God bless you all for your prayers, encouraging words and messages.
I can’t thank you enough.
She has never heard her heart beat so loudly and so fast. She is certain everyone in the room can hear it. That and the nonstop flapping of butterflies in her tummy. She is a nervous wreck and not even Mahmud’s hand on hers can calm her.
Her eyes are fixed on the floor. They stare hard at Mahmud’s dad’s well-manicured toes. She dares not look up at the man, with his full, white beards and rheumy eyes that enjoy seeing into her soul and ripping out her self-assurance. His wife has a more agreeable face but even the calm on it is not enough to dispel her fears today.
Wura, Mahmud and Bilal had flown into Sokoto two days ago on the old man’s request. It is not Wura’s first visit but it is her first, true welcome. She is received warmly and given one of the best rooms to stay in. Mahmud’s mother lets her into her kitchen to help out with the meals and cleaning, even though there are other girls in the house – relatives of the family. All of Mahmud’s older siblings are absent, although the first two live with them here in Sokoto. Wura is rather glad that the house is quite empty. The last time she visited, the whole family, excluding Asma had put her in the same spot she is presently seated, and told her without flinching to cut off ties from their lastborn. That night had been frightening. She remembers staying awake until morning and disappearing at the first break of daylight. Echoes of that night still haunt her and this is why she has imagined the worst this morning.
“Wuraola,” Mahmud’s father calls. It is the second time he is saying her name. She keeps her head down even though she answers him.
“Look at me.”
His quiet, commanding tone forces her head up. She swallows as his soul-ripping eyes go straight into hers.
“Everyone knows that I do not speak many words,” he says. Her stare breaks away from his to the sparkling white jalabia he has on. “So, I’ll go straight to the point. Look at me.”
Wura takes her eyes back to his again.
“For reasons that are best known to us in the Suleiman family, we approve of your marriage to our son.”
Wura’s stare widens. She shoots a sharp look of disbelief at Mahmud and back at the old man.
“We also do not compel you to convert to Islam. Mahmud has always been an extremely liberal Muslim and we are not quite surprised that he has chosen a Christian girl to marry…”
“For the second time,” Mahmud’s mother adds.
“But he is our son and we want the best for him. If he is convinced that you are that best, despite everything we have done to separate both of you, then alhamdulillah. All we ask is that you stay faithful to him. May it not be found in you that you went back to your old ways, Wuraola. Be a good, humble and submissive wife to him. Do not follow the ways of today’s women who feel they are equal to their men. I know Mahmud does not mind but please, respect him in all areas.”
Wura nods as a force of unnecessary tears distorts her view.
“Should he ever have the desire to get married to another wife, preferably a Muslim—even though it’s not our way in the Suleiman family—please, don’t stop him.”
Mahmud tightens his hold. She knows he is assuring her that she’ll be his only wife.
“Stay close to your God. Take care of our grandson. He must be raised a Muslim.”
Wura neither nods nor shows any sign of agreement. Bilal already has a foundation of both religions. He always follows her to church but has his little prayer mat on which he imitates her cousin each time he prays. Sometimes Wura lets the boy take him to the juma’at mosque near the house for the evening asr prayers.
“We pray that God will bless your marriage and your home,” Mahmud’s father concludes.
The unnecessary tears now make a full residence on Wura’s face as she leaves the comfort of Mahmud’s hand and goes to her future parents-in-law to show her appreciation. She falls on her knees before them. The hands that touch her are not the same cold hands that had reluctantly approved of her marriage to their son two years ago. She can feel the warmth. Something has changed. She wonders what.
On the flight back to Lagos, she and Mahmud talk about it.
“He thinks he’s dying,” Mahmud explains. “Prostate cancer.”
“It’s a silent killer. He’s had it for years and didn’t know but it has been treated. He’s in remission.”
“That’s good, right?”
“Yeah. But he believes it will come back again and has made up his mind not to treat it if it does.”
Wura looks at Mahmud. His face holds no expression. He has never been the type to wear his emotions outwardly. You can only read him by a rise or drop in energy. For the past couple of days, he has been quiet.
“He’ll be fine, Mymood. Just have faith.”
Mahmud smiles at her, adjusting a sleeping Bilal to lie properly on his chest. Wura slips on a pair of earphones to listen to her collection of Christian soft rock and she goes into silent prayer.
