72 The Meadow I University of Lagos. It happened the same year I met Tobi, my husband, a fellow student at the university. It was also the same year I agreed to be his girlfriend after months and months of him asking. “Bring another cotton ball,” my mother says to Bunmi. When Bunmi returns with a fresh pack of cotton balls, she hangs around the door to my mother’s bedroom, her face a mix of pity and curiosity. I know she wants to ask what happened; wants to know why I have an ugly bruise on my face. “Get away from there!” my mother shouts when she catches Bunmi watching us. When she is done cleaning the wound, my mother tosses the blood-soaked cotton balls into a small bin in the corner of the dimly-lit room. I wonder what my face looks like, but I don’t go up to the mirror that hangs from the wall, a few inches from the small, wooden table that is littered with hair oils and cosmetics. My mother returns from washing her hands in the bathroom and seats next to me. Her brows furrow with worry and the lantern that seats on her cosmetics table casts a glow on her face. Sweat has started to build in my armpits. I want to ask her why they haven’t turned on the generator, a Christmas gift my husband had given to my mother two years ago. One of the many favors I had begun to feel we would never be able to repay. “What happened?” she asks quietly. I want to give her a response, but I am too weary to go into the details of the fight. Although I had never intended to stay at my parents’ home and not return to my matrimonial home in the past, my mother was often the first person I confided in. The first time Tobi beat me, it was because I refused to cook dinner after an argument we had. Tobi had come into our bedroom, breathing furiously through his nostrils while his
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy ODQ3NA==