The Other Room by Ray Anyasi
Synopsis
Tolu is stuck on wheel chairs for years and there is a room in his apartment he had never entered since his accident. After he watched a certain world leader talk about an “Other Room”, Tolu began to wonder what if his wife has some fetish secret going on in this room. His curiosity kept him on edge till he finds the truth about what his wife really does inside the Other Room. He would know this truth and this truth would hold him captive for the rest of his life.
Questioning love…
This video I am about to watch will change everything. My willingness to click play alone raises an enormous question on my faith in my family. And if I watch and it turns out what I suspect it is, everything collapses. Everything I have believed about my marriage is about to be destroyed or validated by seeing what is contained in this video.
I am gliding the tip of my index finger over the mouse pad of my computer, not sure if I was ready to shame or be shamed. Not sure I was ready to be shocked.
I looked over my shoulder, Bolu was about to die from holding his breath. I’m not sure I want to see this with anyone else, not even a close brother.
“You should go home,” I said to him.
He narrowed his gaze on me. I could see how hard he was trying to hide his disappointment of behind excused from the most anticipated film show of his life.
“I want to do this alone.”
He stood from behind me and headed for the door. I held my hand away from the mouse till I heard him open and slam the sitting room door, then faint footsteps down the stairs. Still, my hands did not click play till I could hear his Innoson SUV come alive.
I can’t even explain how I convinced myself to do all I did to get to this place. Four weeks ago, I was watching the news, and a certain old man was addressing a press gathering, standing beside an old white lady. Someone asked him a question I can’t exactly remember, and his response was in the line of, ‘…my wife belongs to my kitchen, the living room, and the other room.’
The first and second parts of his response were spontaneous and came out smoothly.
But not the last part.
He hesitated for a second, committed a little thought to his next words, and then let it out like he was being careful. This might not mean a thing, but it got me thinking. A man in my condition gets off thinking on anything that makes or do not make sense.
The other room.
This old man made the reference to this other room like he had a particular room in mind. His gaze into empty air when he made those words tells me he too was wondering what the frack goes on in that other room. Yes, that was what I was wondering immediately he said that. What happens inside the other room? But this story is not about the other room in this old man’s home. No, it is about the other room inside my home.
There is another room in my home that I have no idea what happens there. For nearly six years I have not entered this room. Only Tolani enters there and until I watched this old man refer to his other room contemplatively, I never got interested in knowing what happens inside my own other room.
It is not as if I had never been giving an excuse of what happens inside this room. Tolani had said several things over the last six years she had had this other room to herself. Now I am thinking none of them made any sense. After my accident, four months after that to be precise, she said she wanted it converted to her prayer room.
I did not question that. What could be my reason to? Yet it doesn’t make sense. Tolani had never been a religious woman. She wouldn’t even close her eyes while the pastor prays in church. At that time, I had thought she was for real. A woman whose husband of five years becomes confined for life to a wheelchair could easily turn to God if she wasn’t facing him or could easily turn away if she was facing him. So, since Tolani was never giving God face all her life, I was easy to believe she had been jaded into turning to him. Good.
Tolani would help me roll my wheelchair to the veranda which wasn’t very far from this mystery room whenever she wanted to go in there. Then she would stay in for a few minutes or hours. She could hear me if I raised my voice to call her if I needed anything, but I have never heard any sound coming from there all these years. Talk about quiet times.
The first and most important step to moving mountains is a curious mind that would not give up. From the moment I became curious to find out for real what happens inside that room, my mind never went to rest. I began to question every explanation she had ever given for locking herself inside there for nearly hours so often.
If she had left, it at the prayer room excuse then I might have easily let that pass for it, but she came up with something else that made even less sense. About three years ago, Tolani said she would convert that room to a sort of office.
“Office?”
“Yes, sugar boo.”
Then, I hadn’t any clue that she was up to some mischief whenever she called me both sugar and boo together. Heck, even if I did what the frack could I have done about it. I was a vegetable on a wheelchair and this pretty woman babysitting me still finds enough kindness to call me two pet names together. Let’s be frank, you wouldn’t quarrel with that even if you knew she was up to some sick plot.
“Why do you need an office?”
“I want to start a blog. It’s a way to make money these days.”
“Like Linda Ikeji.”
“Like Linda Ikeji, sugar boo.”
Now there are two comedy lines. First is that Tolani had never written anything more than a Facebook post with more errors than alphabets. Second was that she never concentrated attention on something serious for more than 23 seconds. So how was she going to become a blogger?
I did not raise these points with her because if I did, I would be miserable till the next leap year.
“Who would do your web design and hosting?”
“Yetunde already helped me with those.”
“What is the web address?”
“Not decided yet.”
“What will this blog be about?”
“About facing challenges as a housewife.”
“Hmm, just don’t let me see photos or stories of me on it.”
A few days later I asked for the web address again and she said she dumped that idea and began writing a book?
I couldn’t believe it.
“I am interested in reading something you wrote.”
“I am not eager to share till it’s finished.”
“I can help you edit, what else am I good for like this?”
“I am not confident enough to let you see it.”
I gave up. I let it die. But not anymore. I would like to know what happens inside that room. There is no way she will let me in there, judging from the way she conducts herself when it is time to get in. I was not thinking about asking her to tell me. She would realize my curiosity and react. I want to take her unawares. And if she is actually writing her book in there all these years, then at least I would get to read it.
