London wives: Why we ordered our husbands out (Part 4)
By Taju Tijani
TT had barely finished the last word with me when Bori dragged both Dotun “Samba” Sekoni and Modupe “MM” Magregor towards me. I acknowledged them and we exchanged warm handshakes. “Samba, I leave you with Teejay,” Bori said and walked back to the dancing floor. Dotun “Samba” Sekoni and Modupe “MM” Magregor looked tantalising, attractive and very gorgeous. Their aso ebi design looked different. The style was intricately delicate. Samba’s design had a large gap around her cleave. The cleavage revealed her appetising brown breasts. The makeup was excessive: thick mascara, long and colourful artificial fingernails, shiny dust of confetti around her neck and assorted jewelries.
They both embraced TT and sat beside her. “Bawo ni ore mi, sowapa?” Samba greeted TT. “Mowapa Samba, a ku party, a ku ijo o,” TT responded. MM brought out her iPhone 13 and clicked away. She took my picture, TT and Samba. She later left, leaving Samba with me. Samba is a shy, muscular woman. Unlike Bori, she is reserved and soft spoken. Her gorgeous and loud appearance was a defence against her timidity. She grabbed the small chop beside TT and started eating.
Gbolahan Teniola Badmus “GTB” had been a friend for years. He is a Peckham fixture from the late 80s. He runs a restaurant in the high street and a diehard party goer. Big, bouncy, brash and bubbling. He saw me and gave a shout. “Teejay! Teejay!! Teejay!!!” I got up and embraced him. He held on to me for minutes and we held hands. We had some talk, exchanged number and I dismissed him. He melted into the crowd with his white agbada leaving behind a trail of his Paco Rabanne’s 1 million perfume. I watched as he waltzed into the crowd of dancers.
READ ALSO:
London wives: Why we ordered our husbands out (3)
“Teejay, you see I have attempted suicide several times because of what I went through,” Samba started. “I am a lover. I think I love too much, and the wrong man and he showed me big time. I came here in 1995. I met Dayo King in 2002. It was a wild, wild West kind of romance. You could write a thriller from it. Very whirlwind in its swings. DK was a dashing handsome man. Tall, ebony black, sleek, deep throaty voice and good firm bum. He was a gym fanatic and flirtatious. You could see lust written all over his appearance.”
TT wheeled herself towards the dance floor. I excused myself from Samba to assist her. She refused and told me not to bother. I saw some people at the edge of the dance floor making a room for her to get to the celebrant. There was a rousing ovation for her bravery. She plastered dollars on the forehead of the celebrant. I was moved. People clustered like magnet around TT for selfies. The celebrant wrapped around her in warm and appreciative embrace. People started clapping and dancing merrily along. I could hear some dancers saying, “TT, go girl, go girl, go girl.”
“When I met Dayo in 2002, he had no papers. He worked as a security man in a very big office around Strand. We met at a party in New Cross. I love his rascality and confidence. He was very protective of me and responded warmly to me with attention and dedication. He was a Celestial Church of Christ member in Old Kent branch. I was brought up in a Methodist home. I gave him his stay papers. Ten years down the marriage, I gave him two boys.”
Bori rushed to my side and spoke a gossip into my ear. I nodded. She gave me her handbag for safe keeping. I questioned my role as “gbabagidani”. Bori laughed and rushed back to the dance floor.
“So, Teejay, once he got his papers, he changed his job from security to a scrap dealer. He travelled to Hemel Hempstead, Luton, Milton Keynes and London Colney to buy up accident cars and repair them and sell on Auto Trader. We lived in Borehamwood then.
He was making money. Nigerians were mostly his customers and Eastern European guys who wanted a banger for minicab in those days. I supported him. He travelled to Nigeria regularly.”
“Ten years later I was informed that Dayo had built a big hotel in Ijebu Ode. He did not tell me, and I did not even suspect any double dealing. I kept on trusting and pretending as though nothing had happened. The bale of his village gave him a chieftaincy title. I realised that he was now spending more time in Nigeria. He also built a house – a 4-bedroom bungalow.”
“One day, a white neighbour knocked on our door with a mixed-race boy. Her name was Michelle. She said that she was asking for DK. I was curious to know why. She asked who I was? I answered that I was DK’s wife. She started crying and very hysterical. She pushed the mixed-race boy towards me and said that DK was the father and that for months she had not been receiving any financial support or visit from him.”
“Michelle, so sorry to know this. DK has been in Nigeria for three months now and I really don’t know when he would return to the UK,” I explained calmly, betraying my burning anger. Teejay, Michelle left her number and said that the boy was missing his dad. I thought of slamming the door on Michelle’s face, but I controlled my feelings.”
Bori returned to our table for a rest. “Eyin Okunrin seri nkan ti enshe fun awa obinrin,” Bori said, kissing her teeth. “Oloriburuku ni DK yen. He got his papers and then he repaid Samba with treasury, infidelity and abandonment. She kept her from knowing about his investment in Nigeria,” Bori chorused in a fit for solidarity with her friend. Yes, Bori was aware of Samba’s intimate predicament from Dayo.
In 2015, Samba travelled to Nigeria. Her destination – DK Lounge and Bar. She lodged as a guest without revealing who she was at the reception. She wrote down a fictive name but left a message for the receptionist that she would like to meet their Oga anytime he came to the hotel. Few hours later DK parked his Toyota Land Cruiser at the MD’s bay and walked into the hotel. He was informed of the female guest in Room 222 who wanted to meet him. DK asked the receptionist to fetch the guest to his office.
Minutes later. The receptionists could hear noisy altercations from the MD’s office. They heard things being smashed and repetitive abusive words in Yoruba…. “Oloshi” “Were” “Oloriburuku” “Wagba Leni” and so on……
To be continued…
