How to mend a broken mirror.

Do you know how to mend a broken mirror? It is very delicate work. Time-consuming, attention-
demanding. You must be prepared for the little pieces that bruise your fingers, for the waves of
doubt that urge you to let it go. You must be prepared for the voices in your head. They will tell
you that your mirror cannot be fixed. They will say you are wasting your time, but you must stay
strong if you must succeed, and you must not relent.

When you are ready, this is how to go about it.

You will sit up on your large matrimonial bed at 3am, after trying, trying, and finally giving up on
sleep. You will stare at the man lying next to you, his body curved and his legs folded in a fetal
position, and a wide smile will form on your tired face. You will watch him snore lightly and envy
his ability to fall asleep so easily, so peacefully. Then, you will plant a kiss on his slightly parted
lips and whisper “Wake up, Tunde” in his ears.

He will grumble something about being sleepy, and you will tap him hard on the shoulder again
and again until his eyes fly open, because he has to be awake, because you need him.

“Fine, Fine, Layefa. I’m up. What’s so important?” He will ask.

Do not answer right away, or you will choke on your words and break down in tears. Take your
time with it; your silence is enough. He will sit up too, next to you, and hold you tenderly in his
arms, because he knows— he always just knows. You will rest your head on his hairy chest now,
and you will sob uncontrollably, letting it all out. He won’t interrupt your crying. He won’t tell you
that it is about time you let things go, like people do often. He will rub on your back gently and
leave kisses on your forehead.

When your eyes are dry and the lump in your throat is melted, you will look at him in the eyes
and say “Darling, I want to try.” He will smile at you. The dying butterflies in your tummy will
flutter with life for a second, only a second, and your heart will nearly burst with gratitude. You
will be thankful for his presence, because you are never alone. He will kneel beside you everyday
as you mend with your broken mirror.

When you begin to mend your mirror, the first bruise will hurt like a bitch. You will feel it on a
Tuesday, on your way back from Bible Study. In the Tricycle that you board back home, the
nineteen year old seated next to you will bring out a breast from beneath her shirt and stuff her
nipple in the mouth of a baby, about six months old. You will watch the baby suck with hunger
and you will feel the pain in your own nipples, sharp, stinging. You will not need to look down at
your white shirt. You will know there are patches around both your nipples: breast milk.
Do not burst into tears there, in a public vehicle. Wrap your hands around your breasts to cover it
up, and wait until you step into the yellow and black gate that protects your home. You will run
straight to the bathroom, peel your clothes off and sink into the bath tub. Then, letting the water
run, you will wrap your hands around yourself and cry yourself to sleep. He will come find you, he
will carry you to the bedroom and lay you on the bed, and he will kiss your bruise until it hurts
considerably less. You will not relapse. Must not.

This is how to mend a broken mirror: you will wake up every morning wanting to try again. You
will wear a little make-up for the first time since it broke, and you will get your hair done. You will
stand naked before your partner and you will try not be ashamed. You will not rush back into
your clothes; you will watch silently as he kisses parts of you that you have hidden from him—
from yourself—all this while. Your breasts. Your arms. Your thighs. You will close your eyes as he
kisses your belly, and wonder if the stretch marks irritate him as much as they do you. You will
expect him to turn his face away, to get up and leave, because you think you look disgusting. But
he will stay, and he will kiss every stretch mark, every fat mound, until you open your eyes and
see that it’s not so bad, after all.

The voices in your head will begin their song when your mirror is almost fixed, and they will cause
you pain. It will happen on his birthday. You will stand by the window and wait for him to return
home from work. Chicken curry sauce and white rice set on the table. You will put on the black
dress you wore to his company’s dinner the year before you were married, even though it’s a
little too tight now. Yes, the dress you wore on your first night together.

Then, from the bedroom window of the storey building that you call home, you will watch him
drive into your busy street. You will watch him stop by the fruit seller’s stall, a few houses before
yours, and you will watch him pick some fruits. Bananas. Cucumbers. Guavas. He will smile at the
fruit seller and her little baby, and you will frown as you watch him carry the baby girl in his arms.
He will raise the child up and down playfully, and kiss her on cheek before leaving her back in her
mother’s opens arms. Do not remain at the window. You will go downstairs and welcome your
man.

When he steps into the house with the bag of fruits, he will have a smile on his face, and it will
disgust you.

“Laye, wow. You dressed up.” He will say, wide-eyed. Say nothing. Do not let your anger burst.

You will turn away and climb angrily up the stairs, and he will chase after you because he knows,
like he always does, that something is not right. You will lock yourself up in the bathroom and sit
on the cold tiles, crying. Do not turn on the shower, so you can hear him talk. He will beg you to
open up, to let him in, and you will sob even louder.
“What is going on, Laye? Are you hiding from me now? What did I do wrong? Did anything
happen when I was away? Can we not communicate, like we always do?”

Question after question. He will not leave room for your answers because he knows you will say
nothing. After an hour, you will open the door, and he will rush in after you. He will find you on
the floor and cradle you in his arms, both of you, silent.

When twenty long minutes of silence pass, say:

“I saw you with that baby girl outside. I saw how much you wanted her for yourself. It’s no fair to
me. It’s not fair to us. We lost all three of them before they were born. They never had a chance
at life. And Beulah, I really thought she would stay. I named her. I really thought she would stay. I
know you must hate me. I don’t know how you pretend not to, but it’s commendable. My body is
ugly because of them. My breasts have sagged, I am so fat and my belly is disgusting. I can’t even
see my pubic hair standing straight. You asked me a while back why I broke all the mirrors. I
cannot bare to look at myself. I am hideous, and I cannot carry a child, and I am going to leave
you.”

You will watch your mirror crash all over again to a million tiny pieces, and he will struggle to
catch each piece, to hold it together, even though it hurts. He will not let you fail.

“Layefa Temisayo. You will not do this.” He will say, looking straight into your eyes. You will hear
the fear in his voice, you will feel him tremble.

“I don’t care what you think you look like. You are my wife, and I have loved you before them. I
will always love you. So what, you added a little weight and your body doesn’t look the same. You
are a fighter, my fighter, and it is okay to have scars. I love every bit of you today more than I did
yesterday, and that’s not changing. We will work things through. You are more than this, Laye,
and I will not let you ruin yourself. We will go out and eat dinner somewhere fancy, and then we
will come back home and I will make love you if you will let me, and we will be okay.”

You will look in his eyes and you will know —you will just know— that he means every word of it.

In the morning, you will look at your reflection in the window and you will not feel nauseous. The
stretch marks on your belly will not disgust you, and you will smile thinking of the night before.