Who the fuck do you think I am?

Every morning, as I brush my teeth and spit out the foam that the toothpaste has turned into, I imagine the various ways I could kill you. Oblivious, you whistle as I watch your long fingers tighten the knot in your tie. I watch as you cross-check your work bag, confirming you’ve packed all you need for the day. You say, “Bye, hun,” on your way out, then return because you forgot to give me a kiss. I recoil in disgust, but even that you never notice. I’ve re-enacted various ways I could kill you.

This morning, I imagined poisoning you. I want to poison you like they did in old Nollywood. Spicy Jollof and chicken laced with lethal drops of otapiapia. I imagined the look of satisfaction on my face as you grimaced in pain, foam gurgling at your mouth while your eyes questioned me. Oh, how I would watch you choke and gasp as the realization dawns on you. The smile on my face getting wider, your pain taking me to the peak of schadenfreude. Then I’d clear the dishes and thoroughly wash them, heap the poisoned meal into a bin, and dispose of it at a public refuse dump. I can’t let anything tie me to your murder because I refuse to suffer twice. In fact, I’d even make sure to serve the Meiguard part of the untainted meal, making a show of serving him directly from the same pot as his Oga. A well-fed belly is a cooperative mouthpiece.

Then I’ll purposely dial the wrong numbers at different times to register confusion. Shock. Panic.

0801111000
0801011111
0800000000

“Hello Mummy! Egbami oooo! It’s Fola o.” Then I’ll hang up and call your sister. “Aunty Bisi, egbami oooo! Fola oooo, e ma bo!”

“Help meeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!”

My final act will be to run into the compound with a rallying cry. I have to give an AMVCA-worthy performance to show the world how much anguish I’m in. The pain. The sorrow. The grief.

I know our neighbours will troop out en masse to see what’s happening in the home of Demilade Da-Silva. Some will even be out with their phones to record, so as I toss myself on the floor, I must remember to wear tights in case my boubou flies up. And I’ll make sure I get a few bruises here and there, vivid and red against my fresh skin. Nothing three months of laser won’t clear.

I’ll shout incoherently and point at our flat for them to go see for themselves.

“Ambulance, let’s use Mr. Andrew’s car,” they’ll say amongst themselves as they rush you to the hospital, where you’ll be pronounced dead on arrival.

If anything, your folks will ask for your body to be brought to the family house so you can be buried. And since you’re a bloody Muslim, I really hope the Fidau holds that evening or the next morning, latest. Earth to earth. Dust to good riddance.

I’ve thought of sending hired assassins to kill you on your way back from work. A bullet to your driver’s leg for some razzle-dazzle. It would make a glorious scene. Me, in dark shades, black boubou, and a matching black turban. The foreshadowing of a wealthy man’s widow who still has a flair for fashion and is available to anyone intending to soothe her aching heart.

Whispering clipped instructions to men who are willing to do it for a meagre sum of 200k or less. They’ll puff weed amongst themselves as they study your picture, the one you took on our wedding day. How bright you looked. I remember how you beamed with joy the moment you saw me walk in. The way you whispered into my ear, “If I wasn’t marrying you today, I would have hired boys to kidnap you for me.” And how blissful those six months were before something suddenly flipped inside you. Like a brain-eating amoeba, it masked itself in other symptoms: work stress, emotional fatigue, mental health issues. I imagined the assassins asking me to send your photo to them on WhatsApp. Nah. Too complicated.

Yesternight, I considered doing it myself. Getting a hold of a gun can’t be hard. A bribe here, another there, and I’ll have a rented one. Now how to get a hold of you is the problem, but I can work around that.

I’ll tell you I’m travelling to Ibadan, then stay till evening. I can catch you on your way back from the gym. You’ll be alone. As you navigate the bend in the estate before turning onto our street, I’ll wait and beckon. The moment you stop the engine and start asking, confused, when I got back, I’ll empty the clip into your body. Point-blank.

And like a thief in the night, I’ll vanish, boarding the next bus to Ibadan and appearing at my parents’ doorstep around 10:00 p.m., with a full face of makeup and pretend exhaustion from the party I “came for.” The news will reach us at the break of dawn.

I could let the rage consume me. Damn all consequences and stab you to death instead. I could get you as you step out of the shower gingerly, careful to step on the towel because of your phobia of slipping. I could let all my rage possess me and stab you.

Each stab for every year I’ve endured your bullshit. Ten trifling years. Six to the heart, where you hurt me most. Two to the groin, the cause of your misfortune and mine. One to each of your eyes. For staring into space instead of standing up to protect me from this horrid disease taking over my wellbeing.

Will I let myself go to jail for this useless man? This bloody irritant who sometimes gets tissue stuck to his boxers when he comes out of the toilet? A childlike 45-year-old man who still calls Mummy at the slightest discomfort? Nah.

I can hear your car pulling into the driveway. I remember how that used to get me excited and waiting. Wearing something risqué or, other times, just holding a bottle of wine that never gets opened till we are sated. How you used to sing sometimes when you walked through the door, your velvety tenor voice bouncing off the walls.

I can hear you exchanging pleasantries cheerily with Sam, the same man I told you tried propositioning me months ago using the flimsy excuse of “but you actress know how it goes nah.” Unprotected. I am disgusted.

Maybe I will do it tonight. Invite you for a sexy bath and nudge you harder than usual as you step out of the shower. Watch you fall, flailing your arms helplessly like a puppet yanked by strings. No one to protect or save you.

I can’t wait to hear you breathing faintly, trying to fight for your life. Then I’ll finish it with a pillow to your face until I suffocate it all out of you.

But what if I get distracted and get possessed with an insane urge to mount you instead? I remember how we used to go at it like rabbits before your yearning for me waned. The embers of our passion have been snuffed out by the syrupy liquid that has glued you to the numerous whores you go about town with. And the lies. The games. The gaslighting. And the fucking audacity.

Or I’ll do it the old, untraceable way. Get you cursed with insanity so you dance to your death with your own legs. Make you endure torment from jinns and daemons that will cause you distress and call you to your death from the spiritual realm. Inexplicable, but extremely potent.

When you go through rebirth and come forth anew, never again will you mess with a woman’s head or heart.