All I'm Thankful For

My house is not the kind of place where people drop in for a surprise visit. This is because it is tucked away on some street in Ajah that some people have never even heard of. You would probably lose your way if I didn’t direct you. Coupled with the wasted transport fare, time and effort, not meeting me at home would certainly leave you irate.

When I describe my house to my friends, I tell them to look out for the plain, unfenced and unpainted bungalow with a blue tank and a couple of stairs leading up to it. There’s a well-trodden path with stubborn sand that clings to the soles and clothes of passersby. This same sand is carried all around and finally into our houses. This grainy sand is the signature of Gbadebo Street and that’s where I’ve lived for over seven years.





I used to be really ashamed of our house, my father was under severe financial constraint when he began work on it and as soon as there was a roof over our heads and burglary-proof windows, we moved in and it has remained relatively untouched in the years after. Not like the other houses have fared better anyway, ten years after moving in, our next door neighbor’s kitchen is still unfinished and her four children sleep on a raffia mat which is the only thing that separates their brown bodies from the bare floor. Alas, those were not the only things that were not well in that household.

My house is slightly elevated; I don’t know how to describe this. Only that our windows are much higher above the ground than other windows, this makes it easier to see down into my neighbor’s house when the blinds are not drawn and deters nosy neighbors from peeping into our own rooms to see what they look like and if it’s true that the Oladele children really have a computer and a bed each to themselves.

Most nights when I go to bed, I end up not being able to sleep because my neighbor next door and her husband are having another argument. The bone of contention hardly varies: his other women, his incessant drinking and partying, his fond habit of keeping late nights, his attitude of ignoring his family’s needs while keeping up the façade of the generous benefactor whose hand was never far from the pocket of his buba, this man, he was always ready to whip out cash in the thousands while his children’s bellies bloated with the hated garri and they spent more days at home than in school. His wife never caught a breath as she asked in the same vein why Mama Tunde had eyed her so rudely the day she had gone to buy smoked fish from her. “Or are you having an affair with that one too?” his wife would ask scornfully.

Her husband took to staying out even later than usual and timing his arrival to coincide with those moments when he knew she would be asleep and too groggy to make trouble. Oftentimes he wasn’t so lucky and they would argue late into the night while I strained my ears and wished devilishly that she would say something that “passed her mouth” so he could slap her face and then she would scream, run out of the house naked and create a public spectacle that would make our other neighbors cackle with glee and give the housewives of Gbadebo Street something fresh to gossip about. I slapped myself mentally and I could almost hear my mother’s voice asking me why I was so stupid and why a 13 year old child only thought of such evil things. Or was I a child of the devil? I shook my head physically as sleep stole me away.

My prayers were however answered one night when I was already drifting off to sleep. I was woken up by a loud banging at our door. Thieves! I thought excitedly as my heart jumped into my mouth. Maybe they would kidnap me and I would be the center of attention in my family for a long while. They would probably slap us instead anyway; we didn’t particularly have anything of value.

 I stood beside my door and mooned densely while my brain wept copiously at being assigned to such a stupid and thoughtless individual. I snapped out of my reverie when my mother answered the door and tried to calm a hysterical woman down. I crept out of my room and outside the house. My neighbor had his naked wife by the hair and was slapping her with his other hand. Not to be outdone, she kicked, scratched and bit at him like a fiery cat while she rained curses on him and his generation.

 I watched their four children standing by and crying while they pleaded with daddy to “leave mommy alone and stop beating her”. I tried to derive satisfaction and probably some laughter from the sight of two adults roughing themselves up but when I finally went to bed that night, my nose tingled and there were tears in my eyes.

Fifteen years is a long time and with the various milestones in my life, it soon became a distant memory but I’m lying here again with my nose tingling and tears in my eyes that I dare not blink out because there is a fresh bruise on my cheek that doesn’t like salty tears and Segun is right beside me so I dare not get up or even sniffle lest I wake him up and endure another round of beatings.

When I was young, I always wondered why my neighbor would pacify his wife and still persuade her to come back into the house and onto their bed and disgustingly enough, she would perform her marital duties that same night too. Why didn’t she leave and take her children away to somewhere safer? I freeze as Segun’s hand falls heavily around my waist and while I creatively try to breathe through my mouth to give my aching nose a break, I understand why she never left and why most women never leave abusive marriages.

And when I go to bed most nights, I say a small prayer that at least, my house has a fence now so my troubles are private and not public fodder for inquisitive neighbors.