Fifteen Years

A story by Lakish’a

“Bitch. Bitch. Bitch,” I mutter under my breath as I brush my teeth.

I stand barefoot and naked in front of the sink, the porcelain tiles cool on my feet. I press the bristles of my pink toothbrush, the one my stunning and successful wife of fifteen years today—God only knows how we’ve even survived this long—gifted me this morning as a “pre-game gift,” as she put it. 

When she handed it to me this morning, straight out of the packaging with the price tag still dangling from the bottom (K11.99, by the way), she said: “If you use it well enough, I might just kiss you tonight.” Can you imagine that? How lucky a man I truly must be! No, no, how lucky of a man I truly am. How lucky am I that for all my fifteen years of marriage and a total of sixteen years of being together, one child, zero separations, and a German Shepard named Lolo, my brilliant wife woke up in the morning and decided that all I have to show for it is a plain pink toothbrush? All I have to show for the hot, wild passion we share between us is this inexpensive pink––toothbrush. 

I must be the luckiest bastard in all of Lusaka City.

I trap a handful of water in the palm of my left hand and rinse my mouth. I spit and stare at the mess of saliva, white toothpaste, and blood from scraping so hard at my gums. The pale pink glob slides down the drain slowly, and when I open the tap, the pipes groan, and the loud sound bounces off the eggshell-white bathroom walls. I forgot that I was supposed to call the plumber.

“You didn’t call the plumber?” She asks me.

I look up at the frameless mirror mounted strategically above the sink and see her reflection. Just beside her, the shower curtain is half hanging on the hook. She’s seated on the toilet, her discoloured panties dropped all the way down to her ankles. For a moment, I forgot that she was even in here with me this whole time.

“I did,” I lie, looking her in the eyes through the mirror reflection.

“So then why did that sound just happen?”

“I don’t know, Tikwiza.” 

I pull my pyjama shirt over my head and toss it into the laundry basket. I miss. It lands on the woven bath mat on top of Tikwiza’s shower slippers. 

“You never called the plumber, did you?”

“Number one or number two?”

“What?”

“Are you taking a number one or number two?”

She reaches for the tissue roll beside her feet and pulls apart three squares. She smiles at me sadistically and dangles the three squares in the air like a little four-year-old kid at the playground showing off tooth-fairy money. She pats herself dry. Three—her lucky number.

“Does that answer your question?” She asks me as she pulls her underwear back up.

I smile. “Yes, dear.” 

“Call the damn plumber,” she snaps, her voice lathered in irritation.

She leaves, and I look at myself in the mirror one more time, my full body weight pressing against the edge of the granite countertop. I graze my hand over my chin, admiring my fresh shave, as I narrow my eyes, which are ringed with dark circles, at my reflection. I avert my gaze quickly. Rays of light sneak in through the window and illuminate the thin surface of the sheer curtains, announcing the beginning of dusk. 

I masturbate in the shower, picturing the old Tikwiza from the year that we met. The real Tikwiza—my Tikwiza, the lusty way she looked at me whenever I wasn’t paying attention, how she’d always make sure to have on a new pair of panties every night and put on sundresses every other day because it appealed to me, those heavy-lidded new moon eyes taking me in and making me feel seen. When I finally finish, I stare at the drain through the spray, and my penis goes limp. I cry.

When you’ve lived with someone for as long as my wife and I have, you learn their ticks, their tells. Those little things that only you know they’re doing to avoid uncomfortable feelings. Tikwiza’s tick is silence, especially since the first miscarriage we had back in our first year of marriage. That first year was pure untouchable bliss: it was constant reassurance and hope for the years to come, it was bodies intertwining like magnets every night, it was pinky-promising that we’d never let the spark die, it was handwritten letters and notes hidden in between my socks, ‘just because.’ I miss that first year. I’d trade in a lot to go back. 

I dry myself and leave the bathroom to get dressed for tonight. I’m taking my wife out to dinner.   

