Red Flag District.

Chapter Three (Part 12): Morolake; Wife Material.

FOLARIN’S P.O.V:

She moved in on a Saturday.

Three of her suitcases. Two boxes of books. A small ceramic plant pot she had insisted on bringing because she had grown the plant herself and was not willing to leave it behind.

She arrived in the afternoon while I was at the office trying to look like a person who was still capable of doing my job.

By the time I got home that evening, she had already arranged her things in the guest room.

The guest room.

Not my room.

That was my condition during our second conversation about the arrangement, and to her credit she had not argued with it. She had nodded once, asked if there was space for a small wardrobe in the guest room, and accepted my answer that there was.

Which made me suspicious all over again.

Because now I had learnt that Morolake did not concede things easily. Unless conceding them moved her closer to the goal.

She came out of the kitchen when she heard me at the door, wearing a soft grey t-shirt and joggers, her hair tied up loosely, no makeup. She had been crying recently.

Or she had been arranging her face to look like she had been. It was impossible to tell anymore.

“You’re home,” she said quietly.

“Yes.”

“I made stew.”

“I ate at the office.”

She paused.

I could see her registering it. The first small refusal. The first quiet boundary.

“There’s some in the fridge anyway. For tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

I dropped my keys on the side table.

I did not hug her.

I had decided in the car on the way home that I would not perform affection I did not feel, even in service of keeping the peace.

That was the lesson I had taken from that night.

I would not let my body lie for me any longer.

She watched me put my keys down and I felt her eyes follow me as I walked into my room.

To continue reading, please upgrade your subscription.
Paying in Naira or anywhere in Africa? Use Selar here

Paying in dollars or pounds? Use Stripe.