Chike muted the TV. “Guys, please. The children—”

“Shut up, Chike!” Tunde and Amaka said at the same time.

Chike went back to his phone.

That night, Tunde slept on the couch. Amaka locked the bedroom door.

The next day was worse.

A message came from the school. *FINAL NOTICE: ₦85,000 per child. Deadline: Friday.*

That was 170k.

Amaka got an alert. 12,000 naira. One customer. She stared at it and cried in the bathroom.

Tunde went out at 6am and didn’t come back until midnight. He had borrowed Chinedu’s Uber account. He made 14,000. After fuel and Chinedu’s 40%, he had 4,200 left.

He gave Amaka 3,000.

“This is all?”

“This is all.”

She took it without a word.

On Friday, the school called. “Mrs. Okafor, we won’t be able to allow Kemi and Kunle into class on Monday.”

Amaka sat on the floor and put her head in her hands.

At 10pm, Ngozi came over. She didn’t call. She just appeared with a cooler of food and a bag.

“Hi guys,” she said, like she owned the place. She hugged Amaka. “I brought jollof and chicken.”

Tunde was in the room. He heard everything.

In the kitchen, Ngozi whispered. But the flat was small.

“Sis, you can’t continue like this. My husband’s friend has a vacancy for a sales rep. 120k a month. With accommodation allowance. You and the kids can move to my guest room for now until you get your own place.”

“Ngozi, I’m married.”

“To who? A man who can’t pay school fees? A man whose brother is eating your food? Amaka, open your eyes.”

Tunde stood up. His heart was beating hard.

He walked into the kitchen.

“Ngozi, this is my house. If you have nothing good to say, leave.”

Ngozi looked at him. “I’m just looking out for my friend.”

“Look out for her in your house.”

Amaka stepped between them. “Both of you, stop. Ngozi, thank you for the food. But I’m not leaving my husband.”

Ngozi picked up her bag. “Okay. But when you’re ready, call me.”

After she left, the flat was quiet.

Tunde went to bed. Amaka didn’t come.

At 3am he woke up to pee and saw the light on in the kitchen. Amaka was sitting at the table, looking at her phone. There was an open browser. Job websites.

“Babe?”

She didn’t answer.

The next morning, Tunde woke up and smelled alcohol. He had bought a small bottle of Lord’s on his way back last night. 1,500 naira he didn’t have.

He was late for Chinedu’s car. He rushed out without eating.

He drove all day. Abuja driver, airport runs, traffic in Lekki. At 8pm he had made 22,000. Chinedu would take 8,800. Fuel was 10,000. He had 3,200 left.

He bought suya and a bottle of beer and sat in the car and drank it.

His phone rang. Amaka.

“Where are you?”

“Working.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“I can smell it from here. Come home.”

He didn’t go home. He drove around. He called two girls he knew from before marriage. One picked. They talked for 20 minutes.

When he got home at 1am, the door was locked.

He knocked.

“Amaka, open the door.”

No answer.

He knocked harder.

“Amaka!”

The door opened. Amaka was there, in a nightgown, eyes red.

“Don’t ever do that again,” she said.

“Do what?”

“Stay out. Drink. Ignore me.”

Tunde pushed past her. “I’m the one working. I’m the one trying.”

“Trying? By drinking and talking to girls?”

He froze. “What?”

“I saw your w******p, Tunde. Don’t lie to me.”

He had forgotten to delete the chat.

For 10 seconds, no one spoke.

Then Amaka walked to the bedroom and started packing a bag.

“Where are you going?”

“Away.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not stupid. I’m tired.”

She packed clothes for herself and the kids.

Tunde grabbed her arm. “Amaka, please. I’m sorry. Give me a second chance.”

She looked at his hand on her arm, then at his face.

“I have given you chances, Tunde. Too many.”

She left. She took the twins. She took two bags.

Chike watched from the couch and didn’t say anything.

The door closed.

Tunde stood in the empty flat with the generator noise and the smell of suya and the wedding picture on the wall.

The crack had become a hole.

And the house felt bigger than it had ever been.