The Problem with that Toast Bread & Hot Cup of Milo

I should have been suspicious from the start.

As soon as I heard the slight scuffle at the door that suggested someone was trying to gain entrance into the room, I opened my eyes grudgingly and with the last strength I had. And with growing horror and eyes literally bulging out of its sockets, I took cognizance of what he had in his hands.

I had never been so scared and worried as I was that fateful evening.

Some hours earlier

The public break was a rather long one and I had been very excited that I was going to spend it with Hubby even though I knew the most part would be spent in the kitchen cooking up delicacies for the head of the clan.

Hubby loves public holidays a lot. A whole lot, as it is usually a guarantee that he’d get to eat three palatable square meals each day whether I liked it or not. It was only during these times that he gets to exert his “man of the house” power that deserves to be fed like the king that missed his calling. Because according to him, “It shows abysmal failure on your part as a wife that you don’t wake up early to make me breakfast to eat at home and only give me food to take to work. What do you want me to eat before I leave for work?” He’d ask with a very innocent look of a food- deprived person. It doesn’t matter that he takes the food I’d cooked the night before to work on a daily basis. Mba! With Hubby, you are only as good as your last task as a cook.

For him, he wants it all or nothing where food is concerned. I’m one of those few women that’d never ask a man, “choose between me and food”. I already know the answer.

If you love me, you will give me food now

So it was a surprise when the last day of the public break saw me feeling a bit fatigued and weak. I had gone out earlier and touched so many places. And by the time I got back home, tired could not begin to define how I felt. Before I got home though, I was already fuming in silence behind the wheels while nursing a strong headache, “hmmm, I hope I won’t get home and this guy will start asking for boiled plantain and jungle sauce because I am so not feeling well. Nobody should stress me at all. I am not making dinner for anyone tonight. Marriage is to be enjoyed. I mean why can’t he cook? How can he ask me to cook? Who does that? This is so not fair. How could he do this to me?” I ranted on and on in my mind. I even noticed some weird glances I got from other road users probably wondering why I had a very huge frown on my face all alone in the car. I wasn’t surprised when a driver that was still trying to jump into my lane decided otherwise and moved forward.

I couldn’t blame him. My furious looks in that car alone would have stopped the cold war.

It was even more hilarious because I hadn’t even gotten home or close to home but like every typical woman, I had blown the whole situational scenario out of proportion. And as I drove into the compound and saw he was also just getting home, I packed my face well into the countenance of a very sick person while limping and breathing heavily with exaggeration. I should mention here that I was feeling genuinely quite down because I had visited over 5 locations in one day and this was enough to make me stressed out. But my brain had totally forgotten all that and convinced my mind that I was seriously ill that after a while, I began to believe and act ill.

While I was putting up all the drama acts, he was still seated in his car but I knew he could see me so I limped while adorning the look of an admitted patient in ICU. As soon as he stepped out of his car and said, “You look so stressed and sick, are you ok?” I knew I had won the game even though I felt a pang of guilt. But I knew heaven would have to come down for me to make amala and okra soup that night for anyone. But because I am eternally joined to a man with an extremely good heart and a very compassionate soul, all he said was “just go upstairs, take a shower and sleep for the night. Pele luv”

Awwwww. I almost jumped with glee but knew I had to keep the act up. I did as he asked and as soon as I hit the bed, I slept off. When I woke few hours later, it was pitch dark and as my eyes adjusted to the dark, Hubby came into the room and softly asked, “How are you feeling? What would you like to eat?”

You see, it’s a surprise I had never considered acting because my acting skills would top Genevieve & Rita Dominic put together that night. Immediately my ears picked up that question, I adjusted my voice such that it became thinner than a bird and said “I don’t know”. Hubby closed the door once again and left for God knows where.

Me, I was simply excited I wouldn’t be making dinner for anyone that night. There was enough meals in the refrigerator and all he’d need to do was simply heat it in a microwave. With those thoughts, I happily picked up my phone and checked out updates on Instagram. After some few minutes of liking all pictures-both the meaningful and the ugly ones, I heard the slight scuffle by the door that suggested someone was trying to open the door to our room. I quickly hid the phone under the bed and closed my eyes while he entered the room quietly. And then I opened my eyes with the fake last strength I had. 

