One Day: Fiancée
"I try to fight off the urge to spy on Steve on Instagram, but I’m weak. My mobile phone is on the dressing table—I grab it as if it’s about to grow legs and run."
Sunlight filters through the blinds to my right, highlighting my face as I look at my reflection in the mirror. My makeup looks perfect. I lay down my hairbrush on the dressing table and stand up to look at my just-above-the-knee ankara dress, still undecided on whether to wear it or the blue jumpsuit on the bed.
I walk over to the bed, pick up the jumpsuit, and look at it for a moment. Then I return to the dressing table, sit, and wear my hoop earrings. Because I'm too lazy to try on the jumpsuit, I've convinced myself that the ankara is better.
Only twelve hours ago, I emptied the last bowl of my addiction, my unbridled indulgence, but it feels like I haven't tasted it for a month. “Ice cream,” I coo. Thoughts of licking it excite me. Thank goodness I'm not craving some illicit drug.
Now the room seems quieter, and all I hear for five seconds, perhaps seven, is the ticking of the clock hanging on the pink-colored wall behind me. I stare at the clock, in the mirror. Steve gave it to me on my twenty-fifth birthday, five months ago. It was the best gift I received that day, not because it was the most expensive but because it was a gift from the man I was in love with.
“Femi, hang this in your room. Don’t worry, I’ll buy you a Range Rover next year.”
Steve could only afford a clock he purchased for two thousand naira. But it didn't matter; we were meant for each other, or so I thought. Around two weeks after my birthday, he walked out of this room and has never returned.
I try to fight off the urge to spy on him on Instagram, but I’m weak. My mobile phone is on the dressing table—I grab it as if it’s about to grow legs and run, and in no time I’m on his profile page.
His recent uploads are photos of his new girlfriend, the senator's daughter. The day I discovered they'd started dating, I unfollowed him everywhere, but two days after, I created a fake Instagram account and followed him.
A photo catches my attention as I scroll down his page. In the photo he and she are in the back seat of a car, and her lips are pressed to his cheek and her hand is resting on his chest and he's smiling. I may smash my phone on the floor at any moment. After reading the photo's caption, I momentarily pass out: "Countdown to STEDAR17."
His name is Steven and hers is Dara. People combine names for wedding hashtags. I feel as though I’m being stabbed in the heart. They merely started dating three months ago—Steve and I dated for two years. I need a dose of ice cream real quick. Folake has to hear this!
I grab my brown wedge sandals off the shoe rack. As I put on the sandals, STEDAR17 echoes in my head as if it’s some deadly virus that has killed millions.
“Mrs. Empire,” I say, as I step into our low-lit living room.
My younger sister, Folake, is lounging on the couch, still binge-watching Empire. Before Empire, it was some telenovela.
I sit on the chair facing the couch. “Have you heard about STEDAR17?”
“What did you say?” she asks, her eyes fixed on the TV.
“STEDAR, Steve—”
“And Dara,” she interjects.
“Yes, when did you hear about it?”
She pauses the movie. She dislikes being interrupted when she’s indulging in her favorite pastime, but I’m glad she’s ready to talk, even if it’s only for a minute.
"A week ago," she says.
"Really? And you didn't—"
“Tell you?" she interrupts. “And then you'll cry for weeks.”
I gaze at her. Even though I’m two years older, we are often mistaken for twins. Maybe it’s because we both have protruding eyes and full lips and similar skin tone, but still, I don’t think we resemble very much to be called twins. Folake's hair is longer. I'm a little taller and curvier.
"Cry? I'm over him.”
Folake stares blankly at me for a few seconds, then she points the remote at the TV. My eyes fall on my phone's screen, on the photo, and tears well up in my eyes.
Copyright © 2018 Babatunde Olayiwola. All rights reserved.