*

Chinenu’s sitting cross-legged on the front porch, playing with a collection of rubber insects as we wait for the helper to come and watch him for the evening. I stretch my legs out as I sit on the step of the entryway, and I nearly knock over one of Tikwiza’s potted plants—aloe vera or peace lilies or something. It just now dawns on me how small this porch actually is. It’s too full of feathery seat cushions and pretentious hardwood ‘welcome’ and ‘family is forever’ door-hangers. 

Tikwiza disappeared into the kitchen moments ago and left us here by ourselves. I don’t mind. I quite like Chinenu. Even though everything about his personality is an entire product of his mother. He and I have an unspoken understanding as father and son. It goes like this: I love you, but that doesn’t mean we have to speak all the time. Whenever Tikwiza’s parents are around to visit, though, they make a career out of reminding me that since my job as a comic artist doesn’t pay for the groceries, the least I could do is play with my son more. What can I say? I’m the luckiest bastard in all of Lusaka City to have them.

I groan. 

“He likes it when you sing the spider song for him.” Tikwiza reappears, carrying the faint smell of beer along with her. I guess she’s decided to start drinking already. She presses a chilled glass of water into my hand, pats my head, and sits away from me, next to Chinenu. She hands him a juice box.

I glance behind me for a second and notice she’s splashed some water on the Home Sweet Home mat in front of the door. 

“I put lemon in the water,” she tells me. Just how I’ve always liked it.

“Thanks,” I say. And she pulls out her phone and starts to play the spider song. She and Chinenu sing along.

“You know, today I saw an article that marital satisfaction increases after the child leaves home,” she murmurs in her monotone drawl. She pokes the bendy straw into Chinenu’s juice box.

“What?”

She sings, down came the rain and washed the spider out.

My son giggles.

Whenever I’m piqued, I tend to tug at my eyelashes. “That’s your tell,” Tikwiza used to say. During some particularly difficult years when I was a child, and my parents were battling out in divorce courts, I had almost no eyelashes. I suppose in a marriage this long, you learn your own tells and ticks as well.

“Why would you say something like that?” I ask, irritated by her crass comment about failing marriages. My fingers subconsciously hover near my eyes. I shake my head, telling myself No, and put my hand on my lap.

For about eleven years now, we created our own little game. The rules are simple, too: whenever Tikwiza and I hit a dull, awkward conversation moment, one of us breaks in and saves the day with a story about needing more Mazoe in the house or something to do with our son’s welfare. I’ve always had more stamina than Tikwiza, though. I’ve always had a lot more of that burden to carry—to prove my worth. Not just in the family but in general. Tikwiza’s family has always had money. In between the countless government bonds, salaula distribution all over different markets in the City, and the poultry farm, Tikwiza’s family money has been the main and pretty much only source of income for us since we got married.

“You resent me,” she said to me in between cries when we tried couples therapy one time. “You resent that I don’t worry about money, and I never had to, and I never will. But that’s what you like forgetting: I didn’t force you to be a deadbeat comic artist in Lusaka.” 

“I’m not struggling,” I remember saying to her, “I just haven’t found a big enough market yet.” That day, I plucked out my eyelashes so bad that by nighttime, after buying the week’s groceries, I had a pile of eyelashes stuffed down the pockets of my trousers, just sitting there with no aim. Trapped.

“Can’t I just share a fun fact?” Tikwiza says, snapping me out of my flashback and bringing me back to the present moment. 

I take a slug of my water. The zing of lemon sticks to my tongue. “Maybe the marriages fail because the couples exchange toothbrushes as gifts,” I snap. I can’t help it.

I glance at her and immediately regret saying that. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Neither of us says another word. The wind blows over one of the porch lanterns, causing a crack to form on the side.

Chinenu sings: the itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the spout again.

*

The car is cold. All around, inside these tinted windows and the hard leather, is uncomfortable silence. I look up at the rearview mirror and make a mental note to take out Chinenu’s car seat and pass by the car wash after tomorrow morning’s errand run.

“That was very ungrateful,” Tikwiza murmurs under her breath.

I take my eyes off the road for a moment to look at her. “What was?”

“Your comment about the toothbrush. I didn’t like that, especially in front of Chinenu.” She repeats, “ungrateful.”

