We did it yesterday. Twice before the cock crowed. Early in the morning, he wanted it again but our second child woke up to get his plans thwarted. Two days ago we did it. Thrice before the break of dawn. The third one was very painful to me. I didn’t want to. I fought it with all my might but he succeeded in getting what he wanted in the end. Three days ago it happened. It was so fierce our five-year-old child woke up and started calling my name. The bed was shaking. He didn’t know why the bed was shaking. He was scared. He was trying to ask questions but my husband wasn’t in the mood to stop for me to attend to him. My baby kept tapping me. My husband continued cutting his pound of flesh anyway. Four days ago it happened. Five days ago too, it happened. The same as six days ago. If I stand in front of the calendar and begin to mark the days shuperu happened in my house, the calendar would bleed with ink. Every day would be circled because every night is shuperu night. 

And that’s what is killing me in my marriage. 

We have three kids already. The first is seven years old. The second is five while the last born is two years old. The last and the second one sleep with us in the same room. We’ve tried on several occasions to push them to sleep with the elder sister, the seven-year-old but they go and they come back. They’ll sleep there today and tomorrow decide that “No, we want to sleep in the same bed with mom and dad because why not?” There’s no problem with that. They are our kids. We love them. We love their presence and we love to have more of their presence but currently, the reason we have to push them off, by all means, is because of my husband’s new energy and desire for shuperu every day.

At first, we could go for days and nothing would happen. I didn’t complain. I didn’t nag him. Is part of the marriage game. You can’t have it every day. Some days you get it, some days you don’t. Some days it’s plain lousy. Some days it’s just what it is—lame and nothing really. You’ll wish it never happened because you got less than what was supposed to be given. I never even called my husband one day and say, “Dear, I don’t like the way we do it. It’s too far and wide the interval we do it. And when we do it, I don’t get what I deserve to get.” I never said that. I’ve been married long enough to know there are seasons for everything. Seasons where it rises with the sun and stays much longer and seasons where nothing could get it up. It’s part of marriage. I get it. I understand the rules.

One night in a conversation, he brought up the stories of our beginning. When we were young and didn’t care about anything but shuperu. How we could do it at any time and anywhere. “Those were the days when we had our groove on but these kids came and changed everything,” He said. I responded, “It’s part and parcel of the journey. I’m not complaining. We were young so we did what young couples do. Now that we are old, we have to adapt to things and allow things of great importance to occupy our mind than just shuperu.” He screamed, ”No we are not old. We are still young and can do everything.” 

It’s true. We are not that old. He is forty and I’m thirty-five but when you go through three CS to have your babies, something happens to you. Something change in you. Being a mother in itself brings a lot of changes. Not to talk about the ways through which you were baptized into motherhood. That night’s conversation came to an end in a funny way. I asked him, “So what do you intend to do?” He answered, “I want to bring the old back to the present. I want us to go back to being young again. Get ready, it’s going to be very stormy.”

The whole thing was a joke to me until the storm started hitting me from every direction. One night he climbed on top and he never got down until I started bruising. I was begging him to stop but he didn’t listen. He kept going and going. There was nothing lovely about it. It was just raw and dry. There was alcohol on his breath. There was no romance. Nothing. Just a man going up and down because he feels that makes him a man. When he got down I told him, “No, this isn’t how we did it when we were young. We were mad but there was a method to our madness. What just happened has nothing to do with the way we used to be.” He told me, “Tomorrow would be better than this, I can assure you.”

Tomorrow came and he got back on it. It wasn’t better. It was worse than the first. Again, the alcohol in his breath got in the way. He tried to kiss me but I avoided it. He added no flavor, just raw movement. He didn’t stop. All night he was on it. I had to push him away before the game came to an end. He fell off and slept like a baby while I was there nursing a wound that came out of my suffering. I couldn’t keep up so I told him, “No, I can’t stand it. Must you drink akpeteshie before you can do a simple thing like this? You know it already but let me repeat it to you. The longevity counts for nothing. It could be short and still memorable. You’re only hurting me and also hurting yourself. Stop it.”

