They blinked and their marriage was 17 years old. It was old, perhaps from the start. The first night, he wondered if they would continue so. He couldn’t quite point out what made it old, but sometimes she would do something insignificant, or say something in jest, or he would, and it would strike him that that was it. Whatever she had said, whatever he had done, that was the reason their marriage was old. And then something else would happen that made him unsure.

First night, she flinched when he slammed the car door. He was impatient, she was petrified. Of what, he did not know.
“Sorry,” he said, “I cannot wait.”
“I know,” she said, “neither can I.” He looked at her and wondered if she mocked him. Neither voice nor demeanor matched her words.

The receptionist was expecting them. She took them up the dimly lit, unnecessarily wide staircase to their room on the fifth floor. He carried the bags, his newly wedded wife gathered her gown around herself and lifted the train. The stairwell smelled of mold, and he was annoyed. The room wouldn’t be much, he thought, regretting not stepping up more in the planning of their wedding. “Who booked this hotel?” he whispered, “we could have gone to my place.” She shot him a look, undecipherable. “Our place,” he corrected.
Even with the thick wedding gown, gathered around her body like a cloak, she shivered. “Mother,” she said, “wanted it to be special.”
“Hmmm” he said, “and you consented to this?”
She shrugged, “This is where they had her honeymoon. Mother and Dada.”
“Bad omen,” he joked, “he beat her, and he did not stay.”
“Will you?”

“Here is your room,” the receptionist interrupted. She fumbled with the keyset for a while. He set the bags down and his wife set her train down and waited. He wondered why she did not get a detachable train. He wondered many things about that day. How much cake they had left, who would clean all that confetti?

Thelma, the receptionist, left. She pronounced it with a show of her tongue between her teeth, so it did not come out with a hard t like most did around here. Ffff-elma? He almost asked but he knew his fiance – wife – would shoot him a disappointed look. But these things annoyed him. These uppity people putting too much effort into sounding eloquent, American that is, that their every word came out as a ridicule of the English language, a ridicule of phonetics; a ‘th’ in place of a t, an r where it did not belong.

After an unsuccessful attempt at opening the door, a quick trip again back to the reception to retrieve the right keys, she let them into the room. Much better than he had imagined, but still not what he would consider special.
“Hyerre is yourr room. Suhry about vhat. I hope you leurve it.”
“Thank you,” his wife said, sitting on the bed.
“Alright. Let me know if you nid anyfing,” Thelma said.
“Thank you,” he said. “Remind me the name again?”
“Fffelma”
“Ah Felma, thank you,” he said.

“You know full well she had a name tag on,” the disappointed look awaited him as he turned from locking the door.
He laughed and plopped on the bed beside her, “I just had to,” he said. “Ffffelma!” She laughed. It wasn’t at the joke. It was the kind of laugh you produce when you want to convince yourself of something.

He started to unzip her gown, but stopped midway and held her for a while. They just sat on the bed, him holding her, her letting her head fall back on what she probably thought were his shoulders, but actually his neck. He let her for a while until he was almost choking, then he shifted slightly and let her head fall to his shoulders. “Patience, what is wrong?” he whispered. She sighed. She was nervous, had been all night.

At first, when Azumah confessed to cheating on Jeff, she was not judgemental. Azumah was remorseful, guilty, and they both kept it secret, even till now. It just happened, Azumah said. One thing led to another. “Now,” Patience said, “I’m a bit less sympathetic. How does one thing lead to another? Do the cars drive themselves? Do the hotel rooms book themselves? Do the doors unlock themselves? Do the clothes take off themselves? Do the bodies control themselves? How does it just happen?”
He did not know what to say, so he stroked her hair until the words came to him. Unzipping her dress further he said, “Maybe it just happens for one, while the other plans it. Azumah’s ex was on to her for a long time.”
“Maybe,” Patience said.
“Just like I am on to you,” he whispered into her ear. She said nothing. “And for us,” he added, “it might not just happen. MIL might have booked the ugliest room in Takoradi, and this zipper may be jammed, but we can make one thing lead to another.” He kissed her ear.

“MIL?” She asked, drawing back and turning to face him. She reached behind her to attempt unzipping the dress.
“I’m still figuring out what to call her.”
“Mother is just fine.”
“Mother it is,” he said, pulling her close. “Now where was I?”
She pulled back, “Sorry, I have to figure out this zipper. I will be right back.” She headed for the bathroom.
“We might have to rip it,” he called after her.

When she got back, he told her they did not have to do it that day, that he had waited for twenty-seven years and could wait until she was comfortable. She said no, that she wanted to do it, that she wanted to make their night special. But she did not, she shuddered to his touch, was stiff as a pole. He knew now she was echoing what she heard, what she was supposed to say. She grabbed her phone from the nightstand and went to the bathroom again, promising to be out shortly. He heard whispering.

That was old.

The duty she bore to do the pleasing, but he did not get to tell her that. Nor that he himself had been nervous he would not please her, that he would not know what to do, that her nervousness eased his, that their postponement of the specialness of the night was not just for her but for him also. He would be less tired the next day, more focused. He never got to tell her. He had barely sighed and settled into bed to wait for her when the screeching bell of a nearby church awoke him.

It was morning.

Then it was twelve years, then seventeen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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