I told you I gathered three gossips this weekend. This is gossip number 2.
Inside the living room, on the corner to the left near the kitchen entry, sat two couples. I couldn’t tell whether they were already dating or just testing the waters, because their body language seemed strained.
So, I positioned myself strategically near the kitchen door — the perfect spot for my job as the official gossip gatherer.
The man was sharply dressed in navy blue khaki shorts, a crisp white t-shirt, white loafers, and a scent that could make you forget your problems. He was bald, clean-shaven, and wore a watch that screamed expensive. You can always tell when a watch has money written all over it.
The lady had gone for a bold look — a micro mini black bodycon dress that was fighting for its life. She kept pulling it down every few minutes. She had a neat black bob weave (or maybe a wig) and matching black sneakers.
Now that I was in a good position, I could start my work.
They were arguing in low tones, and from the look of things, their relationship was taking a nose dive.
Man: Couldn’t you wear something more comfortable? Why put on a short dress and keep pulling it down?
Lady: The dress is mine. The body is mine. The shame is mine. Just mind your life.
Man: The shame is yours? I’m your man, for heaven’s sake. If you dress inappropriately, I’m embarrassed too. Every decision you make affects me.
The lady rolled her eyes dramatically.
Man: Why are you like this? What makes you angry every day? Why do you explode over every little thing? What’s with the attitude?
Lady: You know what’s happening. Stop asking dumb questions.
Man: How am I supposed to know if you don’t talk?
Lady: It’s Tamara. Why do you send her money for everything without consulting me? Why can’t she live with us instead of you sending her money every other day? I find it unnecessary.
Man: So you’re angry at my daughter? A seven-year-old for heaven’s sake? Sending upkeep for Tamara annoys you? We both know you can’t live with a child you didn’t sire. Let’s drop this topic.
He lost interest and turned to his phone.
Lady: Why should I not live with her? Why do you assume I have a black heart? Tamara is like my daughter too.
The man gave her a look.
Man: You refused to live with your late brother’s child — a three-year-old orphan. You refused to live with your sister’s six-year-old daughter when she left for the UK. Your reason? You said they might turn out ungrateful. If you couldn’t live with a three-year-old orphan, how can you live with Tamara? Remember what happened when Tamara came over last time? You shouted at her over everything. She was terrified. If I left her with you for three days, you’d traumatize her. Just stop. I’m not ready for this conversation.
Lady: Yes, I refused to live with those children. So what? You shouldn’t be concerned about the decisions I make concerning my family. Tamara is now family, and she’ll live with me. And by the way, I didn’t harass her, Tamara is just ill-mannered.
Man: You see? You’re not even apologetic. What did Tamara ever do to you? Or your nieces for that matter? Your brother took you through school and the only way to appreciate him was to care for his child.
She rolled her eyes again and clicked her tongue.
Man: See what I’m saying? That attitude is nauseating.
Lady: Tell me, why is Tamara’s school fees 45K while my daughter’s is 38K? Why can’t you pay equal fees? Or is it because she’s not your biological daughter?
Man: Cindy just joined school. That’s the nearest good school. Do you want me to take her to Tamara’s school — miles away — so she can wake up at 5 a.m.? Tamara’s school is in her neighborhood. You want a four-year-old to suffer just so you can feel the children are equal?
Now the man was boiling.
Lady: Stop sending Tamara money. That’s the issue. Her mother should do that or give us the child to raise. Who knows what you do behind closed doors with Mama Tamara that makes you send upkeep without fail? Will Tamara fail to grow because you didn’t send money?
The man tightened his grip on the table edge.
Man: Tamara is my daughter. I had her before I met you. She’s my responsibility. Your child has a father too. Take her to him if you want equal school fees. Just because I’m silent when you complain doesn’t mean I’m okay with your nonsense.
Lady: You married me knowing I have a child. It’s your duty to take care of her.
Now I was the one boiling. Someone hold me before I throw words.
Man: Point of correction…I haven’t married you. We don’t have a certificate or a child together. What I do, I do out of goodwill. Your child has a father—let him handle his responsibility. Each man should take care of his child so we can have peace.
Lady: I don’t care. There are many men who can do that. I can walk out and get someone to care for my child. The world doesn’t revolve around you.
Man: Perfect. If you think I’ll ever choose you over Tamara, you’re mistaken. Go find that man who’ll take you in with your attitude and loose mouth. I’m tired of this.
Lady: To hell with this relationship.
Man: Fine. There are plenty of young women with manners. You’re not doing me any favor by staying with me.
Silence. The air was heavy.
Then the lady stood up angrily and stormed out of the party. The man sat for a while, scrolling through his phone, then joined his friends at another table — smiling as if nothing had happened.
And me? I just sat there, boiling silently. Because truly, at this point, even I can help men in wondering what women really want.