“UNDERSTANDING GIRLFRIEND.”

*Understanding Girlfriend [mu-mu]*

Noun {English, Nigerian slang}

A woman who has no boundaries in her relationship. “Suffer” is her middle name.

***

“Arike.”

“Arike.”

“Arike.”

“Yes, pastor Bolaji?” I answered, looking around me before a smile formed on my lips.

Pastor Bolaji and 7 other white garment church members stood over me, with grunting faces and long whips the length of a mango tree squeezed in between their palms.

“Do you know why you’re here?” Pastor Bolaji asked me.

My smile grew wider, “Yes. For deliverance.”

“You killed a father, mother and their unborn child.” He recalled, “And you were dancing Zazu over their dead bodies.”

“Aradugbo (Zehh). Tun tun ti de oh. ZaZu (Zehh). Opoleti.” I hummed my favourite jam.

“She is speaking the demon language.” One of women whispered in agony.

Pastor Bolaji squatted in front of me and moved closer to study me.

“Arike, before we beat this demon out of you.” He said, “Tell us one thing. Why did you kill pastor Kayode and his family?”

WHERE DO I BEGIN...

Kayode Olajide was my first boyfriend.

The love of my life.

My needle in a haystack.

The husband of my destiny.

Kayode had lived in London for the past 10 years and only came back to Abuja for his uncle’s funeral. But when he met me at the funeral, he had a change of heart and stayed in Abuja longer than he anticipated.

I moved into Kayode’s apartment a week after I met him. I was his nurse, cook, dishwasher, washing machine and first class ashewo.

Kayode’s uncle was like a father to him and all he needed in this season was comfort and love. He said my love was the only thing that cured his grief.

Kayode did not have a job in Abuja, so I paid for everything. After all, it became my house too.

Anything he wanted, my lover must get.

Fridays were his favourite days. I would wake up in the morning to wash his clothes before going to work. After work, I would run to Wuse market to buy food stuffs for his Friday night house parties and cook for his friends.

After all, your girl was the only good cook he knew in Abuja. Nobody else’s food tasted like home.

After a long evening of toiling and sweating in the kitchen alone, I would sit in the corner of the parlour and watch Kayode and his friends play loud music, smoke weed, play card games, play truth or dare and drink alcohol till their bodies couldn’t function any longer.

Some nights, Kayode’s friends would dare the runz girls they invited to give “the host” a lap dance or enter his room to do Seven Minutes in Heaven.

Never once did I stop Kayode from having his fun time. After all, he was the host, so who was I to interfere with his best nights?

There was even a time he locked himself up with one of the girls in our room all night till daybreak. I didn’t want to interrupt his fun time, so I slept on the parlour floor that night and cried myself to sleep.

“He is still in mourning, you hear?” I would console myself over and over again, “Complaining will only hurt him more.”

Time healed wounds. When Kayode would heal from his uncle’s grief, I would still stand next to him and he would finally see my worth.

He would see I was not one of those scatter-scatter mouth girls on Twitter who shouted, “Good girl no dey pay!”. The ones who nagged too much. The ones who asked for money. The ones who demanded fancy chinko food. The ones who demanded for iPhone, designer bags, Dubai trips and all those expensive rubbish. Why would I run my man’s pocket dry?

I was a simple girl. A lover girl for life.

Men love peace.

And I, Arike Olufunke Bamidele, was my baby’s peace.

I was the perfect 100 yards wife material he has always dreamed of. Even his friends called me “our favourite wife”. No woman pass my level.

No woman.

Until...