∞∞∞∞ ∞∞∞∞ ∞∞∞∞
“Okay, madam, give me one last push.”
A tired mother, just about to have her first baby, gives me a drained look. I smile back.
“I know. But your baby is here.” I take her hand which her husband is holding and guide it down to the tub of water she’s seated in so she can feel her son’s head between her legs.
“You feel that? He’s here. That’s why it hurts so much. But one push will take away all the pain. Can you do that for me?”
“Okay, ma’am. Push!”
“Oya, PUSH!” her husband shouts and gets me laughing. The man has been a relief for sour mood. I don’t particularly like water births because of the extra mess they come with – I have done it only once, owing to its unpopular nature in Nigeria – but this man has made my time with him and his wife in their home bearable today. He is the coolest Caucasian I ever met and his pidgin is high grade stuff. Warri approved.
His wife lets out a scream and she births her baby with just that one push. I slowly bring the baby up for air, letting him have a feel of the water first. He lets out a cry, I pass him unto his mom and my work is done. A junior midwife takes over while I capture the moment. I am not allowed to upload this one on Instagram yet until the couple first shares it with the world.
I walk away from them to give them their moment while I get set to leave.
Nne once told me that he who fights and runs away may live to fight another day.
In many ways, that proverb is true. But not in my case, not when I don’t feel like fighting with Honey anymore. I have acted irrationally and insensitively towards her. This is me admitting it, but not to her who deserves to hear it.
It’s been four days too long and I miss everything about her. Even her insecurity and misgivings. I miss Jiney too.
The only cure to the emptiness is to swallow my ego and go back home to them.
But there’s a lot I want to say. I want to be honest with her about myself, tell her things I was supposed to have told her before we got married. I had thought they would burn up under the fiery flame of what we shared but some other things came in and turned that fire down too fast.
Now, we are here, me hiding secrets, Honey hurting from my misbehavior. But I hope she knows that I didn’t set out to hurt her. I hope she recognizes how much I love her.
“Thank you, DOM,” the grateful mother tells me. I smile back at her, watching the familiar scene before me as her husband gives me a thumbs up. I leave their home and drive back to the hospital. Somehow, I have lost track of my activities and I need to be reminded. I stop in front of the roster board at the midwifery wing to see if I have any more patients today. I rub my eyes that have been longing for sleep over the past couple of days as I inhale the spicy scent of Hauwa’s perfume. She comes up behind me to stare at the board as well.
I give her an eye.
“You and I need a talk,” I tell her.
“Yeah, the long-winded type that would leave you in tears and make us stop speaking to each other in a while.”
“Somebody is pissed this morning,” she says in a singsong tone. I face her with a glower.
“We need time apart, Hauwa.”
“You’re…breaking up with me?” she clutches the stethoscope around her neck with both hands.
“Can you be serious for once and just try not to get on everyone’s nerves?”
“I’ve tried. It doesn’t work.”
I grunt silently. Hauwa is an annoying person, and I’m saying this in the nicest possible way. She enjoys getting a rise out of people for fun. She has always been like this. But she is actually kindhearted beneath. Six years ago, her generosity had overlooked the fact that I was a strange man in a strange city, and offered me the spare bedroom in her house just because she had heard me ask a mutual colleague for the number of a house agent.
That generosity helped me get settled into my new job and was there for me on nights when the pain of losing Ezinne was too much to bear. She hadn’t been inappropriate towards me; rather it was I that read the signals wrongly on a rainy afternoon when I went for her lips.
Hauwa had laughed and pushed me away that day, giving me the ‘you’re like a brother to me,’ look. A few days after, my new apartment was ready and she helped me move into it. Contrary to what Honey imagines in her silly, little head, Hauwa and I have never been physical or romantic. She helped me score many chicks back then and always came to me whenever she had man problems. She took Mary’s place in my life for the time I spent with her. I felt no need to share this with Honey. Not that I was hiding anything but Honey had acted coldly on their first meeting and I didn’t see it as a good sign. Hence, I kept details of my relationship with Hauwa away from her.
The time spent in Canada had been fun for Hauwa, mostly because she was getting out of a two-year relationship that had been hell, and secondly, because the other midwives and nurses at the hospital were pissed that I picked her as part of my travel team. The beef was that she was a newbie in the hospital and didn’t deserve the spot. But I had not cared what they thought. I was repaying a favor to a friend who had been there for me in the past. She needed the vacation.
