Fiction: The Voice

March 23, 2016 Fiction , POETRY / FICTION


Wale Ayinla



“Whoso finds a wife finds a good thing, and obtains favour from the Lord,” says the Bible. But what do we call a woman who kneaded the face of her husband like a yet-to-be-fried dough, a woman who served her husband with punches, like a child receiving his daily bread? A wife isn’t it? No, it’s not. She is a wrestler, a professional boxer, and a beast.


It was one of those Saturday evenings when Sola would ramble from the bedroom to the parlour, to the veranda, glancing at the Rolex wristwatch Pastor James gifted him for his latest birthday. He cherished it more than all the gifts he got on the eighth of March, twenty-sixteen, maybe because it came from his mentor, or perhaps, because he had hungered for a Rolex watch. He was controlling millions week-in week-out, but wanted more. He wanted someone to give him something, either big or small, but rather than getting a gift worthwhile, Tolu would serve him a hot slap – spiced with pain- making him rise swiftly from his sleep. His sleep cursed her, but he remembered that she was his cross, and he was to bear her till death do them part. Moreso, his religion did not give room for a divorce.


His eyes strayed and caught the blue-black clock cleaved to the wall. It was 11:30pm, and Tolu would be leading the choir during the church service the next morning. It was obvious that most of the congregation loved it when ‘Sister Tolu’, as she was fondly called, mounted the podium to lead the praise and worship session. It would be like heaven on earth. It would be as if the beast that nearly battered and bruised her husband the night before had suddenly become an angel. When she climbed, she would say, “The Lord inhabits the praises of his people,” and the congregation would respond with, “Oh! Alleluia!” She would then continue, “Praise the Lord, Oh my soul, and all that is within me.” The instrumentalists would then usher her into the clairvoyant Rhema, and the congregation would sing and dance along. After the service, she would walk to her husband’s black Mercedes-Benz and they would both ride home. In the car, she would complain about him not dancing when she was singing during the service, why he stared at busty Sister Lucy as she bent over, and why he didn’t shut his eyes when the pastor was praying.


“Honey? But… ” He would try to explain but she would mute him with a slap on his cheek.


There was a sharp noise like a rumbling cloud which was ready to bless the earth with its tears. The noise became stronger and nearer.
“Oh, she’s back!” He yawned and reached for the door. He had been doing the chores all day – sweeping, laundry, cooking – while Tolu went for an Owambe. He was tired. A tired man is a man that’s bereft of good rest, he had thought, before he dozed off on the cushion.


“What took you so long?” she enquired. Drunkenness had spread its cloak on her face, and her eyes were weak, they were ready for a dim. He glanced at his Rolex wristwatch, and back at the odd figure before him.


“Can’t you see it’s la-” A slap thundered on his face before he could complete the last word. There was a sudden flush of fluid which was warm, as it journeyed from his neck, and through the white singlet he was wearing. It took him a few seconds to fathom what just happened. She threw up on him. He pulled her in and shut the door.


He went straight to the bathroom to clean up, and went to his bedroom to change his singlet. When he came back, he saw her sleeping on the settee.


“Only if the Bible doesn’t forbid the killing of human beings, this woman would have been warming the sepulcher,” he muttered.


Suddenly, a still hoarse voice came out of nowhere, saying, “Say not thou, I will recompense evil; but wait on the Lord, and he shall save thee.” He chuckled. He knew it was God’s voice, and also, he had come across that word while studying the Bible, but he had forgotten where it was.


He went over to her, carted her in his arms, like a new-born baby, and went into the bedroom.







Wale Ayinla

Ayinla Olawale Joseph, aka Wale Ayinla is an undergraduate of Mass Communication from Nigeria. His works have been published on several blogs and online magazines. He is known for his equivocal command of the English language. He has also written four plays which haven’t seen the floor of a stage nor the pages of a book. He believes that poetry can regain its lost glory through the zealous and persistent youths of now. His written poems are innumerable, making him one of the greatest writer of the 21st century you would love to keep on your radar.


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