To say a clue was what I did not have would be to berate the warm and itchy feeling around my neck. I reckoned it was one of those easy things Stacie would always want me to do, to show I still loved her. I was not surprised she still required that I proved my love to her, even after our four year old union. Though we still kept to Dr. Phil’s space in our schedules, we loved each other more than most fruitful couples; I think. We have passed the years of casting blames on each other. We now wait upon the Lord for fruit blessings. Every woman is like my Stacie. They all want us to find refuge under their canopies alone; each of them. I am not like a core Ibo man, who would juggle ahead of his wife in a corporate environment, or sit amongst big shots, leaving his woman at the mercy of the yelling baby. I always clutched Stacie by my left arm, while exchanging greetings with my guys.
…
“Baby, please do this for me,” Stacie persuaded. She still had that twitter in her voice that made it seem as if my heart perforated. I felt it, at first, in high school.
“Halftime, Baby,” I said. “It’s just a pole away, and it’s not as if you need it now”.
She reclined in the white leather sofa, and placed her legs on the stool we bought from the Italian who just got laid off by the company. “Baby, it’s Italian,” Stacie said, the day we bought the stool from Signore Miguel. As I hauled the little piece into the official white hilux, Miguel leaned his arm on my shoulder, “And it is cheap too,” he said.
…
It is halftime now. Van Persie already has a goal to his name, and the Gunners are now seen everywhere, bragging and calling the Red Devils various funny names. I am a Gunner too. I am a Gunner for Life. I am not in the streets calling names. I am only wearing my red and white jersey, carrying a cart, and goggling at the rack before me. They are many, and the colours are bright. Which one do I get for Stacie? Their names are clearly written on them. LyfStyl. Comfort. Sleep-On. Happiness. Always. Simple. There is this one a young lady, in her teens, just carted away. I forage properly, and then, here it is. Pryvet. Pearls of sweat soak my jersey, and there is also an eruption around my private office. I think I should call back the young lady, and probably ask her to help me in the selection. But, no! I think I should pick the one written REGULAR under the name. The lady picked one of them. Anyway, REGULAR could mean every woman could use it. It will definitely be ideal for Stacie. Hope it is. Hope I won’t be nagged all night, not now that I want to go back to the second half of our match with Man U. Champions league is no joke. I am sure I will get a kiss this time for getting it right. I pause.
There is the other rack behind the rack I am standing before. It has a similar aisle, but it seems larger over there. It has the same stuff, stacked in a marketable swagger. I shuffle over, to catch a glimpse of the varieties. The packs here seem bigger than the ones over there. Stacie would have no need to ask me to get another one for her, at least, for a whole month. I throw a pack of the big ones into the cart. I also add some apples on my way to the cashier. I am sure Stacie would need some.
“Nice,” says the cashier.
“You mean…”
“You’re getting this for your cutie,” she says. “Most men don’t want to be seen doing this. They all think it’s a shame. All busy watching useless soccer matches.”
“You mean it’s not embarrassing?” I inquire, acting like I never heard what she said about soccer.
“Oh no, Sir,” she exhales, “it’s so sexy, and romantic too. Eight hundred naira, Sir.”
“Ok”, I reply. How did she know who I was getting it for? Anyway, I do not menstruate.
My ticket is perforated by the lady at the exit. She is smiling. I tip her.
…
My sweats fade into the air as I pedal the bicycle along the large aisle of the boulevard that divides both wings of the estate. I feel the air. I smile and murmur, “Gunner for Life!” Now, I am amidst lamentations. I would have gambled with Patrick. He wanted to gamble. He said the Devils could never be won by the Gunners. Hope he found someone who had the wits to bet. If he did, he must pay this time. I laugh out loud. Alex, the Red Devil, is driving out from his garage. He says nothing to me. I say nothing to him as well. I will say something after the soccer match. No one wins the Gunners at the Emirates!
“Baby, Fabregas almost scored a goal,” Stacie says, giggling and clapping her hands. “Wenger go show Sir today.”
“It was a free-kick,” I reply. “Van Persie would have been allowed to shoot. His legs are stronger. Kai!” I give her the Park ‘n Shop bag. She smiles. Gratitude. The kiss must definitely come after the match; after the victory.
“Oh, My God!” Stacie shouts. My heart limps. I am now standing in front of my wife.
“Diapers?”
I gulp.