The next day, he came home with a mouthwash. In the evening, he brushed his teeth and gurgled the mouthwash just to musk the scent of that concoction he takes in the night. It didn’t go away. The scent was as pungent as if he didn’t use anything. It turned into a fight. This time I was stronger. I wasn’t going to allow him to have his way. He wasn’t going to win because I was determined not to lose. He got tired and stopped along the way. When we woke up the next morning he was angry with me. Because of that, he didn’t leave money. He didn’t give the kids money for school. He got up, dressed up, and went to work. I’m like that, when he gets angry, I don’t interfere with his anger. I would give him space and time to exhaust his anger. Anytime he comes around, he comes to see me waiting for him. 

That anger lasted for three days. One afternoon, I was at work when he sent me a message; “If you’ll continue fighting me then start kissing your chop money goodbye. Tonight, it will happen. Prepare for it or prepare to go for days without chop money.” I responded, “Then don’t drink that your concoction and come and ‘blow me fuse.’ It’s disgusting the way it smells. I feel like throwing up. How can I endure something I should enjoy with you? Just stop that thing and I will take over everything and make things work.”

Before going to bed, he picked up his glass and took two shots of whatever was in that bottle. I was looking at him. He said, “Without this, I will lose the match. Don’t worry. I will brush my teeth and use the mouthwash. We’ll be fine.” I didn’t say a word. That night, I went to sleep in the kids’ room wearing a jeans nicker. He came knocking and screaming; “Ain’t you coming to sleep?” He turned the knob and the door was locked. He said, “Oh I get it. So it’s intentional. From now onwards, that’s where you’re going to sleep. Don’t ever come here again.” 

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He sounded intoxicated. His voice was not the voice I knew. I slept in the kids’ room until the break of a new day. Again, he was angry. He didn’t talk to me for days until I went to him for a conversation; “Darling, lasting longer shouldn’t be the goal. It has never been the goal so why now? How can you enjoy what hurts me? I’m your wife, not a girl you picked from the corner of the street. You don’t need to impress me. We can make things work. I’m a bad girl and you know it. You don’t have to do anything. Don’t drink. Just lie there and watch me.” That night he listened to me. But guess what, I did all the moves in the books and play with the joystick until forever came, it didn’t get up. He said, “Are you happy now?” He turned to the wall and slept. 

That’s my worry now. 

My husband is only forty years but he can only act when he drinks something. It was never like that just a year ago. He was fine. He could do his three to five minutes and we were both fine. We got our three kids out of this. The last born came out of a two minutes encounter and it was alright. I wasn’t complaining so I don’t know why he would resort to things like that. Now he has lost his light. He has to use a generator to power it. Generator power comes with a smell that kills the romance in me. So we fight a lot. We live in a house where fights happen everywhere and anytime. What kills me is the one that happens in front of our kids. 

I don’t allow him to get his way as often as he wants it so he’s always angry. He came to beg me. That was a month ago. He promised if I allowed him to do it often, he’ll slowly wean himself off the concoction. True love bears it all so I decided to give him a chance, at the expense of my own happiness. So we did it yesterday. Twice before the cock crowed. Two days ago we did it. Thrice before the break of dawn. Three days ago it happened. It was so fierce our five-year-old child woke up and started calling my name. Four days ago it happened. Five days ago too, it happened. The same as six days ago. All month we’ve been doing it just to make him happy while I die on the inside. I’m now numb to his touches and everything. I don’t feel a thing but he doesn’t mind. He’ll come with nkuto and make a way even when there’s no way.

I need a break but I’m scared If I leave, he’ll drink himself to death. I need him alive, the father of my three kids, The love of my youth, and the husband I chose to spend my forever with. What can I do to make him stop the drinking and if he stops, how can I get it to rise manually?   

–Daavi

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