Itunu struggled to get the Jean past her laps.This was the third time of her trying to get it past her thighs and it wasn’t bulging. She would love to see Barrister Jindu, the divorce lawyer, wearing a Jean, looking less formal but having an air of firmness. A Jean would be perfect, she had to be confident in her appearance; she thought that it would probably bring this aura of finitude to what she was about to do. She had to appear sharp and resolute. A casual wearwould echo that.
She stared at the figure on the mirror. She looked older, worn and her hair without her wig looked disheveled. She was going to settle for a scarf today. She was just 29, but she looked every inch 39. Just over a year ago, the Jean would still have sat perfectly on her hips, projecting her rapturous physique and her menancing curves but not now, marraige was making her old. Marraige to Micheal was making her age exponentially. She was not overweight yet, but body fat had gathered in places where she could have fought. Areas she could have fought if she wasn’t too drawn to sympathy foods. She could have fought the fat, if Micheal had not started raining blows and slaps on her.

Itunu had few friends, fewer she could trust with her predicament. She was a writer, she had once been a gossip columnist on MetroVibes and most of her friends were journalists. Trusting them not to do their job over her friendship was to ask for a lot from them. She would not make them choose. She wasn’t going to owe women favours. She knew she was good at concealing, she just had to make her game stronger. Her freinds, the one which were succintly as observant as she on other people’s lives, may have started noticing one or two things off with her, but she knew the only thing that could give her away was the sadness in her eyes, not the blisters, not the rings. She could take care of that, she was a darn good make-up artist. ‎

This, her predicament,hitting the tabloids would hurt Micheal’s appeal out there. It would make the government finally be able discredit him easily. He was not a monster. No, he was a monster. He was a monster on the verge of securing the social contract bill for millions of workers in the country.
She had thought severally about putting her own angst above that of several families that needed Micheal’s reputation and his voice, now, more than ever. Families that would benefit from better access to healthcare and emergency aid services from Micheal’s pursuing of this bill. Organised labour, The trade union, of which he was the current and youngest General-secretary ever in the country’s history, had made progress in pressuring the government over the passage of this bill. They were being largely succesful beacuse of Micheal’s reputation as a stern, ego-less dogged and loving comrade, one that has had very few controversies. They loved him out there. She did too. She was going to hate scuppering it all because of her own happiness.

What if she endured his rage tendencies till he succeds in the bill?

What if he kills her before then?

Reading online lately, realization had set in that abusive partners end up killing the other partner if they both tend to conceal the problems, and not seek help.

Micheal wasn’t all monster, he usually did apologize. He was still very loving, but he still did hit her. Many times after his fits, he’d curse, apologize, curse again; this time the government, the snitches in the trade union. He would switch off his phones on some Sundays and would cook her lunch. They’d have lovely dinners and astonishing sex, but not so long after, he’d beat her again. He had forced himself on her one time. But that was once ago, not lately. The cycle though had tire her. He went from angel to beast, constantly. Too constantly.

Itunu removed the Jean and threw it agonizingly on the bed. She was stalling. She wasn’t supposed to be stalling, she had finally made up her mind. Taking another glance at the mirror, Itunu saw the black patches on her face. It seemed she needed that to fuel her resolution. She had to divorce Micheal. She threw on her baggy tunic. She definitely wasn’t doing skirts today. Her phone rang. It was Micheal. She felt hot streaks of tears flowing down her cheeks. She watched it ring two more times and picked up her keys. The time was 11am. She was 30 minutes late for the appointment already.

“Oga dey for TV, madam” Agatha, the housemaid shouted excitedly from the living room.

Itunu turned on the Television in her room. There he was sounding like the Man she loved. Fighting passionately for the people.The Man on the screen was the man she fell in love with. The union was gaining ground on the tussle. Government was spitting fire. Itunu feared for Micheal, feared what tagging him a “wife beater” could do to his career, his work in helping so many families. She sat down again on the bed.

What she could just wait for him to win this?

Would she be selfish if she didn’t? ‎
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