1.

During the years when we were both Demola’s women, the one thing I marvelled at was how Idera and I never ran into each other. The bus 472 route from Thamesmead went through Woolwich where she lived with her children. I boarded it nearly every day. We lived a mere 25 minutes apart and I’m certain that we shopped in similar places on that route; groceries from the Sainsbury’s in Greenwich perhaps, or plantain from Woolwich market. We probably attended churches with overlapping pastors and adherents, but still, our paths never crossed. She never knew who I was, and if I hadn’t willingly boarded the bus this morning with my son with the intention to meet her, she may never have known that I existed.

I thought about it as I waited at the bus stop on Woolwich Road with my son, Demola Jnr. I kept turning around because I felt eyes on me, thinking I would glance back and see Idera behind me with a knife or a vat of acid. But the only thing that showed up was bus 472.

When she heard the truth, Idera did not attack me. I had been prepared for that possibility, and I would not have fought back. Maybe it was because she was too stunned to react but in all my multiple fantasies of the moment we met, I had not predicted the long silence and disbelief that froze her face into a mask. Maybe she wasn’t stunned, just numb and tired. Tired from crying for Demola and caring for her children without him.

I have no guilt, and neither should she. Death should not absolve Demola of all the blame. I know that people might fault me for not ending our traditional marriage once I found out that Demola was legally married in the UK. People might say I had options. Because I was born here, I could have dragged him to court for bigamy, for instance. As far as I know, however, under the marital laws, even though he had married me first, I was technically the mistress. Only his marriage to Idera was real. Demola knew that I loved him, and that I would never make a move that could ruin him. So, I contented myself with fighting him from time to time to let Idera know about our son and me.

Sometimes I admonish myself: maybe I should have done things differently. We had come such a long way that letting him go was not something my brain could process. I met Demola at Nazarene Grammar School in Igbokuta in 1987. I still remember him from the first day of class together. His seat was just across from mine and we quickly became the best-performing students in our set. Demola and I were not close in those first three years of secondary school; we were competitors in almost every way and had friends who took sides, cheering us on. Our rivalry was spoken about as something healthy, something other students were encouraged to emulate.

All that changed one day when Baba Abure, the school bursar, called out Demola’s name among students due to be sent home because they had not paid their fees. Our final exams were only three weeks away. I was surprised his name was on the list because I had assumed his parents were rich. During our rivalry, I had found out that, like me, he was born in the UK and held dual citizenship.

‘What happened?’ I said, running to catch up with him shortly after Baba Abure read out the list. My feet crunched on the gravelled path that led to the boy’s dormitory; we were partly hidden on both sides by tall shrubs that lined the culvert.

‘My mum can’t raise the money,’ Demola replied, putting his hands in the pockets of his green school shorts. I was surprised by how candid he was being, and how quickly our so-called rivalry was changing into something else.

‘What about your dad?’ I asked.

‘He is dead,’ Demola said flatly.

‘I’m sorry.’ Almost immediately I wanted to say: ‘My dad can help you,’ but I decided to consult my father first. I called home from the Vice-Principal’s office and told my father about ‘that boy that is always competing with me.’ My father was a philanthropist and had a soft spot for me so it didn’t take much for him to agree to help Demola.

A new era began for him that day. He no longer had to worry about school fees because my father included him on the list of pupils on his scholarship scheme. It was a new era for us, too, because from then onwards, we became buddies who were always studying together.

I can’t say when my stomach started to flutter when we were together, or when I started to feel like I was coming down with a fever when I had not seen him for mere hours. I was like a sweet damsel  pining for my Prince Charming. Unknown to me, Demola was having the same thoughts but did not know how to tell me. He confessed this later.

My father was so pleased with Demola’s performance in our school-leaving exams that he extended his scholarship to cover his university education. We both chose the University of Ibadan as our first and second choices and received admission two years later in 1995.

We were standing in front of the new wing of Idia Hall, my residence that first year, when I told him that I liked him. He laughed at first and said everybody did. I composed myself and looked at him, mustering all the seriousness I could find in my body and said, ‘No, Demola, I mean that I like you, more than a friend.’

Once I confessed my feelings out loud, Demola seemed relieved to finally say that he felt the same. After we became an item, we would both laugh about how we could have missed out on being together because of fear.

