WRECKED 4 3

Four months later, Jubril asked Anaya to marry him and she accepted. To Anaya, Jubril had it all: fame, money, looks and brains. I'm maturing, Anaya thought with a smile. I have outgrown Aba men and their shallow aspirations. However, it wasn't only his intelligence in running a bank that attracted her. It was his subtle arrogance. In Jubril Rufai, Anaya had found something she had come to believe did not exist in human nature: a human being more ambitious, more self-obsessed than she was. Anaya was used to holding all the cards in her relationship and having the men in her life do all the running. Being with Jubril made her realise how bored she had become of being the goddess.

The tabloids and social media were abuzz with her quote when she was interviewed after the proposal. "Only a unique man would do for me. Uniquely handsome and uniquely rich!"

Mrs Afsat Rufai was furious. Jubril roared with laughter. His mother was just being petty. How many acceptable girls had his mother trailed discreetly before him, like feathered baits? She arranged them for him. Their morals had been irreproachable, their manners candid; their minds presented to him as unbaked pieces of dough which would be his prerogative to mould and form. As one season's crop of girls proceeded into engagement and marriage, younger ones kept sprouting up. They were now so young in relation to Jubril that he had trouble conversing with them; it was like talking to a basketful of chicks.

His mother always confused youth with malleability. What she really wanted was a daughter-in-law who could be moulded, not by Jubril, but by herself; and so the girls continued to be floated past him, and he continued to turn away indifferently, and to be gently accused by his mother of ingratitude. He rebuked himself for it and took care to thank his mother for her pains, and to reassure her that he will marry eventually, but he was not ready for it yet. First, he must pursue his financial researches; he must accomplish something of value, discover something of note; he had his name to make.

He already had a name, his mother sighed reproachfully; a perfectly good old-money name that he seemed determined to exterminate by refusing to pass it on. At this point, she always coughed a little, to signify that his was a difficult birth, which almost killed her, and fatally weakened her lungs—a medically implausible effect which, during his boyhood, used to reduce him to a jelly of guilt. If he would only produce a son, she continued – having, of course, married first—she would die happy.

"In that case, it would be sinful for me to marry at all, mother." He would say with a smile. "I can't have matricide on my conscience when the Last Day comes."

"Oh, don't be a tease, Jubril. You know what I mean."

"Really, mother, I think I am much better without a wife than without a mother, especially such a perfect mother as you." He would wink at her as she gave him a sharp look.

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"You're too clever for your own good, don't think you can get around me with attery. I am not deceived by your tricks, Jubril," Afsat would say, as she tried in vain to keep a smile o her face.

Nevertheless, she was mollified.

Sometimes he was tempted to succumb. He could choose one of her proferred young ladies, the prettiest one. His daily life would be orderly, his breakfasts would be edible, and his children would be respectful. The act of procreation would be undergone unseen, prudently veiled—she, dutiful but properly averse, he within his rights—but need never be mentioned. His home would have all the modern comforts. There were worse fates.

Chapter end