My American 1

‘ I’m gonna sue their gaddamn asses. What da fuck?!’
I was jolted awake by the foregoing. My American hubby on phone, talking with the American drawl that had enticed me, initially. I sit up gingerly. I am six months preggers but I feel so bloated. Someone upon seeing me during the week had promptly started calling me ‘ Mama ibeji' because of the size of my tummy. I had given the person a nasty look, as reward!
I am hungry, but as usual there is no money. I contemplate going to see my parents. I discard the idea after mulling over it. No point. It’s not as if they have enough.
I take a look at myself in the Mirror just adjacent the bed. I look haggard, worn out, stressed. Financial stress does that to one. My tummy growls with hunger. I look at hubby, he’s through with his call and comes to sit beside me on the bed.
‘ Hey babes'
I look at him with thinly disguised hostility but he is undeterred as always
‘ Don’t worry, I’ll get you something to eat, Lorene’
I’d heard that like a zillion times in our almost year old marriage. My hubby is a dreamer. He continues talking to me in his American drawl, making promises, promises we both know he couldn’t keep.
I lay back and close my eyes, exhausted physically and emotionally.
My American hubby goes out and returns in the evening with a Derica of rice and beans, a little ground pepper and two spoons of palm in a tiny polythene bag. He goes on and on about how he had to beg iya Risikat to allow him collect  the items on credit, as usual. We are already owing the poor  woman well over ten k for food stuffs. I utter not a word. He sets to preparing rice and beans concoction. I eat hungrily, I am eating for two, so I can be excused. At intervals, I belch loudly. Eventually, I am sated and lie on  my back the only position of ease left for a heavily pregnant woman.

To be continued