An extract from an intriguing, captivating new book by an upcoming Nigerian writer Munir Bello on modern day relationships. He has given us permission to publish the first chapter of his book for your enjoyment. Have a read...
Itâ€™s not me itâ€™s you, itâ€™s not you itâ€™s me. Potayto, Potato, Tomayto, Tomato, Letâ€™s call the whole thing off. The break up is one of those things that unfortunately occur in life on a regular basis. How we deal with them and how we deliver the news form part of the complexities of starting the next stage of our lives. Letâ€™s face it the break up is a process predetermined by many focus areas, â€œWhen do I do it?â€ â€œHow do I do it?â€ â€œAm I 100% sure I want to do this?â€ â€œWhat should I wear?â€ â€œWhat impression do I want to leave?â€ â€œDo I stay in contact?â€ Humans have done this for years and you would think that the art would have been perfected by now, WRONG! In order to understand a break up we must understand relationships from conception to termination. Is there such a thing as a perfect break up? Is there some perfect recipe that eludes the human race that could leave both parties smiling? FUCK NO!
So my alarm has just gone off, itâ€™s a special day today, I have to clean the house from head to toe and do all the domestic work. Whatâ€™s so special about that you say? Well, my girlfriend has been away for a whole week, meaning my place is untidy. Scratch that - itâ€™s a motherfucking tip. There are beer bottles everywhere. Dirty clothes have taken the place of the carpet. The toilet is full of skidmarks. There is a puke stain in the middle of the room the size of a small island. These are the obvious things.
Then there are the small things I have to make a mental note of taking care of to make this homecoming complete. The first is the small matter of clearing my internet history which is littered with filth (canâ€™t have that). Oh and then there are the jizz stains on the bed sheets as a result of aforementioned adventures. The shirt with lipstick on the collar (from a night at a strip club) must be soaked in bleach to remove all evidence of perfume along with the offending red stain. Mobile phone must be cleared of phone calls made to certain female friends that my other half doesnâ€™t know exist.
Now Iâ€™m in panic mode as Iâ€™m starting to think, â€œIs that it? It all seems too easyâ€. Ah of course thereâ€™s one more thing, the fucking stench of cigarette smoke!! â€œShit!!â€ As a non-smoker Samantha hates the smell of the stuff. There is also the small matter of her thinking that I quit. Brain kicks into gear, â€œI can blame It on Carlâ€ Nope canâ€™t do that, Samantha hates people coming round if she hasnâ€™t prepared the house herself. Sheâ€™s so house proud she once tried to tape the remotes in a way which would mean nobody could see them, naturally the consequences were disastrous as the TV couldnâ€™t see them either.
The world that I inhabit with my beloved in this house lives by one rule. Her rules of course. If a thing is out of place the accusations of an affair start resulting in an explanation regarding why the chair is now at a funny angle. I couldnâ€™t have possibly chosen to sit on it. Oh no... I have my special chair for that, the others are purely decorative. Another one of my queens rules is that once the toilet role is 4/6ths, YES FUCKING 4/6ths used then a spare one should be ready placed next to it and not before. Iâ€™ve now got that down to an art.
I finally get up and go about my chores with the dedication of a stalker and the precision of a serial killer. I am rushing around like a rapist transforming what looks like a bunker in Fallujah into Mrs Doubtfireâ€™s wet dream. You could lick my toilet bowl by the time Iâ€™m done with it and you would quite happily eat your food off my floor (just in case it crossed your mind to). If your baby was on my table your disinfectant wipes would be obsolete. Iâ€™m a fucking legend and I have once again succeeded in polishing a turd and finding the gold nugget that lurks underneath.
Next on the list, grooming. I havenâ€™t seen the lady in some time so I have to make an effort, but what to wear that is sure to get her in the mood? After going through the closet for what seems like a lifetime I settle on an outfit. Navy blue V neck jumper (hides the belly) and beige slim chinos. Excellent! But thereâ€™s only one fucking problem! The chinos are wet! Yes ladies and gents it has been in the wash and still needs drying out. Unfortunately Samantha took her hair dryer with her so I canâ€™t (secretly) use them to dry my trousers. Plan B, â€œI know Iâ€™ll iron them dryâ€ So that only takes ooh... 45 minutes and they look a slightly different colour but theyâ€™re dry. YES!
Showered with that special occasion shower gel, shaved my man garden as well as the happy highway on my stomach. Face is smooth and hair is also smooth (like to keep it bald). I have sprayed my jumper in an insane amount of perfume and hung it out on the sofa so when I see the queen I wonâ€™t smell like Iâ€™ve just covered myself in the stuff neither will it smell like itâ€™s days old. The smell will linger in the car on the way home so that when she gets home sheâ€™ll want to rip my clothes off. Preparation is key my friend. After trying on the outfit I look at the mirror and say, â€œMark you are a handsome manâ€
So sorry, I should have said from the beginning: my name is Mark - well, my full name is Mark Mutton and I am the long suffering victim of an unfortunate name. I work in Sales, mostly over the phone and let me tell you it is a very fascinating world in my office, more of which later. Anyway I digress, I am â€˜smediumâ€™. I once was a small man
but unfortunately the years of comfortable life with Queen Bee have made me a little softer in places. I once had a six pack which is now hidden beneath a few more layers. I am still in denial about this and so wear reasonably fitted clothing that just about hides my mini gut.
I do all the regular things youâ€™d expect of a heterosexual in possession of a penis and testicles. I like to play sport, football mostly (surprise surprise). I hang out with my friends and swap stories that glorify my manhood. My hobbies outside of the prying eyes of the general public include watching sex and the city which Lolita kindly claims to be hers when anybody comes round and also listening to songs from old musicals.