Nameless Desire | Damilola Olaniyi

You heard the knock but you don’t answer immediately. It is a Saturday, and you aren’t expecting anybody. You look at your pile of laundry that is starting to smell and the knock comes again. You shuffle to the door and open it with a small crack. You don’t know who they are, two women. One older with silver hair at her edges and the other younger and interesting looking.

Hi. The younger woman smiles but you lacked the cheek muscles nor the will.
Who are you? It came out more forcefully than you intended but you weren’t going to apologise. You didn’t want to be at the door but you noticed the lady’s dress – orange and purple. Mid length. Good taste, you thought.

We’re preachers. Did I wake you?

I don’t need any preaching… but you look friendly. 

You give them the opportunity to talk because she promises to be brief and she is. All the while, you watched her mouth as she talked. She wore a soft pink lipstick. You don’t like pink but the mica in her lipstick glitters in the light and made her lips glow. Her smile looks genuine and she has great skin. She promises to return the next week. 

You go back in and lie down on your bed, trying to get yourself out of the bad mood. Then the source of your annoyance hits you again when you see her status on your instant messenger. Your notifications would not stop beeping. Your sister in-law had recommended you for a job you got hired for at a company she worked in. You were not quite so tired of staying at home everyday as much as your husband has been shooting barbs at you. He keeps saying you need to get on your feet and work. When you want to eat, he stares at your plate long and hard in meaning. You lose your appetite. 

When the interview invitation arrives your inbox, you had forgotten you applied for the job. The details are sketchy but you go anyway.

You wear a peach blouse with green skirt, below your knee. It’s decent and doesn’t show any skin. Your makeup is barely there. You take some time finding the interview venue and you sit in the waiting room like every other person. Your husband calls, tells you to do your best so you can bring some money home. You grunt a noncommittal response and look around the crowded interview venue waiting your turn. Your heart is not quite in the interview but you know it will shut your husband up. When you mentioned the interview passively, he made sure to tell you that he had been fending for your need for the past two years and it was time you actually pulled your weight. His comment stung because you were actually trying to get a job for your own security but he felt you were not trying hard enough. You walk into the crowded reception area and you remember how you gave your former boss a wash-down. You shake your head and smile without mirth at the angry receptionist. You remember that you did not give your husband the full details of how your employment ended, just that you did not have a job from one day to the next.

The price of everything had gone up. Even getting to the interview venue cost twice as much and the number of older people there shocks you. The man sitting to one side of you drooling on his chest looked like a family man. You wonder how many children he has and turn your face away as an awful odour hits you when he removes his feet from his worn-out shoes. 

The reception area was poorly lit and the florescent light reflected off the dusty terrazzo floor. You bet that if you pulled off your shoes, your bare feet would grab more than a few specks of dust and so you kept them on despite the temptation to flex your toes. You look around and there are so many older people waiting their turn. Some were already sleeping from exhaustion and the long waiting time. In your twenties, you’re one of the youngest. You cringed internally because you had to trek some distance because your husband did not give you enough money for transport and you knew that if you did not get the job, it would be more insults. The price of garri is one thousand five, he always said with his right index finger in the air to pontificate the rising cost of living. So you prayed to get the job and then you stopped praying when you stuttered in prayer. You sat there with your heart full of hope and your dusty shoes mocking you. 

Your shoes, once brown leather, was now a washed-out carton colour in many places. It was the colour of the dress you wore the last time your mother in-law came to discuss your childlessness. You remember her hinting at getting another wife for your husband and that your low-cut hair did not help your husband see you as a woman. Your sister in-law, the fat misguided soul who lacked initiative also spoke up thanking the good Lord for ‘continuity in the family name.’ She reminded you that you only had to bear sons to seal your place in the family until you reminded her that the doctors said you were fine and that it has been six months since your husband had sex with you. You knew for sure that he was getting laid outside. Never mind that your sister in-law had her mouth full all the while she spoke, she did not reject your offer of something to eat and her feet looked like the webbing of a duck’s foot. You thought about all the insults you could hurl her way but you only internalised it and kept silent, your head tilted to one side. 

The applicant beside you shifted and opened his mouth. You held your breath as he yawned with his mouth wide open. His breath stank, reminding you of how you always kept your head bowed whenever your mother in-law spoke making her believe it was in respect. You knew you were only avoiding her stale breath that stank like an open market’s rubbish dump. The receptionist spoke up, asking the newly arrived applicants to register their names. You stand on a queue as the applicant in front of you struggled to spell his name. You take pity on him and ask for his name, collecting the pen. The old man is effusive in his appreciation to you and you curtesy to avoid hands that have picked his nose. Two hours fifty-two minutes have passed since you last checked the time.

