JIJI NDOGO: The air is pregnant with expectation

“Two things, my son,” he said. “The first is good communication. That helps to solve any… well, most of the problems you might have.”

“And the second?” I asked.

“The second is an attachment to the first. No matter how well you might think you’re doing in any argument, she’s always right.”

My jaw nearly hit the floor. “You mean always?”

“I might be old, son, but I don’t stammer.”

That said, it hasn’t been as straightforward as the old man made it seem. For one, Sophia, my common-law wife, is not always right. In fact, she’s on the wrong a lot of times.

So, it’s not truly a matter of being right, but letting her think she’s right. And if honesty is another tenet of a good relationship, isn’t it dishonest to concede to a lie?

As for the issue about communication, there is no other species on earth harder to communicate with than the female human. One time not so long ago, Sophia wouldn’t speak to me for most of the day. In my defence, I tried a couple times to ask if she was okay, but on both occasions, all I got were shrugs. Once we got to bed, she accused me of not caring about her welfare.

“How?” I asked.

“How?” she hit back. “You want to say you couldn’t tell I was having a bad day?”

“I did.”

“And what did you do about it?”

“I asked if you were okay.”

“And that’s your solution? To ask the obvious?”

Let me tell you something, my friend, nothing sucks more than having to apologise profusely for a wrong you didn’t know you had committed, let alone trying to sound genuine about it. But if there’s something I’ve learned in the few days I’ve walked on earth, it’s that every day is a school day. It comes with a lesson.

Today’s session takes place in the morning just after Sophia comes into the house from the bathroom.

“I’m late,” she says.

“It’s only seven,” I say. “We don’t have to be at the Police Post until eight.”

Halfway through drying her hair in front of the small mirror hanging behind the door, she turns and gives me a look that could melt a stick of butter. In an even sharper voice, she says, “Are you being serious right now?”

I glance at the clock on the wall. Occasionally, it is wont to lie, especially when its batteries are running out of juice. “I just replaced the batteries on the clock. Wait. Let me check the phone clock. Yep! Eight minutes after seven. Still time for breakfast before work.”

Sophia’s face shifts from slightly annoyed to getting-on-murderous. “Dear, dear husband. Are you this stupid or do you sometimes wake up in the morning and decide it’s a good day to irk the crap out of me?”

Now I’m a little worried. Did I get something wrong? Oh, wait. I have a lesson to fall back on. I stand up and place a hand on her shoulder.

“Dear,” I say in my smoothest voice, “are you having a bad day? No, let me rephrase. Honey, it seems you’re having a bad day. How can I do to make it better?”

She shrugs my hand off. “How about you start budgeting for diapers?”

Confused, I say, “Why would you need diapers…” Then it hits me. “Oh my God! You mean you’re pregnant?”

“Ting! Ting! Ting! Give the man an award.”

“I’m pregnant” would’ve been two seconds long and straight to the point.