When I got home, the blow-dryer lay on the dining table, close to my dinner. I presumed Onyinye, my wife forgot it there. She always glued to it wherever she went; in her hand bag to the church, on our matrimonial bed it’s there. Each time we consummate our love under the blanket, she would press it tight between her breasts and scream.
“Am emotionally attached to the blow-dryer,” she told me when I complained.
“If it makes you happy, it’s fine by me,” I said.
“Yes it does, it really does.”
If it made her happy, I had no reason to doubt her because I married her for her honesty. I was a teacher then. Her class connived to get the principal endorse my sack letter. They said I flogged too much, unaware that flogging, from experience, brings out the best, intellectually and morally in students.
Their idea was to deny all I taught them if the proprietor went round for routine inspection. The proprietor will then instruct the principal to retrench me. They knew he was strict in enforcing the EEK, (Earn-Every-Kobo Policy). The proprietor came and the class echoed “No” to the topics he read from the syllable, topics he judged they ought to have been taught.
It was Onyinye who stood to my defense, flipping pages of her note as evidence that I taught them. The next year, I married her. From her I learnt honesty. It amazed my friends that I tell her about the young girls that hit on me.
I took a seat behind my food. Each time I scooped rice from the ceramic plate, my eye met the blow-dryer. It lay there. Motionless. Mocking. I grabbed it and smashed it on the floor. The noise woke her and she rushed to the dinning.
“Sweetie, what happened?”
“I destroyed the blow-dryer.”
“What? Why?” she cried.
“Am fed up with that t.h.i.n.g coming between us. You obviously love it more than me” I said.
“You selfish oaf! What do you know about love?”
“Oh! Can you handle the truth? You know women can’t handle the truth.”
“Weakling! Which real man has your tiny penis?”
Her jab was a straight punch to the face. I have swallowed enough and decided to spit back at her, “Haha, you need to see me making love to my secretary and feel the passion. Not like you. Dead wood.”
She laughed to my amazement. I expected her physical assault.
“You said women can’t handle the truth but it is men who are really tormented by the truth. Let me tell you the truth about that blow-dryer, it is the same size as your friend, Henry’s penis, the only penis that has ever satisfied me.”
She finished and laughed once more. Our house turned into a cockpit afterwards. You know, for the fact that I punched her first, she is right about men.