I scoff. I don’t retaliate.

“Don’t make a noise at me.”

“Well, why did you have to make that comment? You think I liked that? You think it didn’t make me feel pathetic?”

“That’s unfair. I didn’t mean to be rude, okay?” She folds her arms over her chest like a little kid. “I hate it when you do that.”

“Do what?”

“That,” she pushes her arms outwards. “You make me feel like I’m the bad guy all the time. Or like I’m doing things on purpose to make you feel like an idiot, which I’m not. It’s unfair that you do this thing all the time where you make things my fault. And you never even apologise for it.”

“I just said sorry to you a moment ago. Why would you say I’ve never said sorry when that was the last thing I said to you?”

“I’m talking about the big picture,” she snarls.

“There is no big picture.”

“You really don’t see the narrative that you’ve created in your mind? Where I’m the bad guy because I make you call the plumber, and I’m the bad guy because I buy a late anniversary gift. I’m the bad guy because I ask you to apologise, and I’m the bad guy because my body can’t make any more children, and I’m the bad guy because I’m too tired to sleep with you every damn night, and god forbid I drink a beer.”

I think: I’m sorry you feel this way. I wish she would say something like, We are so distant, and I don’t know how to fix it. And then I wish I could tell her that I feel terrible for some of the things that I’ve done. I wish I could tell her I feel alone and like a liability—a spare part kept around out of pity. I wish we could talk about what is happening to us without assigning blame, how we’re losing each other. Why are we losing each other? Are we losing each other? I want to tell her that I don’t want to lose her. I want her to tell me that she needs me. I remain quiet instead.

“All I ask is that you at least feel a little bad for me because I feel like all I do is feel bad for the things that I don’t do right,” She continues. “And just for the record, I’m not some stingy witch. I bought you an actual gift––that calligraphy collectors’ kit I saw you looking up on the house computer. I ordered them weeks ago, they just got delayed. I thought I’d buy the toothbrush anyway and surprise you with the real gift when it arrives.” 

“You deserve better than me,” I say. The car tyres screech as I make a sharp turn into the restaurant parking lot.

“I think we both deserve a lot better than each other.”

*

Muffled sounds of polite chatter and cutlery clanging against plates flood the room and the smell of hot oil coming from the kitchen is almost unbreathable, unbearable—claustrophobic even. The hostess emerges from behind the wooden podium and leads us into an intimate corner of the restaurant. She seats us at a plush yellow leather seat. 

I don’t like it here; it’s far too showy—the pretentious men wearing expensive-looking suits that cling to their liquor-filled bellies like second skin and their dates, young, innocently attractive women wearing programmed smiles. Tikwiza likes it, though. She has on her plain black dinner dress with a pair of velvety red high heels whose receipt I found in the bin two nights ago, along with an ATM receipt addressed to Michael Lubeya. I am not Michael Lubeya.

My arms are folded, and I stare intently at the glass of red wine already in my wife’s possession. She peeps from behind the menu, reminding me of her heart-stealing eyes. She says nothing, and I carry on an inner monologue; the words often don’t reach my lips. She looks nice enough tonight. Why did she buy me a toothbrush? Who is Michael Lubeya? 

We order moments later: a plate of coconut rice and prawn for Tikwiza (no parsley) and a classic steak and mashed potatoes for me—well done, of course. The fresh-faced waitress returns to our table once more and brings a bottle of Savanna. Assumingly, she places the bottle in front of me, next to my glass of lemon water. I point out my index finger and carefully slide the bottle towards my wife, and the waitress apologises for her mistake before walking away again.

“Another drink?” I ask. The words come out more accusatory than I planned.

“I’ll pay for it myself,” she taunts. A challenge.

“I just thought that you would want to stop over-drinking. I figured that’s what’s causing the weight gain,” I say. 

“Really? You wanna go there? I’m fat now? The mother of your child is fat?”

“I didn’t say you’re fat.”

“You implied it.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

She claps animatedly, and for a split second, I worry she might make a scene. Then she says, “Please don’t use that tone with me.”

“I didn’t even use a tone. I asked a question.”