Being with Demola was easy. We were in the same faculty, rolled in the same circles and barely lacked anything because my father took great care of us. What was not easy, however, was keeping sex out of our relationship. I had made Demola promise me one day that we would not have sex until we got married. He agreed. Incidentally, I was the one whose body and mind betrayed me often. I was the one who sometimes shivered at Demola’s touch or who had sharp intakes of breath when I saw him from afar. If Demola had these struggles, I rarely saw them.

The year after we graduated, we had our traditional engagement and planned to have a white wedding and court marriage in the UK. We were both tired that night and did not attempt to make love. Around 5am, Demola’s throbbing penis digging into my backside woke me up. I smiled and rolled over and we started kissing. With closed eyes, I savoured his tongue on mine, moaning as he reached for my buttocks, first freeing them from my underwear, and kneading them ever so softly. Despite the wetness between my thighs and a generous helping of Vaseline, followed by baby oil, the thrust never came. Demola could not penetrate me, no matter how many times he tried. We blamed it on our excitement and inexperience.

About two months after our traditional engagement, Demola gained admission into the University of Liverpool for his Master’s degree in its School of Management. I, too, had applied, but the university did not make me an offer. We agreed then that he should go ahead while I considered my options. And so, Demola left for England, our marriage unconsummated.

2.

When the bus arrived at our stop, DJ and I walked to the nearest McDonalds for some breakfast. He dragged me along, skipping and singing. He was still too young to feel the sort of loss that I saw in Idera’s older children, and I still hadn’t found the words to explain where his father had gone.

We spotted some empty chairs and sat down. I was grateful for the warmth and the bright colours and sounds in the restaurant. Going home to our apartment had become even lonelier than when I was Demola’s wife-in-waiting. Waiting for a text, or a call to say he was coming to see me, and later, us. And now, no calls would ever come from him again.

As DJ tucked into his Happy Meal, I thought back to the day Demola arrived in Liverpool, and the poem he sent via email.

I had walked to an internet café near the house to check my inbox. Surrounded by people typing out their CVs and using headsets to talk to their foreign friends, I felt shrouded by guilt as I read the words over and over because I had been hiding something from him. So, rather than reply with a poem, I chose to confess in the form of a letter.

My dear husband,

I am glad you arrived in the UK safely; I miss you. I want to tell you something I could not bring myself to talk to you about before you left home. Please forgive me and don’t be angry with me.

I eventually summoned the courage to ask for help about our problem. I went to see a doctor one week before you travelled and I was shocked by what he had to tell me, but I could not bring myself to tell you.

After the examination, the doctor told me I have vaginismus. Have you heard that word before?  I heard it for the first time from the doctor. He explained that it is an involuntary contraction of the muscles surrounding the vaginal opening which happens whenever an effort is made to enter the vagina. He also spoke about the presence of a rigid hymen or deformities of the vagina.

For some women, any attempt to insert anything into their vagina is unsuccessful. He added that certain types of penetration could occur without pain or discomfort for other women, such as putting in a tampon or undergoing a pelvic examination. However, when intercourse is attempted, penetration is impossible. This is the case with me.

I asked him what could have caused this. He said in most cases, it is traceable to a physical deformity or disorder. He said there are instances where it is psychological but manifests itself in the physical. This could be the case when a woman assumes her vagina is too small for a penis to penetrate and will be ripped apart if it happens. He said a phobic response is developed, thus making penetration difficult. He gave other details, which are not relevant to my case.

But, Demola, I think that there is a way out. He directed me to a sex therapist who told me that I would have to undergo relaxation training and behavioural exercises to treat the vaginismus. He said your emotional support would help, and I am trusting God that the treatment I intend to start soon will be successful in the end, and we will be able to enjoy each other. But the therapist did not give a timeline for when this will be possible.

God will see us through. Please respond.

Your wife,

Lydia.

PS: Please, could we keep this to ourselves? I believe God will help us and put an end to this challenge. You will be helping me a lot if you don’t tell anyone (especially your family) about this. Please.

Demola called some hours later. We spoke about the challenge and resolved to give it our all. I kept him abreast of my sessions with the therapist and we prayed together for the treatment to work. He paid attention to my progress and showed concern when I told him the sessions were getting invasive. When I became sad that the treatment was taking too long, he would reassure me and calm me down.

Six months into my treatment, the therapist advised that I try to sleep with my husband, so after a couple of weeks spent securing a visa and my father buying me a return ticket, I arrived in Liverpool. For the three weeks I was with Demola, my vagina walls were as rigid as a rock. It was a trying visit; I cried most of the time and stayed indoors.

