Oma knew deep down that Femi was no longer comfortable with their romantic relationship, but she chose to ignore it. She saw how Femi avoided both her eyes and conversations with her, but it didn’t matter. Ending things was not an option for her, not after everything she had done for him.
She had stood by him when he was nothing, scraped her savings to pay his school fees, and bought him clothes when his shirts grew too worn. She had cajoled him into marrying her, whispering promises of a good life and tugging on his guilt until he agreed. Gratitude had become the foundation of their union, and Oma was determined to hold it together, even if it crushed them both in the long run.
Femi, however, carried his reasons like stones in his chest. He couldn’t talk about them because that would mean that he was ungrateful. Oma had a sharp tongue that could cut deeper than any knife. “Don’t forget who made you,” she would say when he asked for even a little bit of respect. Once, in a heated moment, her hand had flown up, and though she stopped herself before it landed, the sting of that almost-slap lingered in Femi’s memory.
Worse still were the rumors amongst neighbors and friends hinting at Oma’s involvement with other men. Femi never caught her in the act, but sometimes she came home smelling faintly of cologne that wasn’t hers. The day she went to his family to pay his dowry, the elders, who were women, sat comfortably in their seats. His father’s face was stiff, his mother cleared her throat again, trying to gauge Oma’s capacity. Femi convinced himself that he would make it work. He hoped for a good life with Oma. Now he had no reason to keep his unmarried friends close because Oma had instructed him not to. Oma’s reason was that unmarried men were jealous of their married friends and might poison Femi’s mind against their union. Femi agreed.
Life in their household was a proper one. Oma was the breadwinner, while Femi stayed home. He bathed the children, cooked their meals, swept and scrubbed until his hands were rough. At school pick-up, other parents whispered when they saw him. Sometimes, a few women made advances towards him, promising him a shoulder if he accepted their offers. Other men with cars had it easy with the school run. Femi looked at them with envy.
But Femi loved his children. He wore his role as caregiver with pride. Oma had told him that he was good at it. He tied their shoelaces, listened to their school-day stories, braided his daughter’s hair, and cleaned out their toys.
Most nights, when their children were tucked into bed, he sat by the window with his phone pressed to his ear, calling Oma. Sometimes she answered, her voice brisk, “I’m busy, Femi. Don’t wait up.” Sometimes she didn’t answer at all.
And yet, he always waited. He waited with the lights on, praying for protection over Oma.
When Femi once gathered the courage to complain, “I feel useless, Oma. I don’t bring any money to this house,” she surprised him by setting up a small provision store very close to the house, close enough to allow Femi to keep an eye on the house, the kids, and make her meals early. The shop was in her name, and at the end of each month, she would sit across from him, glasses perched on her nose, tallying every sale. “Don’t mismanage what I worked hard for,” she would warn.
Femi would nod quietly. He understood the reality that all his possessions: phone, wristwatches, jewelry, bags, shoes, and even cookware were all in Oma’s name.
He possessed no entitlement to anything apart from the children who were attached to him.
Friends sometimes asked him, half-mocking, half-curious, “Femi, how do you cope knowing that Oma entertains other men? “I am okay,” he always replied. “As long as my wife comes home at the end of the day, I am content.”
Sometimes, in the deep hours of the night, he would look at Oma asleep beside him, and he would whisper words she never heard:
“Do you even see me, Oma? Or am I just another one of your debts collected?”
Sis, do you find comfort knowing Oma is in charge instead of Femi, or is the situation just wrong altogether?
An Original Story by DORCAS MICHAEL
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