Nobody saw her whenever she withdrew to a corner to break down in tears and mull about her failed relationships. Being two years older than I am, she believes she is way past the marriage age and may never find the man of her dreams. This is made even more difficult with her standards. Hauwa is saving her body for marriage and will not date a man who is struggling, abusive and a cheat. These are realistic deal breakers I think all women should have. Unfortunately, women like Hauwa always find themselves being left out of the marriage circle. I feel bad that all my reasonable guy friends are married. All the same, I’ll find someone for her.
“So do you want to have this talk over lunch or in your office…?” she holds on to her stethoscope.
“Let’s do it here,” I reply, taking my eyes away from the nurses watching us but pretending to be going through a file.
“Okay, I’m putting on my serious face.” Hauwa pushes her lips to a pout.
“Can you be more professional with me when we’re working?”
“I thought I’ve always been.”
“You haven’t, and I’m tired of the gossip behind our backs. I’m your boss, you’re under me. Keep it strictly professional. Asides that, I’m a married man. That Facebook stunt you did put me in a lot of trouble.”
“I apologized nau, Jide.”
“You did but I have to draw the line. So, please keep you distance. Can you do that?”
“Sure.” She giggles. Her eyes, however, read something different. My words have hurt her. “Can I go now, DOM?”
“Have a nice day, sir.”
She walks away, as do the eavesdropping nurses. I head towards my office, feeling like an ass, tired and craving for Honey’s afang soup. I’m craving for her lips too. All four of them.
We haven’t spoken to each other since Sunday, but she has uploaded a video of Jiney on Facebook in which she tagged me. I have watched the video over ten times.
I stretch out on the examination table in my office and as I am about to shut my eyes, I receive a call from my mom. I stare at the phone, having no desire to answer, but somehow, I do.
“I’m fine, mom. Good morning.”
She doesn’t reply in English as she straightaway goes into the reason why she is calling. Honey has told on me and the old woman summons me for questioning.
“I’ll be there shortly,” I reply, leaving the bed. Still wearing my scrubs, I walk out of my office and down a long pass that leads to the parking lot. I get into the car and start the engine. The car hums for a while before I force myself to move it out of its spot, towards the gates.
I still am not in the mood to be doing a lot of driving. I love to be chauffeured around but the idea of having a driver does not just appeal to me yet. Maybe when I get older and look like RMD, I may fit into the narrative.
I drive to the family house. I am ready for whatever Nne has to say, as long as she lets me have a proper home-cooked meal which I haven’t had in a while.
“Is it not you that wants to live like a bachelor?” she tells me, serving me a dish of oha soup, filled with all sorts of meats and fish. Beside the dish is a plate of akpu. For the first few minutes when I start to eat, I can’t even hear anything she is saying. Her words begin to settle in after the fifth swallow and second piece of fish.
“Erhinyuse must be treated like gold, Jidenna. I don’t want to ever see her cry the way she did when she came here. Do you think it’s easy to see your husband with another woman?”
I stop chewing for a second and gaze at my mom. Her question is from a place of pain.
“Don’t treat her less than she deserves, and let it be the last time I’ll hear that you slept outside your house.”
“But Honey has trust issues and I can’t deal, abeg.”
“It is for better and for worse, Jide. Besides, whose fault is it that she has trust issues?”
I give no answer.
“You no fit talk abi?”
I almost laugh. In one short conversation, my mom has gone from English to Igbo and now to pidgin.
“No be like that,” I answer her.
“Then, how is it?”
I exhale. I want to tell her my own side of the story but this is a bad idea already, having a third party in my marriage. I never planned to do this. Honey and I had agreed that we would not let family or friends in but I guess I pushed her to this point. I’ll take responsibility and fix things.
“Mom, I’m sorry that you have to be called in to put me straight. I messed up and I’ll do the right thing from now on.”
“Marriage is not easy, I must tell you. Sometimes…” She looks away and comes back to me. “Sometimes, a lot is lost in translation even when you’re face to face. The end of a discussion can become the start of a squabble and then little issues become major ones. But you have to keep the fire burning.”