That was the figure for a certification you wanted to take months ago, two hundred and fifty-two thousand, but your husband waved you off. He said the amount – in spite of the instalment option, was too much to spend on a tree not bearing fruit. Your heart ripped into many parts and you cried hot tears when you left his sight. You heard him tell one of his friends as a joke over beer some nights following.

The line is moving and finally, it is your turn. You enter the interviewer’s office at the sound, “Next!” You adjust your clothes and take a deep breath. Your chin juts out confidently as you walk in. The interviewer is in his mid-forties, with a sprinkling of white hair and a big paunch. You answer all his questions as best you could and then he stands up and asks you if you’d like tea or coffee. You decline but he calls the secretary in anyway and tells her to make coffee. Her back is turned to him and he ogles her bum shamelessly. You are disgusted and pretend to stare at a spot on the table. When you listen to the job description, you mentally tell yourself you won’t accept those conditions for slavery. The salary is an outrage and you tell yourself to think of a civil response when you hear “the offer.” As you start speaking, the interviewer stands up and moves behind you and you hear him pour water into a cup. You are alone when he comes to your side of the table. He tries to paw at you and you tell him in a clipped voice that he has the wrong person. You push his hand away and ask him what the next stage was. He says there’s no next stage for you and that he’s giving you the job. He tells you he will cut to the chase and hire you with a slight increase in the initial offer. Before you can thank him, you feel the ‘but’ coming. He tells you that you have to be malleable. You ask him what it means and as he explains, he tries to grope you. As his hand comes closer for the second time, you eye his stubby fingers from the side of your eye and wait until you have full view and then you spin, knocking your chair to the ground in the process and put all your power in your left knee. As his hand lands on the corner of your left breast, you smile tightly and this emboldens him. You clear your throat and he makes to grab your breast fully when you move the chair back and knee him in the groin in one movement. Your knee connects accurately and you pick the cup the man dropped, fill it up and drink water to your hearts content. Then you adjust your clothes and threaten him as he gasps. You storm out of his office and tell the secretary that her boss needs her, leaving his office with the man kneeling and holding the table, face contused, unable to utter another word. 

You are not sure if you’d tell your husband about the incident. Lately, he has been accusing you of not being able to give him a child despite your willingness to submit yourself for medical tests. Visits from his nephews were always followed by his comments about wanting a child of his own and not being a part-time parent. You no longer cuddle when you sleep and he looks with more interest at the calendar where you mark your menstrual days. Your mother in-law has been refusing to speak with you recently saying she’s upset with you. She never tells you the cause of her annoyance but you’re sure she’s referring to the lack of a child in a two and a half years marriage. This has emboldened your husband’s sister to talk despite her husband being a serial cheater with two children outside their marriage. 

You get home tired and make a hasty dinner your husband complains about the entire time. You ignore him and eat. You say ‘fine’ when he asks you about the interview but you stop going for interviews. Eleven weeks pass before your husband remembers you have not attempted another interview. He calls you lazy and says he will ration your food. He continues ranting and then you snap. You tell him about the interview and he tells you to ‘suck it up. Nigeria is like that and so is life.’ He even asks if you understand. You stare at him open mouthed, not comprehending anything he had said. 

Your mind flashes back to your university days and how you were assaulted going back to the hostel from night class. You spent two days in the school clinic unable to explain to the medical staff why your insides felt ripped out. You were scared of being stigmatised and endured the excruciating pain despite the pain medication. You recall that your friend who took you to the clinic said your eyes look haunted. But you could not confide in her because you were ashamed. You turn to your boyfriend for comfort and he told you to ‘suck it up.’ That stung you because you felt that you connected with him more than any other person. You break up with him with a promise to yourself never to settle for mediocrity. 

Six nights later, you watch your husband snore in bed with his fermented breath polluting your airways. You sit up but he doesn’t move. The Piriton tablets dissolved in his eba coupled with his drinking have kicked in. You stand up and grab a backpack, fill it up with essentials and count the money you withdrew earlier. You take one last look around and leave the bedroom door ajar. You book an Uber with a vague destination and wait in the living room, turning your old pictures upside down. 

Your mind goes back to the preacher girl. She had mentioned her name but you could not recall. It was only her smile that stuck with you and how polite she was despite your countenance. You wish you could smile just like her, with genuine warmth. You turn your ear to the dripping of your leaking kitchen tap. You forget all your anger and slip your hand past your trousers elastic waistband and touch your warmth. All you can see is the girl’s face. Nothing else. You do not understand what to make of this – this desire. The taxi arrives and you leave the house without looking back. Your time there was done. No need for any explanations.

You do not know where you are going but you know where you do not want to be anymore.