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There is nothing much to clean in the kitchen but she pulls out all the
movable appliances to clean out the accumulated grime and rubbish.
Under the sink, hidden behind the shopping bags, is Kayita’s mug.
Nnam bought it on their fifth wedding anniversary – World’s Best
Husband. She takes it to the front door and puts it into a bin. On top of
the upper cabinets are empty tins of Quality Street that Kayita treated
himself to at Christmas. Kayita had a sweet tooth: he loved muffins, icecream, ginger nuts and éclairs. He hoarded the tins saying that one day
they would need them. Nnam smiles as she takes the tins to the front
door – Kayita’s tendency to hoard things now makes sense.
Nnam, her friends and family returned to the funeral at around 11 p.m.
Where she sat, she was able to observe Kayita’s wife. The woman
looked old enough to be her mother. That observation, rather than give
her satisfaction, stung. Neither the pampering nor the expensive
busuuti and expensive jewellery and British airs could keep away the
pain that Kayita had remained loyal to such a woman. It dented her
well choreographed air of indifference. Every time she looked at his
wife, it was not jealousy that wrung her heart: it was the whisper of you
were not good enough.
Just then, her aunt, the one who prepared her for marriage, came to
whisper tradition. She leaned close and said,
‘When a husband dies you must wear a sanitary towel immediately. As
he is wrapped for burial, it is placed on his genitals so that he does not
return for . . .’
‘Fuck that shit!’
LE PORTRAIT MAGAZINE
Page 54