“Please, don’t hurt her again,” she advises me in Igbo. “She’s your wife. Your baby. Hold her like an egg. I know she wrongfully accused you and I know how she gets irrational but be gentle with her. Follow her like a child. Small-small. Hot soup is eaten little by little.”
I look down at my plate of soup which has not been eaten little by little. All that is left is the large chunks of beef in it.
“Can I have more, please?”
Nne points to the kitchen. I walk in there, top the soup and return.
“I’ve spoken to a friend of mine to get you people a maid since that silly Ndidiamaka cannot have sense to know that all the housework rests on her.”
“Nne!” I laugh. “Didi is actually a nice girl.”
“Didi? Is that what you call her?”
“Hmmm. Okay o. Let her just hurry up and find her own place so that two of you can have peace.”
I say nothing further. The woman has refused to let Didi into her heart no matter what we try.
“Nne, this soup na die!” I lick my fingers. “I really miss your cooking.”
She smacks my head. “You don’t have sense. It’s your wife that prepared it.”
I glare at the soup as if just seeing it for the first time. “Eziokwu!”
“I’m telling you. She did it all on her own,” Nne replies with a proud smile. “No supervision whatsoever. Go home and thank her.”
I say a silent ‘wow’ as I keep on eating; the soup suddenly becomes a hundred times more delicious. Honey amazes me every day with the things she does. She deserves more than I give. I’m going home straightaway to make things right with her.
∞∞∞∞ ∞∞∞∞ ∞∞∞∞
My feet touch down in Lagos. I step on familiarity – and wait for some form of elation to hit me but I feel nothing.
I thought I would miss this place but I haven’t. I just want to turn around, hop back on the plane and find myself in Fiji again.
“I understand exactly how you feel.” Naomi touches my hand and guides me towards the airport shuttle. When we sit in, alongside other passengers, Naomi is facing me, staring at me in that eerie manner she had stared at me throughout our three-week vacation in Fiji. The look basically spells her desire for me, of which I have no business with. I tell her this on the morning I leave the house after Shady hits me. I think of the million places to be other than hers but all those other places belong to my friends whose marriages are perfect. I could visit Peace but she is sleeping over at Honey’s. And so I choose the least person my commonsense wants me to go to. Naomi welcomes me, arms open, my face pressed to her chest. I don’t care. I just want to let the tears out. Nobody told me boobs can be this comforting.
“Can I stay here for a while?” I request.
“Of course, darling,” she replies, stroking my hair. At this point, I am not thinking. I just want to be far away from Shady.
“You know what?” She takes my face and brings it to hers. “Let’s travel out. Have you ever left the shores of Nigeria before?”
I lift my shoulder and drop it in embarrassment.
“No need to be ashamed. But you do have a passport?”
Yes, I have a passport. My pastor once told everyone who had hopes of flying out of Nigeria to make a move of faith. Many dropped seed faith offerings. I decided to get a passport because I was too broke to afford a seed faith and a passport at the same time. I had figured that if the opportunity came knocking, I’d be ready. I had figured right. And as Naomi holds my face I tell myself that God is answering my prayers.
“Pick anywhere you want to travel to. At least, somewhere that doesn’t require a visa.”
My eyes dash left and right in thought, and then I remember reading an article about places one can travel to outside the shores of Nigeria that wouldn’t require a visa.
“Let’s check online,” I suggest. Both of us hunch over her phone for almost an hour and then we pick Fiji Island. Immediately, she calls a luxury travel service and makes arrangements to request a travel concierge to Fiji.
“I’ll give you a good time,” she says to me with such thirst in her voice that I see a horny man’s face on her. It is at this juncture I explain to her that I’m not going to open my legs for her.
“I just need to go away and clear my head, Naomi.”
“I don’t care. Being with you on a holiday is way better than sitting here, playing dutiful wife to a man who is hardly around.”
Still, I make her promise not to jump on my lips again.
“Brownie honor,” she swears. Two days later, we’re flying first class to Fiji. There, I have the time of my life but I find myself falling into quiet moments where I rather wish to be enjoying the holiday with Shady and Dara. It is on one of those occasions I succumb to my heart and call Shady. He tells me he’s sorry for the zillionth time. He says he misses me. He puts Dara on the phone. I listen to my baby with tears in my eyes as I gaze ahead at the ocean. Over me, the shadow of a palm leaves dance. Sometimes, it’s Naomi’s fingers making forms in my view.
