MY EX-HUSBAND IS A MAFIA KING

Ahnah

I sit on the WC, scrolling through my phone and waiting for Aput's call, away from my roommate's music and glares. I swear she hate it when I'm in the phone because why would her speak bevon crazy high whenever my phone rings.

As I mindlessly scroll through social media, I pause when I see a picture of a former colleague, Panik. I feel the familiar jaws of envy clench my chest and hands as I look at her smiling back at the camera, her beautiful killer body in full-on assasin mode in a tiny pink bikini, the backdrop of a brilliant blue ocean and clear blue skies on a yacht, the give away that she’s on holiday in yet another exotic location. I roll my eyes at the #vacay caption of the post and let out a long hiss as I scroll past it.

The privacy of my restroom is the only place I can express this unjustified jealousy, unjustified because she's not only nice but also intelligent and beautiful, so like the full deal and so deserves all the #vacay.

Three years after we were both hired by Mandeville bank she got a scholarship to an American Ivy League University and was hired immediately after graduation by an investment bank on Wall Street subsequently after. Now, five years later, she is a top executive and living the life, the high life…the dream life… while I have only been able to move one step higher in my bank’s Pecking Order.

I scroll back to her picture to scrutinize it, squinting to see if her tiny waist and rounded hips are the result of hard work… or hard cash. But what I see instead is a new comment from the very person whose call I’m waiting for. Aput.

Looking like a million bucks, is his comment, accompanied by five exploding bomb emojis. I know, because I count them all five of them.

Here I am, waiting for his call, while he’s busy commenting on Panik’s socials. Letting out yet another hiss, I dial his number instead. The internet service in my apartment is only tolerable for a few epileptic moments online, but this call is a necessity.

“I see you’ve been busy on I*******m,” I retort when the line connected. “Didn't you say you were going to call me at 11?”

“By Jove, I’ve had a long day. This nagging is the very last thing I need now,” is his equally terse answer. “It’s only ten minutes past. Besides, maybe you should start calling ?”

“But is that the point” I counter. There is silence and I wonder if the line has disconnected. “Hello?”

“That echo, Ahana, are you calling me from the bathroom again?” he asks, his voice elevated in what I can now tell is the beginning of an explosive fit. One he's now fond of. “How many times have I told you not to call me while you’re taking a shit?”

“I’m not taking a shit, Aput,” I protest. “I came here because Silia has her music oh high.”

“Talking to your boyfriend from the restroom is just downright disrespectful. Let us do this later.!”

And the line disconnects.

I stare at my phone for several minutes, a thick tear forming in my throat. Since the year he left for the UK our relationship has grown sour a little more every day. We have been together since meeting at Mandeville bank six years ago. I was assigned to his team and he took an instant liking to me. Only a rank higher than I was as an Executive Trainee, he still fancied himself my mentor, even though I soon became more knowledgeable of the job than he was. Muscled and standing over six feet tall, he was neither naturally handsome nor the smartest pea in the pod, but it didn't take long for me to lose my head to him.

We soon became inseparable. Last year, the opportunity arose for a scholarship abroad. Going away wasn’t on my radar and when he insisted on taking the exam, I hadn’t been too worried because, I’m now sorry to admit, I thought there was no way he would pass the exam. But I was also right.

He hadn’t passed, but rather than shrug it off and move on with his life, it just made him even more determined to leave the country somehow. So, he’d gotten himself a tourist visa, sold his belongings, quit his job, and left for London, where he has been trying to get himself reasonable employment ever since.

Rising from my sitting position, I tell myself he is only taking out the frustration of his predicament on me. I need to be more patient with him. I shouldn't have called him from the bathroom, knowing fully well it upsets him when I do.

I open the door and see Sila’s now on her feet, twirling. Our eyes meet and I can see the disapproval in hers, not only because I’m not into her kind of things but because I keep putting myself in uncomfortable positions for Aput since he left. Well, to each their cup I guess. I avert my eyes and walk quickly across the room, letting myself out and shutting the door behind me.

A friend that we grew up together and always bumped into each other, she’d been the only one I could think of when I found the self-contained room in Nunavut. I couldn't afford the rent on my own and, as she too had just started working in the area, I had asked her. Big mistake. I’m not sure if the proximity to work is enough to justify the constant verbal and non-verbal harassment I get from her, not to mention that she is, without a doubt, the sloppiest person I have ever met in my life.

It has been six years, but I am yet to get accustomed to her habit of continually spinning her clothes in the machine for hours, the unwashed plates and utensils stacked in her room or the unpleasant smell that follows her even after just having a shower. But hopefully, I won’t have to deal with any of that for much longer.

Leaning on a neighbour’s car, I dial Aput’s digits again.

“Mi vida, I’m sorry about calling you from the toilet,” I apologise. “I’m outside now.”

“At this time of night?” he grunts.

“I told you Sila and her songs are at it again. Coming outside was the next best thing.”

“This long distance thing is beginning to get old Ahana,” he sighs. “Like, really old. I don't know how much longer I can go on like this. It’s bad enough I can't see you, but even talking to you is now an issue. This is starting to feel like a bad story”

Shit!

I feel the all-too familiar panic blanket engulf me. It is not the first time he has made this complaint and the thought of losing him makes me feel physically and mentally ill. It is one of the reasons I recently sat for the same Bankit exam he took last year, hoping I will be more successful than he was and be awarded a scholarship, so I can join him there in England.

“Mi vida, don't speak like that,” I plead. “Let’s be hopeful and pray that I pass the scholarship exam. If I do, I’ll be with you in a matter of months.”

“That shitty exam! That Bankit program is a waste of time. Only people that have people in high places get their scholarships, so you better not waste any time banking on it. Or have you forgotten what happened to me?”

It is on the tip of my tongue to tell him he didn't pass because he neither had the aptitude nor prepared enough for it, but I know this will worsen an already bad situation.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he says, sounding just as weary as I feel. “Later.”

My heart is heavy as the line disconnects for the second time that night. I can’t afford to lose him. At the age of 26, starting over is not an option for me. Aput is attractive and can get any woman he wants. As for me, I’m not exactly a head turner. The odds of finding another guy like him are slim to none.

I cast a furtive glance up to the heavens, tempted to run back into the house and start my rosary, to beg God to grant me this one thing, this one thing I desire with every inch of my heart.