I returned to Nigeria angry and determined. Apart from the therapist, I started seeing men of God. I went from one mountain to the other where we prayed and gyrated and sang until the Spirit descended and the prophets began to prophesy—first in an unknown language, and then an interpretation that sometimes came in fits and starts and incomplete sentences like a stammerer reading the botanical name of some exotic plant. I remember the one who groped me. The fraud, one he-goat in an ill-sized white cassock, started squeezing my boobs under the guise of delivering me. I didn’t mind until I saw that the squeezes came in a pattern and that he was sweating. He had a leer on his face and a bulge in his cassock. I shook his hands off my breasts, stood up and started to leave. When the short devil tried to hold on to my blouse and put his hands around me, I slapped and cursed him.

That experience did not stop me from trying out other spirit-filled churches in Lagos. I went from one vigil to the other and then deliverance services—mosquitoes fed on me at nights during the vigil service, but I did not relent in my search for a spiritual solution. I simply endured it all to receive my healing. I eventually gave up and turned solely to medicine for a chance to be able to have sex with my husband. 

3.

Betrayal is too inadequate a word to describe what I felt when I heard Demola had gotten another woman pregnant. A friend had seen him and Idera at an African shop in Woolwich. When she confirmed from the shop owner that they were an item, she called me. I cried till my eyeballs ached. I blamed myself. I had not been able to have sex with the man since we got married. What did I expect him to do? It was my fault, I told myself. But I was hurt by how skilled a liar he was, the act he put up every time we spoke. I cursed him; I cursed his balls and his penis that refused to be tucked in.

Telling my father, I told myself, would mean telling him about my condition and creating a circus around myself. So, I swallowed my pride and intensified my treatment. It was not long before I began to be able to see the inside of my vagina. I still spoke with Demola from time to time, acting as though I knew nothing. He, too, carried on as though all was as it should be. After each call, I cursed him. I cursed him because he was an accomplished liar: sympathising with me while supervising another woman’s vagina.

One night I had a scary dream. I saw myself as an old woman, alone in our empty house without a husband or children. When I woke up, I decided to relocate to the UK. I bought a one-way ticket and told my father I was going to join my husband at last.

When I disembarked from the plane at Heathrow, I took the train straight to London Euston. I found a payphone at the station and called Demola, asking where he was. The moment he confirmed he was at work, I told him I was waiting at the first-class lounge on the station’s first floor. It was a terrified Demola who rushed there within minutes. I called him names and spat on him. I did not care that there were two other people in the lounge. Demola held his head with both hands.

‘I am sorry. This thing wasn’t planned. It just—’

I raised my hand. ‘I stood by you during your worst moments, and when I had a small challenge, you jumped into the arms of another woman.’

‘It is not like that, Lydia—’

‘What is it like?’ I said, hitting the back of my right hand against my left palm. ‘Please tell me. My personal challenge that you assumed would not be resolved, I am glad to tell you, is now a thing of the past. I don’t have any problem having sex and I can prove it. I can now see the inside of my vagina. It now gets wet. The therapist made me play with myself to see if the walls would become wet, and he even fingered me.’ When I saw his eyes widen, I repeated it: ‘Yes, he fingered me, and I enjoyed it.’

Our discussion was interrupted by intermittent announcements of different UK locations: Liverpool, Edinburgh, Birmingham. From the lounge’s transparent partition, we could see people of different ages and races rushing in and out of the expansive train station where he would later die of cardiac arrest.

I grabbed my bag, started as though I wanted to leave but told him I would tell my father and I would also call his mother and let her know I was disappointed in her for goading him on.

Demola held me, and I allowed him. A few people in the lounge were staring. I could see that Demola wished we were alone, but that was the least of my concerns. Left to me, I would drag him to Trafalgar Square, amid human beings from all over the world, and tell them what sort of animal he was.

I picked up my bag and made for the door and heard him asking:

‘Where are you going to stay?’

‘You think you are the only one who has a life here?’ I said and left him standing there, looking confused. As I got out of the station and into a taxi, I sent him my address. My father had already bought a flat in my name in Thamesmead.

He came that evening. I was in tears when he walked in and he knelt before me, pleading for understanding. He stayed on his knees when I called him a bastard and he did not wince when I slapped him with all the force in my body and told him to leave. When he left, I cried harder. I loved him. I had loved him since I was fifteen years old. I hated what he had done.

Demola sent me tons of messages, pleading with me to work things out. With time, my defences became weak and I asked him to come over. He came to my house bearing a bunch of lilac tulips, wearing a peach tee-shirt and blue jeans. It was a look I loved, and peach was my favourite colour, after lilac. I asked him to come in.

