village; they used to mock him, call him
obroni
, albeit for other reasons, too). And if he’s watching CNN when she comes padding into the Living Wing in pink furry slippers, pink sponge rollers in her hair, he switches the channel instantly to the mind-numbing cacophony of the Nollywood movies that he hates and she loves.
And so forth: attends church (though he can’t stand the hoopla), buys scented Fa soap (though he can’t stand the smell), instructs Kofi to make the stew to her exact specifications (though he can’t stand the heat, weeps to eat it that hot). He wants her to be satisfied. He wants this because she can be. She is a woman who can be satisfied.
She is like no woman he’s known.
• • •
Or like no woman he’s loved.
He isn’t sure he ever knew them, or could, that a man
can
know a woman in the end. So, the women he’s loved. Who knew nothing of satisfaction. Who having gotten what they wanted always promptly wanted more. Not greedy. Never greedy. He’d never call his mother greedy, neither Fola nor his daughters (at least not Taiwo, at least not then). They were doers and thinkers and lovers and seekers and givers, but dreamers, most dangerously of all.
They were dreamer-women.
Very dangerous women.
Who looked at the world through their wide dreamer-eyes and saw it not as it was, “brutal, senseless,” etc., but worse, as it might be or might yet become.
So, insatiable women.
Un-pleasable women.
Who wanted above all things what could not be had. Not what
they
could not have—no such thing for such women—but what wasn’t there to be had in the first place. And worst: who looked at him and saw what he might yet become. More beautiful than he believes he could possibly be.
• • •
Ama doesn’t have that problem.
Or he doesn’t have that problem with Ama.
First of all, she isn’t as smart as the others. Which isn’t to say that she’s stupid. Far from. He knows that people talk, that people call the girl “simple,” and he knows it’s cliché, surgeon shacks up with nurse. But he also knows now that his wife is a genius, of a completely different sort than her predecessors were. She has her own form of genius, a sort of animal genius, the animal’s unwavering devotion to getting what it wants. To getting what it
needs
, without disrupting the environment. Without tearing down the jungle. Without causing itself harm. He wouldn’t have guessed this a talent at all, but for those smarter women’s gifts of self-flogging, self-doubt.
Ama doesn’t hurt herself. It doesn’t occur to her. To question herself. To exact from her psyche some small payment of sorrow for all worldly pleasure, though the world demands none. But she isn’t a
thinker
. Isn’t incessantly
thinking
—about what could be better, about what to do next, about what she’s done wrong, about who may have wronged her, about what
he
is thinking or feeling but not saying—so her thoughts don’t perpetually bump into his, causing all kinds of friction and firestorms, explosions, inadvertently, collisions here and there around the house. Her thoughts are not dangerous substances. The thoughts of the dreamers were landmines, free radicals. With them breakfast chat could devolve into war. Ama isn’t a fighter. She comes to breakfast without weapons and to bed in the evening undressed and unarmed. She has no vested interest in changing his mind. Her natural state is contented, not curious. And so second of all, she isn’t unhappy.
This was a complete revelation.
• • •
To live in a house with a woman who is happy, who is consistently happy, in her resting state—happy? And who is happy
with him
, not as an event or a reaction, not in response to one thing that he did and must keep doing if he wants her to remain happy, churning the crank, ever winding the music box,
dance, monkey, dance!
—but whom he makes
happy, has made happy, and who’s
obroni
, albeit for other reasons, too). And if he’s watching CNN when she comes padding into the Living Wing in pink furry slippers, pink sponge rollers in her hair, he switches the channel instantly to the mind-numbing cacophony of the Nollywood movies that he hates and she loves.
And so forth: attends church (though he can’t stand the hoopla), buys scented Fa soap (though he can’t stand the smell), instructs Kofi to make the stew to her exact specifications (though he can’t stand the heat, weeps to eat it that hot). He wants her to be satisfied. He wants this because she can be. She is a woman who can be satisfied.
She is like no woman he’s known.
• • •
Or like no woman he’s loved.
He isn’t sure he ever knew them, or could, that a man
can
know a woman in the end. So, the women he’s loved. Who knew nothing of satisfaction. Who having gotten what they wanted always promptly wanted more. Not greedy. Never greedy. He’d never call his mother greedy, neither Fola nor his daughters (at least not Taiwo, at least not then). They were doers and thinkers and lovers and seekers and givers, but dreamers, most dangerously of all.
They were dreamer-women.
Very dangerous women.
Who looked at the world through their wide dreamer-eyes and saw it not as it was, “brutal, senseless,” etc., but worse, as it might be or might yet become.
So, insatiable women.
Un-pleasable women.
Who wanted above all things what could not be had. Not what
they
could not have—no such thing for such women—but what wasn’t there to be had in the first place. And worst: who looked at him and saw what he might yet become. More beautiful than he believes he could possibly be.
• • •
Ama doesn’t have that problem.
Or he doesn’t have that problem with Ama.
First of all, she isn’t as smart as the others. Which isn’t to say that she’s stupid. Far from. He knows that people talk, that people call the girl “simple,” and he knows it’s cliché, surgeon shacks up with nurse. But he also knows now that his wife is a genius, of a completely different sort than her predecessors were. She has her own form of genius, a sort of animal genius, the animal’s unwavering devotion to getting what it wants. To getting what it
needs
, without disrupting the environment. Without tearing down the jungle. Without causing itself harm. He wouldn’t have guessed this a talent at all, but for those smarter women’s gifts of self-flogging, self-doubt.
Ama doesn’t hurt herself. It doesn’t occur to her. To question herself. To exact from her psyche some small payment of sorrow for all worldly pleasure, though the world demands none. But she isn’t a
thinker
. Isn’t incessantly
thinking
—about what could be better, about what to do next, about what she’s done wrong, about who may have wronged her, about what
he
is thinking or feeling but not saying—so her thoughts don’t perpetually bump into his, causing all kinds of friction and firestorms, explosions, inadvertently, collisions here and there around the house. Her thoughts are not dangerous substances. The thoughts of the dreamers were landmines, free radicals. With them breakfast chat could devolve into war. Ama isn’t a fighter. She comes to breakfast without weapons and to bed in the evening undressed and unarmed. She has no vested interest in changing his mind. Her natural state is contented, not curious. And so second of all, she isn’t unhappy.
This was a complete revelation.
• • •
To live in a house with a woman who is happy, who is consistently happy, in her resting state—happy? And who is happy
with him
, not as an event or a reaction, not in response to one thing that he did and must keep doing if he wants her to remain happy, churning the crank, ever winding the music box,
dance, monkey, dance!
—but whom he makes
happy, has made happy, and who’s
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