It is six o’clock on the morning after our wedding. Dele is asleep beside me breathing softly, mouth slightly ajar. I’ve always been amazed at how beautiful he looks when he sleeps. He’s exhausted, as he should be; after yesterday’s hustle and bustle we had defied the popular lore of being too tired to do anything but sleep on the wedding night and made love, I had insisted on it. Twice at first, then one more time for good measure, even though I could tell that Dele was losing his enthusiasm by the third go. I had pulled out all the tricks in my arsenal to get that last one going, I needed it.
I look at him as he sleeps, tracing my finger down his beard. The beard I’d made him grow thinking it would somehow make him a new person, make me forget that I had walked in on him cheating on me with his ex barely a week after I had told him I was pregnant. I had walked out without a word and when he finally mustered the courage to come to my apartment to apologize I greeted him with a smile and a warm meal, telling him I knew she didn’t mean anything to him anymore and that it was a mistake I had already forgiven. He proposed the next day, but neither the ring not the beard had helped me forget.
But I love Dele and I know he loves me too so I married him still. I have forgiven him for his indiscretion but now we have a baby to think about so it falls on me to ensure we remain one family forever, with no room for exes and other loose women. I lean over and kiss him on the cheek, he reaches for me and mumbles an I love you. I tell him I love him too, so much, and then leave for the kitchen. I return 20 minutes later, like I will do every day from today onwards, with his healthy breakfast of oats and orange juice each with my own added labor of love, a generous sprinkling of Propecia*.
*Propecia is a hair-loss drug whose side effect is permanent impotence.