Shady tells me he’ll save the number. I don’t want him to, knowing he will call at every chance he has.
“How are you coping?” I ask. But what I really mean is, ‘have you gotten your lazy ass a job?’
“Well, we’re managing,” he replies. “Still scouting around for something. God will provide.”
I sigh inwardly. I’m no longer upset. I have given up. Naomi offered me the job of being her personal consultant cum assistant, and that involves traveling everywhere with her on business trips and basically helping her make most of her decisions. It’s a great offer, considering the financial benefits that come with it. I accepted the proposal but I asked her if it comes with groping my breasts. To that, she laughed.
“I’m not that horny,” she replied.
“Than what do you want from me?”
She smiled that manly smile and that was all I got. I guess it’s some sort of mating thing lesbians do.
“Cee, are you there?” Shady calls my attention away from a Caucasian couple that are snorkeling in the body of water not far from me.
“Just be praying for me,” Shady adds in a depressing manner. It is this same mood that meets me when I return to Lagos. Naomi’s chauffeur who has driven us into town from the airport, parks the car outside the compound Shady and I share with three other families.
Naomi moves closer to me and links her hand in mine.
“Thank you for the fun I had back in Fiji.”
“Thank you for the vacation. I really needed it.”
She dips her other hand into her handbag and takes out another envelope, much like the one she gave me almost two months ago, only fatter. I had returned the other one on the morning I went to her.
“I added two thousand dollars, Cece. You need it. Take it.”
Am I to be a hypocrite and say no after I have enjoyed an entire trip on her tab? No, not when Shady and I both need it.
I take the envelope and on my own accord, hug her. Despite the attraction thing she has going on in her head, she has been a good friend. Not tested, not trusted, just good.
I come down and head into the compound as her car drives away. At the entrance of the compound I see my neighbors, all three of them, seated on a bench. Two are married while the other lives with her fiancée. They are all housewives, the types that sit and gossip about working women like me. I know that I’m always the main topic of all their discussions.
Walking past them, I throw in a greeting that is tersely answered. I walk to my door, and just as I insert the key, I hear, “Iya Dara, your husband and pikin no dey here again o!”
I pretend not to have heard. I turn the key, push in a rather dusty door and walk into an empty living room.
I stop, not sure if I am in the right house. Everything is gone. From the furniture, to curtains, and even our wedding photos on the walls.
I hear a voice behind me. It’s the neighbor who had spoken earlier.
“I been dey tell you say your husband don pack but you no answer.”
“My husband packed?” I turn. “To where nau?”
She hits the back of one hand over the palm of the other with her lips pressed together and sloped down in a gossip manner.
“Last week, hin carry one big lorry wey come pack everything commot. You sef, where you go? Una been dey fight abi na wetin?”
I don’t answer her. I walk to my bedroom and find it in a similar state as the living room. Same with Dara’s bedroom.
“Your husband sha don change. Hin get one fine jeep like this.”
I look at her.
“Chasis ride! Whether dem dey call am Pathfinder abi na Range Rover, I know no. The car sha fine die! Even the cloth hin dey wear these days…correct, correct corporate. I no know say the man handsome like that.” She laughs. “If na vex you vex am, biko, go beg am before all these Lagos girls help you manage am.”
All she is saying is strange in my ear but I intend to get to the bottom of it. I give my empty house one last look and step out. Outside the compound, I restore my Nigerian SIM card and the first thing I do is dial Shady. He picks my call.
“Shady? What is going on? I’m at the house and there’s nothing there. What happened? Where are you? Where is Dara?”
He laughs. Heartily. “Calm down, madam. Your blood too dey hot. Where are you?”
“Stay there. I’ll come get you. Welcome back.”
He hangs up and I contemplate on whether I should go back into the compound or wait outside. I choose the latter, settling on a bench with my travel case beside me. I wait for a long time and Shady eventually comes – driving an SUV I don’t recognize. Like my neighbor noted, it’s a Pathfinder, sleek and black. When Shady steps out of it dressed like he owns the stolen billions the president has been trying to recover, I blink several times.
He walks to me, sweeps me up and kisses lips that are parted in surprise.
“Shadrach, what is going on?”
He doesn’t reply. He ushers me into the SUV, taking my luggage along. Later on, after long kisses, him gushing over me and refusing to let go of my hand, he tells me how Ibro changed our fortune.
