Sandra is worried about me.

She keeps trying to talk to me. I keep evading her. Sometimes, I reply her with an incoherent mumble. She must think I’m either shy or speak very bad English. No woman would suspect her sister-in-law is actually her husband’s wife.

The worst part of the American house is that the walls are thin. You can hear a lot of what is going on, on the other side of the wall. I have been here four days now. Twice, my husband and his wife have had sex. Twice, I’ve tried to pull out my hair.

From their conversations and from looking around the house, I have also found out that Sandra has two grown daughters. One is at a university in Florida and the other lives with her boyfriend in Atlanta. The elder girl is older than me. Last night, I heard Sandra tell Tunde the girls can’t wait to meet me when they come home for Thanksgiving.

I know that would not happen. I will give myself a Thanksgiving gift before the day comes. I will kill myself.

Tunde works really long hours. He’s gone from seven in the morning till eleven at night. I think he’s also trying to give me some space. He comes to my room every night, keeps the door open and stays for a few minutes.

He’s a great actor, Tunde. He speaks to me in pidgin and Yoruba as if we’re having a conversation. Sometimes, he even laughs out loud even though I haven’t said anything to him. I think it’s his way of showing Sandra everything is okay.

I am beginning to think Tunde is the devil’s first child.

Sandra is a social worker and works more humane hours. She’s gone from eight in the morning till six in the evening.

“So, how are you liking America so far?” she asked me when she came home yesterday evening.

“Fine,” I said and slinked back into the guest bedroom.

Two hours later, she knocked on the door.

“Dinner’s ready,” she said.

“Thanks, I already ate,” I lied.

I think Sandra thinks I spend most of my time sleeping because that night, right around midnight, I heard her talking to Tunde after they’ve had another round of noisy sex.

“I think your sister doesn’t like me,” Sandra started.

“Are you kidding? She adores you. She’s just scared you’ll catch her cold,” Tunde replied.

“She’s been avoiding me,” Sandra said.

“She’s shy. Give her some time,” Tunde replied with a chuckle. “Do you know how many white people are in Nigeria? Close to zero.”

“I think something’s wrong,” she insisted.

“I’ll talk to her,” Tunde promised.

“Do it when I’m not here. I don’t want her thinking I don’t like her,” Sandra pleaded.

They were silent for a few minutes. I was wondering what they were doing. Did they know I was awake and were whispering now? I didn’t have to wait for long.

“Do you think she’s pregnant?” Sandra suddenly asked.

“What?” Tunde shouted.

That scared me. I hope I’m not pregnant because if I am, I will find the tallest building in Baltimore and jump from the roof. I mean what will my child call his or her father? Uncle? God forbid bad thing!

“I’ve seen this a lot of times with the kids downtown. The sickness, throwing up, withdrawal and shame,” Sandra continued.

“If she’s pregnant, my father would have killed her before she left Lagos,” Tunde replied.

“But, you have no father,” Sandra corrected.

“We call my uncle that raised us “father”,” Tunde replied quickly.

I have to keep up with Tunde’s lies. I know he has a father. I know because I go to his house in Lagos once a month just to say hello to him and Tunde’s mother. And, of course, give them a little money and buy them some groceries. It’s what every good Nigerian daughter-in-law does.

Today, Tunde came home unexpectedly in the afternoon. His eyes were red like one of those marijuana-smoking boys in Fela’s old shrine in Lagos. He was shaking with anger as he barged into my bedroom.

“Okay, this nonsense has to stop right now!” he screamed as he entered.

“You are the nonsense!” I shouted as I jumped up.

“You will not talk back to me!” he yelled.

“I will say whatever I want!” I yelled back.

SMACK! Tunde struck me with a slap so vicious I fell down. My vision was blurry for a few moments. I got up, fought through the daze, grabbed him and tried to fight back.

I was a toy in his hands. He’s over six feet tall, almost two hundred and fifty pounds of mostly muscles. I’m half a foot shorter and a hundred pounds lighter. But, I didn’t give up. I kept fighting and clawing. My stubborness turned him into an animal.

He held my wrists together with one wrist, unhooked his belt and whipped me. I screamed, kicked and cried. But, this is America. Everybody works. I doubt if there was anyone home on the entire block.

After a while, he held me tightly and started mumbling some gibberish. I was stunned for a few moments because it felt like he was speaking in tongues. I relaxed a little. Big mistake. He took that as a sign that I was now more compliant, that he had beaten the stubbornness out of me.

He tried to kiss me. I bit his lips. If he had jumped back, I would have bitten a large chunk of it off. That enraged him. He tore off my skirt and yanked away my underwear. I tried to fight him off. But, it was useless. He bent me over and rammed himself into me.

I had never been raped. Now, I knew what it feels like.

I wish I had AIDS.

Ajike:

Fiction or fact, very interesting

Seconded

GL:


try francine rivers, jerry jenkins, karen kingsbury, terri blackstock, randy singer, beverly lewis, tracie petersen, lori copeland, wanda brunstetter.

Those are my two favorite authors. Really amazing!