Diary Of an Ibadan Girl: Entry 3

Continued from my previous entry.

If you didn’t read my last entry, you can catch up by clicking here.

Throw back to 2 days earlier:

“Lo beere nkan ti Olayinka fe je. Ki o ba se.” “Go and ask what Olayinka will eat. Prepare it.”, My mother said.

I looked at my mother with the equivalent murderous stare I give annoying okada men/ supercilious danfo drivers whenever they started to get comfortable around me, calling me endearing names that made me recoil and reconsider my existence. Names like: Lepa Shandy, Opelenge.  Etc.

(Lepa shandy/ Opelenge is a “supposedly” endearing term used by people to “supposedly” compliment another’s slim stature).

I hate the fact that I cannot tell my mother to leave me alone. Even if it was going to be for the first and the last time ever.

I carried my body sluggishly from the chair that had suddenly become my sanctuary since Olayinka or what is his name entered our house.

I don’t know what he’s always looking for!

Olayinka is the son of one of my mother’s plenty friends. Even though we spent our childhood growing up and doing plenty ‘stuffs’ together, we’ve really grown apart. But he doesn’t seem to have the brain to understand that this ship has sailed.

Yes, we did stuffs as young kids. Stuff which included playing ‘daddy and mummy’. He was always the daddy and I, the mummy. There was some touching at a point but it was basically kid stuff. Nothing that I regret or hate myself for. We were kids and kids were dumb. That’s alright.

But the sad news is Olayinka has refused to grow up. He has chosen to continue to want to live in that time as he has taken it upon himself to constantly torture me with the reminder of how compatible we were the whole time we played those silly games.

I’m just here like, ‘How can he still be this stupid?’

It’s been how many years again? Last time I checked, that was about 15 years ago.

My family had moved from the neighborhood I grew up in, we’ve attended different secondary schools, we even studied in different universities at different ends of Nigeria. He schooled in Nsukka, University of Nigeria. I went to the University in Ibadan. Our course have spelled different for a very long time now. He just doesn’t  want to see it yet.

Anyway, I stood up to go and meet him like my mother ordered before another wahala starts with her. Before I even got to his side, Uncle was already smiling sheepishly like someone that tasted urine. My stomach clenched in a fist at the sight. I really still didn’t understand why he, all of sudden, started shining teeth.

“Yinka, bawo ni?”, “Yinka, what’s up?”, I asked.

“Daada ni, Keke”’, “I’m fine, Keke”, he replied.

He still calls me Keke! You can imagine.

Keke was my childhood name. Most kids of my age called me Keke back then because it was easier to pronounce, I believe. I liked it because I thought it sounded chic. But that was ages ago! Now, it sounded like you were calling me a bicycle. Olayinka was not helping his career with me at all.

“Mo ti ni ko ma ma pemi ni Keke mo. Morenike loruko mi.”, “I’ve told you not to call me Keke again. My name is Morenike.” I said sharply, frowning at him. I hadn’t spent 5 mins with him, my countenance had already changed to beast mode. This is what Olayinka’s presence does to me all the time!

“Why you dey always like to do shakara for me sef? Don’t you know I’m your husband ni?” (Shakara is a term used to describe that someone is deliberately proving difficult/hard to get).

I looked at him like the idiot that he was and said, “Mi o raye gbogbo jati-jati to n shey. Ki lo fe je?” “I honestly do not have time for your nonsense. What would you like to eat?”

“Ha ha ha. Oya, mabinu Aya mi. Gbogbo nkan to ba ti se fun mi noni ma je. Abike mi.” “Loool. Okay, I’m sorry my wife. I’ll eat everything you cook for me. My Abike.”, he replied still baring all his 32.

I walked away towards the kitchen muttering under my breath, “Olounje’ya (Glutton). You cannot say you are not hungry”. If only one’s eyes could fall off from rolling them, mine would most likely have.

You would think I’d go and expend my energy for that one in the kitchen? Oloun maje. (God forbids).

Emi Morenike funra mi. I went to boil water for him to drink tea o. If he likes, he should drink. If he does not like, he should leave it. I don’t even care if the afternoon is hot or not. Afterall, he’d said he’d eat anything I make for him.

Eleregbe. (Fool)

Continues in my next entry.