I am jealous of the love black women, African women reserve for men. Their men, the men yet to be theirs, the men who we are not sure exist yet, or who exist but just don’t show up. The sort of love that has us ready and willing to edit ourselves to be what you desire. The love that has us buying fabric and thinking of how we’ll make two outfits instead of one. The love that has us learning skills we wouldn’t need otherwise, just to please/impress you. The love that forgives without neither complete apologies nor changed behavior. The love that hopes in things that are not seen and builds futures on potential I am jealous of that love which has been so normalized evidence of it is no longer considered extraordinary… Like the fact that The Power of a Praying Wife sells out every Sunday outside of church and yet the bookseller hasn’t bothered to restock The Power of a Prayer Husband since he barely managed to sell the last one. Or the fact that you can enter a shop and tell the salesperson “I di find “Papa e Dish’” and they will know what you refer to. A dish reserved for your gender, a status symbol you are eligible for even if you are not sure you want to be ‘Papa’. I am jealous of the love women like me have earmarked as just for men like you; the way we save everything from the best piece of meat to the best seat at the table, to ourselves… just for you. And I am jealous of how easy it is for you to find a place to belong because of this; Jealous of the advantage you have because we believe that we can/should/must earn the love we so eagerly want to give you, because so many of us are convinced you are the ones to fill the reserved spaces we kept… I am jealous of the prayers my kind pray for men. How does it feel? To have all the women in your life praying for you, when you forget to pray for yourself? I am jealous of the kind of love that makes us aspire to be superwomen; that makes us desire to be everything a much less than “super” man desires. I am jealous of the love that makes us plan our aspirations around men who never asked us to. I am jealous of how ready we are to offer what these men are not ready to take. Of how well we have been shaped for a time such as this – years of grooming on how to give love unasked, to accept less than we offer… decades of conditioning that leaves you wondering if what you do is what you want to, or what you know is expected of you… I am jealous of men like you, for being offered such love on the regular. Jealous of the position of power you don’t recognize you have because you think this love is merely an individual choice… blissfully unaware of how that choice in itself is externally orchestrated. I am jealous of your confidence and the corresponding nonchalance that the love we offer you breeds; because our love sees us as the author and finisher of the family, and makes us responsible for all that goes wrong or never goes at all. We are the neck, the rib, the backbone. Anything but the head. I thought I was angry at you, you probably thought so too. But no, what I am is jealous. I envy you for being offered the kind love I wish someone would give me. And if I am angry, I am angry at myself. Because I continue to reserve for you what I wish I could give myself. Because despite love being a good thing, this brand of love is yet another thing I have found that I must unlearn.
Change of Reaction- Flash Fiction by Monique Kwachou
Happy Valentine’s Day to all followers of my Musings! And *coughs* wishing you a great start to the introspective Lenten period. This month, I’m doing a throwback to last year when a piece of flash fiction I wrote was published by Brittle Paper in an anthology titled Love Stories from Africa. This version of the story has been slightly edited, I hope you enjoy! _________________________________________________________________________________ Change of Reaction by Monique Kwachou You step back, admiring the dinner table now set for two with your best dish set. You move to the room to make sure everything you have bought for the romantic weekend is set. It was in Lower-sixth that you first contemplated what you would do if your husband cheated on you. On that sticky afternoon, your classmate, Bessem, had returned from Commercial Avenue with a Nigerian magazine. Even though she had claimed that she hadn’t seen any American magazine your group usually chipped in to buy and pore over, you and your other friends, Sandra, Laura, and Eposi had suspected that Bessem, being the Nollywood addict she was, had bought the magazine because her favourite Nigerian actresses, Stella Damasus, Genevieve Nnaji and Omotola Jalade were on the cover page, advertising a film, Games Men Play. The magazine wasn’t bad. It was just as glossy as the American ones and contained similar information. There were tips on how to lose weight, which you had all heard Bessem read, even as she paused regularly to take a bite from a loaf of bread dripping with chocolate paste. There were glamorous pictures from celebrity events, an advice column on what to do when your love is not of the same faith as you, a quiz to determine what kind of lover you are, based on your favourite colour, and the vox-pop section which asked women to imagine what they would