I sit beside him, quiet, staring. I can hardly recognize him. He is happy, talking rapidly, telling me how many more doors have opened since then but he is wiser now to hold on to what is working well for him. He thanks me for walking out on him to shake out the lazy man he used to be.
“You did the right thing, leaving me, Cee.”
But it hadn’t felt that way that night when I was sitting on the floor, wondering what I was supposed to do. I always used to have a quick answer to situations like that.
“Walk away from the marriage,” I would say. “Once he hits you, he’ll never stop.”
But there I was, the woman who was hit by her husband, and the last thing I wanted to do was leave Shady. He was on his knees. He was begging, having just called my brother, Joey, and reported himself. I would have warned him against doing that if I had known he would. Joey will thrash him like a child when next he sees him. One, two, ten years from now, Joey will enact his revenge. Shady was never Joey’s choice for me.
“Too broke,” Joey had told me after their first meeting. “Find someone with the means to take care of you.”
But I had never been that woman who puts money before love. I loved Shady with that deep kind of love that was rare. And I still do. I still love the man who has abused me.
I didn’t stop weeping. My mind was plagued with many things.
Shady was not an abusive man…but what if he really was? What if that was the beginning of an abusive marriage?
Was I to walk away? Or give him another chance? If I give him another chance will things go back to how they used to be? Could I trust him not to hurt me? And then there was that little issue of my pride that had been bruised. Where was the Celia who would not take nonsense from any man? Why did I feel so weak? What the hell was I to do?
He didn’t stop begging, and the hardest part was that he gave no excuses over what he had done. The devil, jealousy, a bad childhood, my sharp mouth, his financial situation – none of them were to blame. It was all on him. He didn’t even say it was a mistake, nor was he asking me to forgive him. He was simply begging me not to see him as a monster. In-between were moments when he stopped and thought back to the time when he hit me, shocked at himself for what he had done.
I was shocked as he was but hours passed and some kind of numbness took over, bringing dark silence as we both lay in bed. I did not let him touch me. I cringed at the feel of his hand over my skin, and so he withdrew.
Neither of us slept. The morning came as quietly as the night left. I rose from the bed, packed my clothes into a bag and told him I was leaving.
“Take the car.” He jumped out of bed and went for the car key. I shook my head. “Please… you need it.”
“Shady, stop… I’m just going away to clear my head and know what to do with us. I don’t need the car.”
I couldn’t look into his face—at expressive eyes that always drew me in like quicksand, or at generous lips that had kissed me a million different ways—and lose my will to leave. This marriage thing, nobody tells you, is iron mixed with miry clay. It gets you stuck and you cannot leave without breaking your legs. But it wasn’t entirely about leaving. It was about knowing I had the choice whenever it became too difficult to clutch. It was about power.
Yes, I had it all figured out, feminist me. I knew all my options and I’d been through scenes like that in my head but nothing trumps reality, when you have to tear away from the person that has become your breath.
“Are you going with Dara?” Shady had asked.
I didn’t give him an explanation, and that was because I didn’t have any. I just wanted to stay far from everybody.
I hurried out before he said something that could break me further. I didn’t check on Dara. I just breezed past her bedroom and through the living room to find the cold, moist air that was outside my warm home. I had no plan when I went away that morning but somehow I found my purpose out there. Fiji gave me freedom. Fiji showed me I can do and be whatever I want to do and be. It awakened my wanderlust.
I love my husband, I have forgiven him, I am ecstatic for what Ibro has done in our lives but this is not who I want to be right now.
Shady’s warm, wet lips rest on mine in a loving kiss. I almost tear up at the happiness I see in his eyes. Finally, he is here. He can hold his head high without pretense. I am happy but I am sad my own dreams will take me away from him.
“Let’s go home,” I say. “Wherever home is…”
He chuckles. “We’ll pick Dara from the office, first.” He starts the car. His left hand is on the wheel and the right one holds mine.
This is a perfect scene, one we have always fantasized about but how do I tell him that in a short while I’ll be jetting off to some other part of the world and I’ll abandon him and Dara again? How do I tell him that I’ve found my dreams but they have nothing to do with him?
Juma’at – Friday
Asr – The late part of the afternoon when Muslims pray
Eziokwu – Is that so? Oh yeah?