Escapades of Toun: Part VII

Escapades of Toun:
Part VII – Love in a time of donuts

Ibiene Bidiaque

Marques’ jaw clenched and for the first time Toun saw the man really angry; not just irritated or annoyed, but infuriated.

               “Moses did what?” He asked.

               They were in the forbidden kitchen; it was Tuesday morning. Marques’ hands were on his hips, legs apart, as though sizing up an opponent.

Toun was sitting at the table.

               “My mum said he told her I was dating a big man in my office.” She ignored the bile that was rising in her throat. “And she basically told me to break up with you.”

               Marques nodded. “Is that so?”

               The room fell silent, bar the humming of the fridge and the low whizzing of the microwave as a plate rotated inside it.

               “How’s Marielle?” Toun asked.

               “That doesn’t matter right now, Toun.”

               The tone of his voice surprised her.

               “I’m sorry.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m just… I’m in shock he would do a thing like that.”

               “He obviously did it intentionally.” Toun folded her arms across her chest. “He obviously knew my parents would freak out when they found out and that’s why he told her.”

               “He’s got to go. Right this moment.”

               “You’re going to—”

               “Fire his damn ass, absolutely. I’m going up to HR right now. He’s meddling in my personal affairs and he has no right to. That contravenes the rules of his employment.”

               Toun’s mind whirled. “Don’t you think Ogbete is going to know something is up when you ask HR to fire him?”

               “She can think whatever she wants to. This isn’t about her.”

               Toun stood up and walked to him. She put a hand on his shoulder, rubbed, tried to soothe him. “We’ve got to think this through properly. We only just disclosed our relationship. The last thing we want is bringing up another issue. This time, the entire office will hear about it and… I really don’t think I want that.”

               Marques looked down at her, his eyes dancing all over her face. “You’re right. I’m just… really upset right now.”

               “I know—”

               The door swung open and Aunty Rachel pushed her cart in. Toun and Marques stepped away from each other, repelling like negative magnets. Aunty Rachel acted as though she didn’t see them. She wheeled the cart to the counter and turned the tap on.

               “I’ll… see you.” Marques said, leaving the kitchen.

               When he was gone, Aunty Rachel stole a glance at Toun.

               “Say what you want to say,” Toun said.

               “I… I think dey tell una say make you no dey meet for here again?”

               Toun’s ears whizzed at those words.

               “Wetin you talk?” She asked.

               Aunty Rachel looked at her, said nothing and then returned to washing mugs.

               Toun crept close. “You told them, didn’t you? It was you.”

               Aunty Rachel sighed, moved her hands mechanically in the soapy water.

               “You reported us. Why, Aunty Rachel?”

               “Na to romance you come do for here?” Toun stepped back, surprised by the ferocity in her voice. “Na wetin dey send you go school for? All the school wey you read, na to dey chase man up and down? You no dey shame? Dat man fit be your papa, abi you no know?”

               Toun watched the genial face of the woman she had called a friend all these months, the ant in her patch of vegetables. She felt broken. Without another word, she left the kitchen.

---

It was Tuesday evening and Toun was watching television in the living room with Marques and Marielle. She did not want to go home, but she did not want to stay here either; Marques and Marielle were talking about the white chocolate donuts a bakery in Brighton Beach sold and she couldn’t make sense of anything they were saying, had no point of reference, no will power to participate.

               She was thinking about Folarin; if the broken pieces of their relationship did not look better than the mess she had now gotten herself into. There had been no organization opposing the relationship, no side talks from colleagues, no forces from within trying to sabotage them, no antagonism from her parents.

               Her mother had met Folarin a few times; she had made a comment about his dreads at first but later said he had a nice singing voice, was well-mannered and seemed like he came from a good family. Wasn’t all that better than this? Toun thought about what Yerima had said; what if they did have a permanent opening she could apply for in the future but that relationship disclosure letter in her file would mar her chances? What if Yerima was right? Was it really worth it? Marques with his decades of experience and a-grand-an-hour CV could easily move on and find another job while she would still be stuck in a contract position trying to progress all because she had made one mistake.

               And what if, this entire time, it had just been about fun and sex for Marques? Just a fling with no roots and she was here investing and risking her future and peace at home for a man who saw nothing beyond her but time-passing fun? She wondered what Marielle thought about her and if Marielle had told her mother and brother at home about Marques’ new girlfriend in Nigeria. And how many girlfriends had Marques had since the divorce? One or two in New Mexico, a few in Riyadh, a few more in Petersburg?

               Her head began to spin and the more she sat there and passively listened to their conversation about Brighton Beach and calorie-stuffed donuts, the more she realized that she might have made the biggest mistake of her life.

               “Have you?” Marielle was asking.

               Toun sat up. “Sorry?”

               “Have you been to New York?”

               She shook her head. “No, never. I’ve never been to America.”

               “Really?” Marielle smiled. “You should come. You would like it.”  

               Toun smiled back. She glanced at Marques and he had a worried look in his eyes. He mouthed, You okay? She nodded, but now saw nothing more than just another man and a looming heartbreak. She felt sick.

               “I… should go.” Toun stood up.

               “Why?” The response came both from Marques and his daughter.

               “I’ve… got work tomorrow.”

               “So have I.” Marques’ voice was edgy.

               Toun grabbed her bag. “I’ll… see you guys later.”

               Marques walked her to the door. “Let Moses drop you off,” he said.

               Toun eyed him. “Really?”

               “Fine. Let me get you an Uber.”

               She shook her head. “I’ll be fine.”             

               “Let me get my shoes." He opened the door. "I’ll walk—”

               “I want to be alone. Right now.”

               Marques’ eyes widened. “Oh.”

               “I’ll call you.”

Before she left, she caught a glimpse of Marielle on the sofa; she had her father’s worried eyes.

---

To her relief, no one was home; her parents were at church for mid-week service and Nike was out with her boyfriend.

               Toun took a long bath. When the water she had fetched into the bucket was empty, she stood in the tub, her body dripping with cold water, thinking about how she was going to rectify this mistake.

When she came out of the bathroom, there were four missed calls from Marques on her phone. She plugged the phone to charge and went into the living room. Hopping from channel to channel, she found nothing to watch. She returned to the bedroom and saw that there were three more calls from Marques.

Toun grabbed the phone and looked for Folarin’s number; she didn’t find it because she had deleted it.

But she remembered it; it was etched into her memory.

He picked up after the first ring.

“Babe!” He sang into the phone.

He hadn’t deleted her number; or perhaps he had hers etched into his memory too. His voice felt so good to hear.

“Folarin. How are?”

“I dey o.” A pause. “This one wey you call me. Am I safe?”

She forced out a laugh. “I just wanted to… say hi.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Really. How’s Shayo?”

“Which Shayo?”

“Don’t be a fool.”

“Oh. That Shayo. She’s fine. I guess.”

“You guess?”

“We broke up jo.”

“Really?”

“You know there’s no one like you.”

“You’re a fool.”

They laughed. They talked about his music; performing at the Ake Festival in Abeokuta last year, trying to find a manager that understood him and his art, his parents in Akure and his self-contained flat in Ojodu. When he asked what she’d been up to the past two years, she talked about her job with Phillips & Chain, her mean boss and about Nike. She didn’t mention her new foreign boyfriend, or the way he looked at her, or that she was terrified because she was in love with him but felt she would soon have to leave him, that she would soon have to choose her career and herself over him.

It was good hearing Folarin's voice again, and when she got off the phone an hour later, there was a long text message from Marques, which she also ignored.