do if they found out their husband was having an affair. You remember it exactly. After reading the responses featured in the magazine, you had each taken turns. Bessem had sighed, she was from a polygamous home and couldn’t be bothered, she claimed. As long as she was financially comfortable, the man could go and live with his mistress, just as her dad had moved to the house he had rented for his second wife. Eposi rebuked it in the exaggerated way of Pentecostal Christians. “That shall not be my portion oooo! Not all men cheat. I’ll give my man all that he needs, what will he go looking for outside?” You all had laughed, aware of the implausibility of satisfying a man completely even at that age. Laura mentioned ‘facing the homewrecker,’ and Sandra reminded her that it was the husband who had made vows and promises. When Laura had turned on her demanding her response, Sandra had said it would depend on how much she felt betrayed. “But I could actually hurt the man, like pour hot water on his genitals”. You had all burst into fits of laughter, clapping your hands as you imagined it. When it was your turn, you had said you would simply divorce the man. Cheating meant he wanted someone else. Why would you hold on to someone who wanted someone else? If you truly loved him, you would let him go. You were undoubtedly high on Harlequin-type love at that time. Here you are now, on a Friday night, on the eve of Valentine’s Day, waiting for your husband to return from his business trip. You have sent the kids to his mother for the weekend. You have cooked his favorite meals and planned a romantic weekend escapade. You bought him a watch similar to the one he had admired on your boss’ wrist at the office party you both attended just after New Year. You are determined to make it his best Valentine weekend ever. You have planned all this, knowing the trip he is returning from wasn’t quite a business trip. Knowing he is cheating, knowing exactly who he is cheating with- she has flaunted pictures of them both on social media. Those Instagram pictures of “boo” where boos features aren’t fully visible to all. But certainly recognizable to the woman who is married to boo. Who has in turns licked him from top to bottom and wiped him down on his sickbed. You look at yourself in the mirror, assessing the way the lingerie you plan to strip out of for him later looks on you. You avoid looking at your face. Lowering your eyes out of shame and fear that your 37 year-old self will see the reflection of what used to be a self-confident 17 year-old Lower-sixth girl mockingly asking: Is this your reaction? _______________________________________________________________ Enjoyed it? Not so much? Drop a comment and let me know what you think! P.S Make sure to read the other stories from this collection HERE. Two more Cameroonian writers have some flash fiction featured (Howard M-B Maximus and Agogho Franklin).
How Not to Love: Advice a Cameroonian Woman is Given in Point Form
Have you ever wondered why people find it so easy to tell women what to do and not do? Particularly as concerns their bodies, their emotions etc.? I wondered recently about the many rules we’re given which restrict event the way we choose to do the simplest, most natural thing: love. Here are a few rules passed on to me or ‘sisters’ I know. This list is far from exhaustive, so feel free to add more in the comments… *** 1- Do not like him first, and even if you do, never show it. Die with that secret sister. The man should love you first. If not you’re needy and God forbid he knows you’re needy. He will use and abuse you. No one wants a needy woman. 2- Do not be the first to say “I love you” he should say it first. Those words have power You need to make sure he loves you before ‘exposing yourself’. 3- Date the man who loves you more than you love him. Heck, you don’t even need to like him . Your affection may grow after he’s showered you with love for months (or years)… and this way, you don’t get as angry/hurt when he screws up (as it is claimed they all do). You’ll hardly be hurt on hearing the man you barely like is cheating (such logic *_* ) 4- Don’t be too honest, men can’t handle blunt truth. Don’t be openly sexual, but don’t be a prude. Sacrifice your opinions, let him feel he is ‘right’ even when he’s not- especially then. 5-Treat him as your ‘first child’. You’ll know he’s the one when he treats you like his ‘mom’. 6- Do not give a man money, it will emasculate him VS. Present to your man all your money, it will show you are submissive. 7- Do not treat a boyfriend as though he is more than just that- a boyfriend VS. Treat a boyfriend as a would-be husband and he will know you are “serious”… People, my people ☝☝☝ this right here is why we’re messed up. In a world full of hate we make love complicated. Then again the complication may be limited to one gender. Because while your calculating whether who loves who more the guy is likely breezing through. It is worthy to note here that these complications, like the advice above are often spearheaded by other women. We are undoubtedly gatekeepers of patriarchy. P.S If you wonder at my response to most the above advise; it’s simple. Love your way, life is too damn short to do otherwise.