Chimamanda was the first writer I wanted to become. I read about her success and envied her. I heard that she was married and my mouth fell open in a surprised “WHAT?” I seem to think it is hard for all writers to be in marriage relationships because I have failed at it; marriage. I don’t understand why a writer with an imagination wild and wide enough to create characters in a story, would commit to a restraining and conformist arrangement called marriage. Why a creator of characters would swear upon their lives to love only one character (their partner).
I have read all Chimamanda’s novels except Americannah which I am still gobbling down like a starved uncultured cavewoman. The novel tells a story of a woman; Ifemelu. She loves Obinze but he is married to Kosi; a stereotypical ‘GOOD WIFE’. From the narrative it appears that Obinze has very little in common with his wife, he is immensely bored in the marriage and he is married to her because, you know, she is a GOOD WIFE.
I love the story line so much because I feel like an Obinze – a female Obinze. My boyfriend whose name I never really say unless asked is a stereotypical GOOD MAN. Patrick Kirabo (he prefers to use his initials, PK, because Kirabo is a feminine name and he had his share of being teased during his school days)a successful Engineer with a fat salary, a series of cars, a house of his own and a passport heavy with visas to all the countries he has been to. My friends envy me and yet here I am at Marcus’…
“Ughm ughm”, it is Marcus clearing his throat.
“Speak of the devil”, I turn my head backwards toward the door where he is standing shirt off, bearing his tight muscled stomach for all to see.
“I was just thinking about you. I thought you were sleeping”
“I thought you were reading.”
We both laugh because Marcus found me staring blankly ahead, novel completely forgotten about as evidenced by the closed paperback resting on my laps.
“What’s for breakfast”, this he says between a loud yawn and an exaggerated rub of his stomach as if to emphasize his hunger.
“Breakfast?” I pick my phone from the tiled floor to check for the time. “It is coming to One” I add.
“Eh!” He is surprised at the time because he has been sleeping since 6:00 am. “Lunch?”
“I don’t know – what do you want to eat? I gather Americannah and the phone into my hands and follow Marcus into the room. The air feels cool because outside at the balcony the sun was beginning to shine brightly.
I sit on the bed and Marcus bends to check his mini LG refrigerator but he shuts it disappointingly.
“I feel like pork”, he says dreamily.
“Pork? At this time?”
Yeah, there is this place in Namugongo that everyone talks about. Apparently they even serve pork for breakfast.”
“You know I can’t be seen with you around Kyaliwajjala or Namugongo.”
“Oh yeah!” he sucks air into his mouth as if to pity both of us.
“We try Kyadi?”
“Kyadondo is not an option. They start roasting in the evening. I can’t think of a place with roasted pork at this time.”
“Then I guess it is Katogo. He sighs disappointingly and collapses backwards on the bed.
The restaurant downstairs has Katogo for days, as one might say; and Marcus is not a big fan of mixing matooke or Irish potatoes with beans, or, peas, or, meat, or offals (he really hates offals).
I leave the room to buy some Katogo, as a fully clothed adult in the circumstances would; Marcus is lying on the bed naked but for a pair of grey cotton boxers.
Copyright © 2016-2017 by Daphine Arinda