Short Story
The Fly in the Packet of Sugar
By Lawrence Kadzitche
It’s around one in the afternoon when I arrive home from doing some piece work.
“Honey,” I shout swaggering towards my wife who’s washing some plates. “Look at what I’ve brought home.”
She throws a glance at the packet of sugar I’m holding proudly in my hands and says nothing. The jealous woman!
“Tea will know me this year,” I enthuse in a singsong voice.
“Your food is ready on the table,” that’s all she says returning to her chores.
I’m not put down by her attitude. I sniff in the air like a dog. A mouth watering aroma of cooked mice floats to my nostrils.
“Ha! Ha! Ha! Today there is chewing of nsima,” I say, swallowing like a hungry dog that has been offered a bone. “That’s why I love you Maria. You know how to cook.”
I waltz into the house. I frown. Is this a dream or what? What is the big woman trying to do? Kill me with shock?
“Maria!” I bellow. “Come here on the double.”
She comes in. I hold my anger.
“When I was chasing this mouse I didn’t know it had only two legs,” I exclaim, looking astonished.
“What do you mean?” she asks. “Can’t you see I cut the legs?”
I let my anger come to the surface. “From whose mouse did you cut the two legs?”
Maria licks her lips that have suddenly gone dry. “I didn’t eat the legs. The children…”
“…the children were crying for them,” I finish for her harshly. “What did I say about eating of meat in this house?”
“What would I have done?” she tries to justify her actions. “There was no other relish apart from chisoso and you know how the children…”
“I do not work for the children,” I tell her as I have told her countless times before, cutting her gibberish with a slap. “The children will eat food of their choice when they grow up but not now!”
“But…”
“No buts, woman,” I snarl. “I’m the head of this family and my rules are what everyone follows? Clear?”
She nods her head in agreement. This woman seems determined to challenge my authority. I know she calls me a miser, a tightwad just because I try to make sure that she does not use things wastefully.
But that does not bother me. I’m the head of the family. It’s my duty to determine how the family should be run. It’s a pity she doesn’t know how lucky she is to have a loving person like me for a husband. It’s her duty to take care of housekeeping but for no fee at all, I have volunteered to assist her in running the house. If that’s not love, I do not know what else is.
We only have three children. I’ve told her not to give them tea. They should eat porridge without sugar. From the little education I have, there are no real nutritional values in tea and I don’t want the sugar damaging their teeth. Yet my wife says I do this because I’m stingy.
In addition, I want them to grow up as vegetarians. Strictly no meat. She has the effrontery to ask why I still eat meat if it is bad for health. Do I really have to explain to her that it’s just because some bad habits are difficult to break?
And when I go to have my tea at the tea room or eat meat at the restaurant, she accuses me of being a miser. How many times do I have to explain to her that it’s not good to let the children see me indulge in bad habits?
My rules are simple. Meat is for me only unless I say otherwise. Kids are to eat porridge without sugar. When visitors come, they should not be given any food. After all they come to chat and not to eat.
I’ve devised ways to make sure I know should my wife dare break my rules. All the same, I have recently had a feeling that she has been tricking me. Although I measure the salt, sugar and flour, they somehow end a bit more quickly than planned. But I can’t do anything unless I’ve proof. Proof is all I need.
“Well, now let’s talk about this packet of sugar,” I change the subject. “Did you or the children work for this packet?”
She doesn’t answer. I take that for a no and continue, “I worked alone in the burning sun sweating blood while you and the kids were greedily munching the legs of my mouse. So only I will use the sugar. I don’t want to hear the children blah blah. That will be end of this marriage.”
In villages, drinking tea is a symbol of status, that you have money. People travel long distances to tea rooms even on hot day just to have a cup of tea. I know my wife will be tempted to try to steal my hard earned sugar. So I hide the packet where I trust she cannot find it.
But somehow, I realize that she is stealing some of the sugar. How, I do not know.
“If you’re playing with my sugar, you should stop immediately,” I warn her, looking at her the way a dog eyes a person whom it has not yet determined whether is an enemy or a friend. “But if you are, stop immediately or you’ll rue it.”
But my warning fall on deaf ears. I still continue to note small changes in the level of the sugar. The scheming woman is still stealing my sugar. I decide to show her that she is messing with the wrong person.
I put a fly in the packet of sugar and then tie it. Then I leave to see a friend. When I return in the afternoon, the first thing I do, is check the packet of sugar. It is tied exactly the way I left it. But horror of horrors; the fly is gone.
I immediately call my wife. I am dead calm just like a lull before a storm. “What were you doing in my packet of sugar?”
She opens her mouth. No word comes out.
“What were you doing with my sugar?”
“Nothing,” she responds when she finds her voice. “I don’t even know where you hide the packet.”
I let a short horrible laugh. “If you didn’t touch the packet, then where is the fly that I left inside?”
The question hits her like a bomb blast. But what happens next is far from what I expected. She doesn’t fall on her knees and beg for forgiveness.
Instead anger descends on her like a bolt of lightening. “My mother was right! You’re a mean foolish man…”
That takes me aback. Me, a fool? “Maria, you are way out of line!”
“Shut up! I don’t know how I have put up with your stupidity all these years…”
“Maria…”
“I said shut up. This is not stinginess but a disease. Anyway, I am through with your stupid rules. I am going to see our marriage counselors so that everyone should know what a stingy man you are.”
The words hits me like a hammer. Man, what will people say when they hear of this? I’ll become a laughing stock of the village.
I’ll be called all sorts of names. The miser. Mr Stingy. People have no respect for such a person. But why didn’t I see this all these years?
End
