Short Story
The Price of Jealousy
By Lawrence Kadzitche
Man, what do you do when you are a jobless man married to a woman with a good job? And what do you do when the woman is beautiful and you yourself is as ugly as a scarecrow?
These are not just idle questions. You see, when I look into the mirror, the man that stares back at me has got a large head shaped like a deformed pumpkin. The eyes are small and deep set, the nose is flat and wide like that of a toad, the mouth thick like that of a cow. This big head is joined to the body by a scrawny neck that looks like that of a chicken. Now what I hate most is the stomach-it is bloated, like that of a malnourished child. As if this is not enough, my legs are not only short but they curve out like bows.
Now the man I’ve just described does not work. If what people say that intelligence is based on the size of the brain is true, then it means that most of my head is just the skull with a pea size brain because I dropped out of school in junior primary. As luck would have it, I met my wife while I was selling some vegetables at her house. I won’t go into details of how we fell in love, but fall in love we did and ended up tying the knot at an extravagant marriage ceremony. Of course all expenses sponsored by her.
I don’t cheat myself that God took my rib to create this vision of beauty. No way, man. If you take a crooked stick, you can’t create a straight carving. I tell you the woman is amazing. I won’t go into details of her looks to avoid arousing the little devils in you that may tempt you to try to snatch her away from me. But if I say sometimes I wake up at night and stare at her, it should be enough for you to get the picture.
I don’t know what she saw in me to marry me. Maybe she believed me when I told her of my business plans. That I owned a big vegetable garden, that I dreamed of opening a farm. Of course now she knows I never had any big business plans and it was all hogwash.
Judith works as a secretary for a general manager of a big organization. Now when your wife is a secretary, you’ve to live with the fear that the boss will seduce her with treats like promotion and other perks. I find solace in the fact that my wife is much order than her boss. But still you never know. The young men of today do not respect age. Now and then I arrive announced at her office. You never know what you can stumble on.
When she goes away to a seminar at the lake, I use some of the money she leaves me for relish to make a sudden visit. I hope these visits will keep her on edge as she may never know when I’ll appear.
I’m sure I’ve her under surveillance. But my assurance is assailed one dark evening. We’re drowning ourselves in beer at this bar down town when Mzondi says, “Man, have you heard?”
My hand freezes in midair still clutching my glass of beer.
“Jamie found his wife in bed with another man,” Mzondi reveals.
“I don’t believe it, the way she loved him,” I say.
Mzondi laughs. “A man is nothing to a woman if he contributes nothing to the home. She was looking for extra cash.”
That stabs. Didn’t Bob Marley say who the cap fits let them wear it? I also don’t contribute anything to the house. Why should I be any different from Jamie? Why should my wife be any different from Jamie’s wife?
But I put on a brave face. “I don’t work but I control my wife.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, I make the budget for the house and use some of the money to drink beer. I go home at any time I like,” I say proudly. “If that is not being in control I don’t know what else is.”
Mzondi laughs. “If a thief wants to trick a dog, doesn’t he throw a good bone at him?”
This alarms me. “What are you trying to say?”
“The way I know women, they’re very stingy. The only males that eat women’s money are prophets and witchdoctors. You’re none of these yet your wife freely gives you money, why’s is that possible?” he asks with a wink.
“I won’t allow this discussion to proceed,” I say.
“Suit yourself. Bury your head in the sand while your goods are being masticated at the office by her boss,” he says ordering another round of drinks. “Even as we’re drinking now, some rich man with a spare tire around his stomach could be chomping your goodies at your house.”
Something makes sense in what Mzondi is saying. Which woman gives a man lots of money to spend on beer? With the seed of suspicion planted, I begin to think about what Mzondi has said. What if the love my wife shows me is just to fool me so that I should not suspect her? What if she brings men into the house as I drink myself stupid at the bar?
My mind clicks to a decision. Whenever, I will be returning home, I will always do it discreetly. If my wife is cheating me, one day I am going to catch her.
And that’s what I start doing. Whenever I get back home, I make it a ritual to steal upon my house like a cat and listen at the window for any strange sounds inside. Only after I am convinced that there is no intruder in the house, do I go in.
This happens for about two weeks. The third week, I come home very late. On tip toes, I move towards the bedroom window. I pull up the collar of my great coat to protect myself from the biting late night chill.
A full moon has risen, now and then hiding behind clouds. I am nearing the window when I see the car parked at the back of the house.
So Mzondi was right. While I’d been getting myself sozzled, someone was usurping my conjugal rights. I pick up a piece of wood. I am going to teach the thieving bastard a lesson.
Seething with anger, I charge towards the house. A fist in the belly halts me in my tracks. I sag to my knees, my hands grabbing at my stomach. Blows suddenly rain on me.
“Thief! Thief!” somebody is shouting as they beat me.
I scream that I am not a robber but my voice is drowned in the din of the people who are pulverising me. Suddenly, they stop beating me.
“You’ll kill him,” a voice I recognize as that of my wife says. “What was he doing?”
“We’re the neighborhood watch,” a voice answers. “We saw him sneaking towards your house a club in his hands. We stopped him.”
Someone shines a torch at my face. A cry of surprise escapes from the man’s mouth. “Desmond!”
“I was on my way to Mzuzu and I thought of stopping over,” it is my elder brother Monty. “What are you doing sneaking towards your own house?”
So that explains the car. But how can I say it is because I thought my wife was seeing another man? I just start crying!
End
