Tales of Uneven Love #3: The Perishableness of the Prostate

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'That's a pretty ring.'

'Thank you.'

'You're wearing it on your engagement finger.'

'I am engaged.'

'How old are you?'

'Please mind your own business.'

Emeka rests his head against the window and sighs. The bus chugs along. In his peripheral vision, he sees the intrusive neighbour pick up a book and flip through it. He thinks of Abigail. Ever since he'd started to send his things home in batches, Abigail had become sulky. This morning, when he'd asked if she wouldn't say goodbye, she'd said, 'Goodbye when you're leaving selfishly? It looks like I'm finally going to graduate and you're leaving? You couldn't wait until my last paper? Who'll cook? Who'll keep this place running?'

'My father already booked the bus, Abigail. There's nothing I can do.'

'Well, wahala for you and wahala for your father. See, I get it, you're done, you want to flaunt that in my face. 'Hey look Abigail, I gained admission in your third year and I'm leaving you behind.''

'That isn't even me. If you want to hurt me use facts.'

'Just get out.'

'I can't. Because I'll leave and you won't answer my calls, or reply my texts, and I'll have to fly back like I did in third year second semester. And like third year second semester, I'll probably meet an orgy that I'll have to clean up after.'

'Stop calling it an orgy, damn you.'

'I won't fly back this time.'

'No one's asking you to. Get out.'

'Are we still engaged?'

Abigail had picked up her guitar and begun to play. And Emeka had stood there, hanging, unsure of what to do. He'd wheeled his bag to the bed and sat down. Abigail only played louder. Emeka'd picked up his bag and walked out the door. The music had stopped. And Emeka had paused on the staircase and waited. For 20 seconds. For 30 seconds. For a minute. And then he'd descended the stairs, blinking back tears.

'19.'

'What?'

'I'm 19.'

The other passenger pushes the glasses up his nose, put his book away and smiles. 'Why are you in a hurry, then? The perishableness of the prostate?'

Emeka would laugh, truly, if circumstances were different. A month ago, the governor, in an interview about marriage and family life, had said that despite the rise of 'unrealistic' movements that were tricking men into choosing to defer or generally avoid marriage, they had to take into consideration the perishableness of the prostate. It had become a meme, and men's rights activists had written about it and printed it on T-shirts and mugs and banners.

'I love her.'

'Have you spoken to her on this trip? Surely she wants to know how you're doing.'

Emeka looks at the man, really looks, and finds that he is attractive. His eyes are brown and he has a full beard and he looks fascinated with the world—not starry-eyed, but amused, like 'Look at all this shit I get to watch for free.'

'We had an argument before I left so no.'

'What has that got to do with anything? The argument? Couples fight all the time. Doesn't stop you from wanting to know if your fiancé has enough leg room, or if there's a flat tire and bandits have attacked or something.'

Emeka's eyes widen. 'Why would you say that?'

The man chuckles and shrugs. 'I'm just saying. So, what's the hurry? With marriage, I mean.'

'I don't even know if there will be a marriage.'

'Ah. I knew it. You have 'fiancé-to-an-asshole' written all over you.'

Emeka scoffs. The man continues, 'I know this because I've dated many assholes. Married some too. Yes, four. Sweetheart, an asshole now is an asshole forever. They don't change, you just bend yourself into tight shapes better. When people say, oh, your marriage is getting better, it's not because she's quit forging your signatures or doing cocaine or defiling underage boys in your bed or filming amateur pornography with a camera she dipped into your children's school fund to buy, it's because you've bent so much your head's practically in your ass.'

Emeka stares at him.

'Yup. Tap me when we get to Ore, please.' And then he puts air pods in his ears, reclines in the chair, and closes his eyes.

Several minutes pass.

Emeka takes the ring off and opens the window.

---

This is the final story in the Tales of Uneven Love series.
Read the previous story: Tales of Uneven Love #2: How We Got Here

Juliet is a Nigerian writer and storyteller drawn to the unseen narratives of everyday life. Her series explore the profound moments hidden in ordinary relationships.