With growing horror, I took cognizance of what he had in his hands- 2 pairs of carefully toasted bread and a very hot cup of Milo looking richer than Bill Gates.

My face held myriad of expressions – gratefulness as I was extremely hungry but cooking for myself would mean having to leave the bed and cook which would mean I wasn’t as sick as I claimed, confusion as Hubby hated any domestic task of any kind and I knew making toast would mean cleaning the toaster, boiling water which meant putting water in the jug to heat up, breaking the eggs which meant he used plates and spoons, bringing out the butter which meant he used a knife. And bringing it upstairs from the kitchen is the hardest part which meant he removed the tray from somewhere carefully arranged. In my eyes, the sink was already piling up and I didn't like it. So as I munched on the meal prepared by Hubby, I contemplated all these points while wondering- “Has he cheated?” “Is another woman carrying his baby”, “Has he married another woman”?

Who would be putting on the gen and servicing my car now ehn?

As soon as I finished eating the meal, I contemplated lying back on the bed while holding my tummy in pains pretending to still be weak. But on careful look at the empty plate of toast bread which I scraped to the last crumb and the empty cup of Milo, I knew it wouldn't fly. My Hubby processes information and situations fast. He’d even say it aloud, “So you can finish four slices of bread and a big cup of Milo but you can’t bring your plate downstairs abi”

With Hubby, just don’t push your luck!

So with resignation, I stood from the bed and packed my plate. And as I opened the door to the room, he was coming in with his own meal of toast bread and tea. And he looked so tired with sweats on his adorable face, I felt bad that he had to make me dinner in bed and also made his. But it briefly crossed my mind that our house is well ventilated both with natural air and artificial air coolers and even the kitchen is quite airy. So to be certain he wasn't coming down with a fever, I asked worriedly while trying to clean his face with my hands, “Baby, why are you sweating so much”. My hubby responded very tiredly and stressed out, “It was because I tried to wash some of the plates I used”. My brain stopped processing after he said "Some".

Kilode? Because of ordinary toast bread and tea?

So with resigned trepidation and a slacked jaw, the outcome of this dinner in bed hit me fast and wickedly hard.

Hubby’s siblings and mum had mentioned to me during one of my famous wails to them about Hubby’s domestic challenges that right from childhood, he had never cleared a wash sink completely of dishes or cutlery. This simply meant that when he dropped his place in the sink with his cutlery and cup or any other utensil, he either washed the plate and left the cup and spoons for unknown deities to wash. Or he washed the plate, spoon and cup and left the tray and clutters of food remains in the sink basket for unknown goons to clear. It had always been like that. They had accepted it so they hoped I would too. It had become a family tradition. No one knew why. Nobody could explain the illogicality behind it. But on no account whatsoever does Hubby clear the sink fully.

None!

So within those few seconds after asking why he was sweating so hard in the less than 16 degrees temperature in the house and he mentioning sparingly on sweating as a result of having washed some of the plates, I knew I had made a mistake pretending I was ill. I knew the few hours I spent in bed basking in pure laziness and being fed crisp toast bread with Milo would be used equivalently clearing up the horror I was about to witness downstairs.

And slowly, like someone that had become aware of a certain kind of confrontation, I slowly descended the stairs to the kitchen in an extremely slow motion such that Sylvester Stallone confronting the enemy that killed his family would have been proud. *insert crouching tiger sound track here*

Each step made my heart pound faster as I knew without any doubt I’d be spending a long while in the kitchen. And as I stepped down the last row of stairs and turned into the kitchen to confront what laid practically everywhere, I thanked God for giving me the grace to maintain sanity as I picked up the broom, packer, closed the scattered toaster with its debris, put the heater back in its place, threw the egg shells into the bin, closed the lid of the butter, arranged the dirty plates into the sink, tied the bread and placed back in the fridge, picked up the table clothes and turned the sink tap on, ready to carry out a 2 hours environmental sanitation.

I should have just made that amala and okra jeje. I should have!

*sighs*