That evening, he spoke about how I was his first love, his first kiss, and how he cherished me and was sorry that he had let me down. When he stood up to leave and hugged me, I did not discourage his hands from roaming my body, my breasts, then my bum. When his hands touched my bare bum, a gasp escaped my lips. I almost crooned like Solomon in the Bible, Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth. As though he heard, his mouth found my nipples, and my gasp turned into a shiver. Demola bit my breasts slowly and deliberately like he was pacifying them. He caressed my curves like a tailor would handle a delicate cloth. By the time his fingers travelled between my thighs, I was as wet as a waterfall. Soon, he mounted me and confirmed what I had known a few weeks back, that I was now able to be penetrated. There was no stopping us after that.

One evening he came over and spent the night. He left for work the following morning but returned to my apartment in the evening. He did that for one good week. I told myself that I was his wife, that he married me traditionally in front of all our families and friends and that I would not bother about what lies he told the other woman to be with me. It was his cross, and he would carry it alone.

***

Time went by quickly, and one day I realised I had spent five years in London without getting pregnant for one day. Luck smiled at me in the sixth year. The day I confirmed that I was pregnant, I called Demola and requested he stop at my apartment before going to Woolwich. He tried to get me to talk on the phone but I insisted it was better face-to-face.

After I broke the news, I noticed that Demola was not excited. At this time, Idera was carrying her third child. Idera and I gave birth one month apart. Demola Jnr came first. His birth made me renew the call for Idera to be aware of my existence, but Demola insisted it was not time.

A year went by, the second one followed, the third crept in on us and in the fourth year, I called Demola at work one morning when I hadn’t seen him and he wasn’t answering his phone, and a colleague told me he was dead. He left me with the grim assignment of revealing myself and Demola Jnr to Idera, who looked at me as though I was an alien telling her some insane intergalactic tale.

***

DJ finished his Happy Meal, gleefully tucking the toys into his pocket as we walked the short distance back home. I felt like I had succeeded in preserving the innocence of his childhood. The need for him to know the circumstances of his birth was what propelled me to Idera’s front door, the reason why I left her a note with all my details—phone numbers and home address—hoping that we could clean up the mess Demola left us with. It is why I also decided, at long last, to tell my father the truth.

My distraught father told me after my confession: ‘Never again should you see a man as all in all. Lydia, you are brilliant and can stand shoulder to shoulder with any man. You lied to yourself when you acted as if your world would crumble without Demola. A woman should not bend her life into shapelessness because of a man. Yes, some compromise is good on both sides but certainly not this type. Lydia, do you understand what I am telling you?’ I just cried, unable to speak.

He added later: ‘Demola was a good boy. I don’t know what got into him, but he is gone now, and so we will never know. Lydia, the only thing I can say to you is that you gave Demola over twenty years of your life. It is enough. You have to move on.’

After that, I sat Demola Jr down and told him that Daddy had died and was not coming back. He cried uncontrollably. I told him that Daddy would very much like us to move on and to live happily. I told him the best place to carry the people we loved was in our hearts, where they would never die. I watched understanding come into my son’s eyes. It looked like fear at first, making him wide-eyed, and then reality settled in. I watched my son cry and eventually quiet down.

Now that DJ knew the whole truth, I had no more need for subterfuge. Life seemed set for greater days ahead.

Olukorede S. Yishau is an award-winning Nigerian journalist, novelist and short-story writer. His first novel, In The Name of Our Father, was nominated for the The Nigeria Prize for Literature in 2021. The novel has been a subject of theses by undergraduate and postgraduate students in Nigerian universities and has been reviewed widely, including in an academic journal. His collection of short stories, Vaults of Secrets, was released on October 1st, 2020. His poems were published in an anthology of poetry Activist Poets. Yishau is concluding work on a creative nonfiction book titled United Countries of America and other Travel Tales and a novel, which highlights a number of health issues such as HIV, Hepatitis and so on. He has tutored young writers at workshops organised by Young and Cerebral and Lagos Comic Convention, among others. He has participated in book festivals such as the Lagos Book and Arts Festival, Kawe Book Festival and ProjectLit Ghana. He is one of four Nigerians selected by the United States Mission in Nigeria for a creative writing programme by the University of Iowa in 2021. His writings have appeared in publications such as The Lagos Review, The Nation, Tell, The Source and many more.