That evening, after the phone call debacle, Tiamoh found himself wide awake long after Yolande had drifted off to sleep. The apartment was quiet except for the occasional rattle of an old radiator. He stared at the ceiling, replaying every syllable of his conversation with Ekwene. The absurdity of 'advanced pleating' echoed mockingly in his head.
He slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Yolande, and padded into the kitchen. The refrigerator light cast a cold glow. Tiamoh poured himself a glass of water, gripping the counter to steady his nerves. For a moment, he considered confessing everything to Yolande, just laying it out like a tragicomic confession. But the words evaporated before they reached his lips.
His phone chimed: a message from Ekwene. "Tomorrow. 7am. Armchair. No excuses. Also, the bathroom tiles are looking suspiciously...grimy."
He closed his eyes. He could see the path ahead: endless chores, invented obligations, elaborate ruses. It was like auditioning for a role he’d never wanted in a farce he couldn’t escape.
The next morning arrived with the jolt of an alarm clock he’d already begun to resent. Tiamoh dressed quietly, tiptoed out of the apartment, and headed for his car. The drive to Ekwene’s was a symphony of dread and fatigue. At every red light, he imagined what new lecture awaited him—the ergonomics of furniture moving, perhaps, or the secret microbial life of grout.
At Ekwene’s doorstep, he paused, rehearsing a dozen plausible excuses. But as he reached for the handle, the door swung open. Ekwene stood there, arms folded, eyes already narrowed.
“You’re late,” she declared, voice sharp as ever. "There are two things in this house that refuse to budge—the armchair, and your sense of punctuality. Shall we?"
Tiamoh mustered a grin, barely. "Lead the way, Ekwene."
Inside, the apartment had the familiar scent of lemon polish and faint exasperation. The infamous armchair sat in the living room, squat and immovable, a silent judge to his duplicity. As Ekwene began to detail her moving plan—"You push, I steer, and if it falls over, we blame the uneven floor"—his phone buzzed again. This time, a message from Yolande: "Hope your morning isn’t too exhausting, darling. Come home soon. I miss you."
For a moment, Tiamoh was split in two: the accommodating husband, and the guilty, secret-keeping man. Ekwene’s voice snapped him back.
“Tiamoh! Are you listening, or are you composing love poems to your socks?”
He abandoned the text, focused on the immovable chair, and put his shoulder to the task. The chair barely shifted. Ekwene huffed and re-positioned herself, face flushed with effort.
But then—a sharp knock at the door. Ekwene froze. Tiamoh’s heart leapt to his throat. He hadn’t expected visitors. Neither had she; that much was clear from the alarm in her eyes.
Without warning, the doorknob twisted. The door creaked open. A familiar voice floated in:
"I hope I’m not interrupting something crucial… like a lesson in advanced furniture migration?"
It was Yolande, standing in the doorway, gaze flicking between Tiamoh and Ekwene, the armchair and the look of utter guilt painted across his face. The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the possibility of everything unraveling right there in the lemon-polished living room.