“Oh wow,” she takes a sip, “So now I’m crazy.”

“You are not crazy.”

She lets out a loud fyola.

“I really don’t want to do this with you right now.”

“Deal with what? What are you talking about?”

She slams her hand on the table, rattling the silverware. “Maybe you should worry more about what's about to be on your plate and less about what's in my glass,” she retorts, her voice rising. “If you think I’m going to sit here and let you talk to me like that, you’re sorely mistaken.”

Before I can respond, the waitress returns with a tray of drinks for the next table, but she trips slightly, and a glass of red wine topples over, spilling onto our table. A splash of the deep red liquid flies into the corner of Tikwiza’s eye. She brings her hand to her eye and scratches at the area so hard that one of her fake eyelashes falls off.

The waitress is quick to apologise, “Iye, I’m so sorry.”

The absurdity of the moment catches us both off guard. The sound of Tikwiza’s laugh fills my eardrums. It’s all I hear and I like it because it makes me start to laugh as well.

“It’s fine, please. Don’t worry about it,” Tikwiza laughs. I miss laughing with her, and I love her so much, and I don’t think that I ever really loved her for real at all, and she’s still a bitch bitch bitch, and I’m married to her. It’s been fifteen years of this.

Filled with a sudden heavy gratefulness, I lean across the booth and kiss her cheek. Her smile turns to a ghost of a smile, to a low smirk, to a complete frown in a matter of seconds.

“Why did you do that?”

“Was it bad?” I ask her, slightly embarrassed.

Her entire body remains still. She asks again, “Why did you do that?”

“Just.” I feel my eyes fill with tears and look away for a second to blink them off, and Tikwiza says, “So, Chinenu should start learning how to swim. You know, I don’t want him to end up being like his father. Forty-two years old and still not able to float in the water. Do you know how old I was when I started swimming?”

It’s time to play the game again. 

“If you’re not happy, why do you stay?” I ask. 

“My father, that man was a clown. He just picked me up one day and threw me into the deep end of the pool. I thought I was going to die until…”

“Tikwiza?” I shout, cutting off her sentence.

“You want to know why I stayed with you?” 

I nod my head. “Why?”

A pause.

“It’s because you were always so different from the men around me growing up—men like my father. From the day I met you, you always treated me like a person, like someone worth getting to know outside of the money and the status and all that other meaningless stuff. You see people for who they are, not what they have. It’s just who you are, you know?” she begins, “You’re so genuine it tiptoes on the verge of naiveté, and I love that. I love you for that.” 

“You do?” 

She nods and chuckles bitterly. “Before I met you, I set the bar so fucking low for myself. I told myself, ‘only two things’ that was all I needed. I told myself that as long as he doesn’t cheat and he’s a good father, that’s all I need to stay. And then I met you—this guy with zero to no money and a dream no one believes in, and you looked at me,” she pauses. “The way you used to look at me, like––like you see entire universes move inside of me. The same way you look at Chinenu now sometimes.” 

I gulp, a bead of sweat forming on my upper lip.

She breathes out. “That’s why I’ve stayed. Because you’re the only man who’s ever truly made me feel seen. I’m not sure I could handle losing that.” 

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.” She shrugs, picks up her Savanna and takes a long sip.

I stuff both my hands deep into my front pockets and stand up. “I need to use the bathroom. I’ll be right back.” 

The bathroom, when I enter it, is moist with the smell of aloe air freshener. I guide myself into one of the toilet stalls, sit down on the toilet, wipe the sweat from my lip with the back of my hand and switch on my cellphone to read a text: 

J: I just took a test. I am pregnant. And before you ask, yeah, I’ve done the math. It’s yours.

I pluck out an eyelash. I exit the bathroom, greeting a gentleman who holds the bathroom door for me as I leave. When I sit back down across from Tikwiza, her eyes are wet. 

“I am the villain in our story, I know that. And yet you stayed. Thank you,” she says.

“I still love you, Tikwiza,” I tell her, “Who else on the planet would get me a pink toothbrush?”

“No one.”

“No one.”

The food arrives.