About A Man
“Why are we fighting like we don’t both know Jesus?”
“What?” The question caught him off guard.
It was another Sunday evening, another argument and still no reason why they all disliked each other so much.
It wasn’t like this before. Their home used to be peaceful and filled with vibrant sounds of laughter, but things were changing, and neither knew why.
She took a few steps closer to him in their dining room, with empty white plates patiently waiting for the meal to decorate them. And then, she repeated herself, “I said, why are we fighting like we don’t know Jesus? We’re fighting like we’re enemies. Like we’re not on the same team.”
He took a deep breath as his knees buckled. He needed to sit down. Seated, he placed his hands on his head just above his neck, interlocking his fingers. He sighed again and focused his gaze on the kitchen tiles. But what could he say?
He grappled with picking one of the answers that floated in his mind. He couldn’t pick one; his reasons were many.
She moved closer to him, crouching to meet him at eye level. Then, gently placing her hands on his lap, she pleaded softly, “Babe. You can tell me anything. What’s going on? Talk to me, please.”
He wanted to talk, but the words could never leave his lips. How could he tell his loving, most beautiful wife of five years that he felt pressured? From whom he couldn’t say, but he felt as if ‘life’ expected so much of him even though, to him, he had so little to offer.
Where could he start?
Maybe their childlessness and his fears of discussing his worries without making it seem that he was blaming his wife? Or could he start with the frustrations of his nine-to-five? He hated being one of two black people in his organisation, the other being the sweet Nigerian canteen lady who’d always give him extra food, thus adding to his weight (that and the midnight snacks). Or maybe it’ll be easier to start with the fact that leaving their home each day was a courageous task for him, afraid that one day he’ll fit a supposed description, walking home from the corner shop. Or should they talk about money first? They had money, but everyone else needed what was in his bank account for some reason. Maybe she’d be more comfortable talking about all the dreams he realised at a young age but chose not to pursue because he was afraid of failing, and now that he was getting older, they seemed out of reach. Or maybe he’d start with the most recent of his concerns — Brother Obed stealing glances at her every Sunday. Not the standard ‘welcome-to-the-house-of-LORD’ usher kind, but the yearning kind. How could he bring it up without sounding paranoid or, worse still, insecure? And then there’s the pressure from the guilt he felt frequently; he hadn’t shared the intricate details of his childhood with her as she had done when they dated. He knew he would love her despite her eventful past and tough upbringing, but would she still love him if he revealed the same? The shame was killing him. Or should he detail his thoughts of what Earth would be like if he never existed?
He was afraid, and her question destabilised him further. Did he really know and love Jesus as he claimed? Yet another question adding to his pressure.
“Babe. You’re scaring me. Please talk to me. What’s going on?”
His eyes met hers, red from the tears he tried so hard to hold back. Then, afraid the walls would hear him, he whispered, “I’m… Babe… I’m not ok.”
She grabbed him in a firm and deep embrace as if both their lives depended on it, his certainly did.
“I’m here for you. I’m here.” She repeated, rubbing the length of his back in synchrony with her words. This would be the first time he cried in front of her. On her shoulders, his cries turned to deep tenor-like sobs when he realised that the truth had always been the best place to start.