Julie Iromuanya - Mr. and Mrs. Doctor

The man who arrived with the water each day, filling a large drum, had a face stretched thin from the many smiles he offered to Ifi every morning. Each day he would propose to her, stooping so low that his knees nearly touched the ground, offering his hand in marriage.

“You are old enough to be my father’s father,” Ifi would chastise, and the old man would swing his head in dismay, knocking his chest and proclaiming the strength in his powerful legs. Then, gingerly, he would right himself, the pain shooting up the backs of his legs and his spine until it registered in his face. But he would sift his stretched-thin face into a serious gaze, only broken by the flirtatious wink that filled his eyes with lashes.

After he left each morning, Ifi filled a pot with water and set it on the stove. And when it was warm, she poured some into a bucket and the rest into an old oversized coffee flask to keep it warm for the rest of the family.

But her day only truly began in the moments that would follow, as she sank into the bathtub, alone. Before the morning had passed, Ifi would have cleared the sticks and twigs surrounding the house. After, she soaped away the lime and rust-colored mold along the walkway. Inside, she swept the red sand all along the tile floors, scattering the debris out into the street. Next, breakfast was to be prepared, the family fed, dishes washed. Darkness or light. Nepa did not discriminate. Light could be taken at any moment of the day or night. By the dancing flame of kerosene, Ifi would finish her chores in earnest.

On the day the motley crew arrived, boys and men — some lanky, some stocky, some dark, some pallid — Ifi watched from her window in dismay. Ashy, red, bare feet and jeans rolled to their ankles were the only features they shared in common. They were loud, raucous, rapping quickly in pidgin. And they worked from dusk till dawn each day, arriving just as Ifi rose every morning to do her chores and leaving as Ifi, finally, exhausted and spent, sank to sleep.

No one told Ifi what they came to do, or whom they came to work for. But through the curtains in her window, she could see the progress of their task, beginning with the deep hole they bored into the ground with a loud sandblasting drill that pierced the hard, stony earth. Then came the pipes: long metal structures fitted deep inside the hole.

One day they did not arrive, and Ifi knew their task was complete.

Ifi’s uncle stood in the kitchen over the sink and turned the old, rusted tap, and water came spewing out into his palm. He slapped his thigh and Aunty danced. Ifi’s cousins spilled into the doorway, watching with big eyes until their mother’s shrill cheer and gyrations gave their cue. Then suddenly they were all dancing their way to the sink, cupping their hands below the tepid water released from the tap.

After that, the entire neighborhood no longer called her Ifi; she became “Mrs. Doctor.”

Ifi’s mornings changed. No flirtation from the old man delivering the water barrel. The tepid water did not need to be heated when it came from the showerhead. Instead, Ifi stood angling her head forward into the burst of water at the strongest part of the stream.

Thousands of miles from her past, Ifi lay in the tub, her large belly separating the curtain of water, when there was a knock at the door. Quickly she dried her body, tied the wrapper to her chest, and checked the small peephole. The criminal, Jamal. Ifi jerked with a start, and then she fumed. What can he want? she thought. She returned to the bathroom and finished dressing, but the knocking continued. Exasperated, she stumbled back to the door. Chain still in place, she opened the door a crack, just enough for her lips to make an audible sound through the door. “What do you want? Get away.”

“Ma’am, I come to fix your crib.”

“What crib? It’s fine,” she said.

“But I got to,” Jamal said.

“No, it’s fine. No trouble.”

“Yeah, but he told me. And my aunty did too.”

“My husband will not call police. Go.”

“Please, I got to,” he said again. “I got to do it.” His voice stammered.

Dumb, calculated, Ifi thought to herself.

“You think I am a fool?” she asked. A cold gust of breeze slipped through the doorway. All Ifi could see of the hallway was his tall, lanky frame, but she felt certain that his friends were hiding in the hall, waiting. “You think I am an idiot, because I am a woman. Because I am from Africa. I will come and open this door for you to steal again and beat me?” Ifi slammed the door, and when the knocks began again, she turned on the television, loud. Still, it did not block out the noise.

“I will call police,” she yelled.

Finally the knocks stopped.

Suddenly cold, she sank into the couch, drawing her wrapper tightly around her body. And then she paced. Ifi dumped the hardened leftover fufu in the kitchen drain and flipped the switch for the disposal. Job had not been eating. Night and day he was gone, and when he came home, he stank of pig. Often, he disappeared into the shower for what seemed like hours and reemerged with his skin pruney from the water. Later, Ifi would find pig remains in the shower’s drain. When she asked questions, he always explained that he had taken on more patients at the hospital. Why must my husband keep secrets? In spite of the fact that she knew about the contents in his bag, he had begun, once more, to leave each night in the white coat, carrying the briefcase and stethoscope. What can I say? she had thought to herself. Reluctantly Ifi had resumed the task of laundering the lab coat and pants before setting them out for him each day.

As she paced in the kitchen, Ifi scrambled to unfurl the truth in his words to no avail. Lies, boldfaced lies. What troubled her the most was the certainty of the words as they tumbled from Job’s mouth. Everything he has told me, she realized, is a lie. He had stood before her, one lie after another escaping him, as the criminal and his aunt sat only feet away in the other room. Now, she wondered, How can he do it so effortlessly? How can he speak with such certainty about what we both know to be false?

For a moment, her mind slipped to her letters to Aunty, letters that described, with great facility, her imaginary mansion. Ifi pushed the guilt from her mind, reminding herself that Job’s lies were much more insidious. His lies could determine the outcome of their future, while she was only shielding Aunty from the ugly reality of life in America. In a way, she was also protecting Aunty’s dream, defending her from the humiliation of finding out that she had failed at securing Ifi a suitable marriage. With this certainty, Ifi’s thoughts returned to Job’s lies. There will be no nurse, no clinic, no doctor, she said to herself, and we will always live in this apartment of holes.

Akra soup had congealed into a green paste with a yellowed edge, a nauseating smell that nearly brought her to her knees. Ifi flipped the entire pot over the garbage disposal, letting the chunks of meat fill the drain. With a crimson palm she smacked the pot’s bottom until the remains filled the sink. The garbage disposal chewed and swallowed the soup with a satisfied gurgle. Suddenly, Ifi fell forward, emptying her stomach of its contents. She was alone, cold, and miserable; the pregnancy had been hard on her. In silent agony, Ifi cradled the base of her stomach.

Once this boy enters the world, everything will change. She had to believe it. Somehow she had to shake off the feelings of self-pity. After all, she had been lucky to come to America. Rinsing her mouth with water, she thought, When this child comes, we will be a family. There would be voices, warmth, friends, laughter, stories, And then, I will finally be Mrs. Doctor.