The Face In The Mirror

My best friend advised me against this, but what choice do I have? Femi and I have been together for a little over a year, but our relationship has deteriorated over the past few months. At some point, he just lost his charm, and with it went the feelings I had for him. For weeks, I have been looking for an excuse to break up with him. “I simply no longer feel the same way,” wouldn’t quite cut it because he’ll only ask me “Why?” and then try to beg, which would only make things harder and more painful. Now though, I think he himself might have just handed me the perfect reason to call it quits.

His behaviour has been off all week. I would stop by his place in the afternoon and meet him asleep. Odd for a guy who self-identifies as a morning person. When I try to text or call him at night, I get no response, and when I ask him why I wasn’t able to reach him, he says he was sleeping. But I now know that is not true. My best friend, Abisola, claimed two days ago that she spotted him at a night club around four in the morning. Add that to the phone I found hidden in his wardrobe yesterday, and all evidence points to one conclusion — Femi is cheating.

Is it weird that I’m not mad, that I actually feel relieved? I didn’t want to be the one to hurt him, because prior to this, he’s been well…good to me. I’m the one who started slacking, the one who drifted away. My feelings for him just evaporated out of the blue and I’ve been feeling guilty about it. With this, I can finally let go of that guilt.

My plan tonight is a little extreme, I admit, but I have no choice. I have to catch Femi in the act or he might lie his way out of this. Not that he lies a lot or that this type of behaviour is typical of him, in fact, I didn’t even believe he was capable of something like this at all, but at the end of the day, he’s a Yoruba man. If he decides to lie, I know those lies will flow out so sweetly that I might be tempted to disregard my own instincts. A stake out was the best idea I could come up with, and as a result, I’ve been camped out in my car all day just outside Femi’s apartment. When the clock hits 11 P.M. and nothing’s happened yet, I start to think maybe I’ve wasted my time, but then Femi steps out, kitted out in a fancy black jacket and all white Nikes. Yes, he’s going to cheat on me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t admit he looks great in that fit.

I start my engine and get ready to tail him as he gets into his car. It’s showtime. Some thirty minutes later, he pulls up in the marking lot of the “North” night club, the same night club Abisola had spotted him in. I park on the other side of the street to maintain a low-profile. It becomes clear at the entrance that Femi must have been coming here for quite some time judging from the familiarity with which the bouncers greet him. This same Femi that any time I suggest we go out at night complains that it would make him wake up late in the morning. I hear one of the bouncers refer to him as “Kehinde” and I have to say, I’m impressed. I suppose if you’re going to cheat, you might as well use an alias to conceal your real identity.

I remind myself not to get worked-up from whatever I see tonight. I already mentally checked out from this relationship weeks ago so that shouldn’t be a problem. The moment I catch him with the lady he’s here to meet, I’ll confront him and put an end to our charade of a relationship.

All of a sudden, Femi turns back as if to make sure he’s not being followed. I retract into the dark, away from the lights and sigh with ease when he proceeds into the building. Phew, that was close. I linger outside for a few minutes before going in. Can’t make the mistake of letting him catch me.

The inside of the club is jam packed with people, making it difficult to screen Femi out. The strobing lights, smoke and deafening music don’t make it any easier. After wondering around for a while and hissing sharply at men trying to lure me into a dance, I give up. In DJ Khalid’s words, “I played myself.” I shouldn’t have let Femi out of my line out sight. I came all the way here only to lose him in the crowd. Detective Folake in the mud. A drink. I need a drink to calm my nerves.

I take a sit at the bar and without taking my gaze off the dance floor, order a cocktail. There’s still a chance that I might see him in a corner. As the bartender’s shaker noisily perfects my cocktail into a smooth blend, I keep my eyes peeled on the dance floor.

“Ma’am, your drink is ready.”

I whip my head around faster than my brain can process the words. That voice is unmistakably Femi’s. Our eyes lock, and though it is indeed Femi who is staring back at me from behind the counter, there’s no recognition at all in his eyes.

“Are you going to take your drink or spend the whole night staring at me?”

I blink. A thousand thoughts struggle to take hold inside my head at once.

“Not that I mind very much,” he continues, “I mean, who can complain when the eyes staring at you are as beautiful as yours; it’s just, I put in a lot of effort into this drink and it’d be a shame if you let it go to waste.”

He’s not pretending. He genuinely does not recognize me. And, it might sound crazy, but I do not think this is Femi speaking. It’s him, but, it’s also…not him. Far too stunned to speak, I grab my drink and empty it in one go.

“Woah, lady, slow down,” he says. “You ordered a mojito not a shot of tequila.”

There is an unmistakable tone of concern to his voice that sounds nothing at all like Femi. The voice is the same, it’s the cadence with which the words are uttered that is completely different. I swear to God, it’s almost like I’m talking to an entirely new persona.

And just like that, it hits me. Dissociative Identity Disorder. That is the only thing that can explain this bizarre situation. It has to be. Femi has DID and this person in front of me, is not the same person I’ve been in a relationship for the past year.

Femi refills my glass. “Here,” he says, “on the house. You look like you could use it.”

“You have no idea,” I scoff as I tilt my glass into my mouth for another large gulp.

“Bad day at work?” He inquires.

“Bad day doesn’t even begin to describe it,” I answer, still struggling to wrap my head around what is happening.

“Hmm.” Femi groans as he gets a rag to wipe off the counter. “Want to talk about it?”

He misinterprets the bewilderment on my face for hesitancy.

“I’m a bartender,” he reassures, “talking with customers about their problems is kind of part of my job.”

I can’t keep it together anymore and a wild laugh escapes my throat.

“Fine,” he says, surrendering. “But if you change your mind.”

He goes back to arranging the bottles of alcohol in the bar and mixing drinks for other customers. I watch him interact with others, stupefied by the manner in which he conducts himself. There’s a charming air about him and absolutely none of the shyness that I’m used to.

When the bar gets less busy again, I’m unable to refrain myself from talking to him.

“Your name is ‘Kehnide’, right?”

He responds with a surprised smile. “You’re not some kind of stalker, are you?”

If only he knew.

“Nothing of the sort, I promise.” I can’t stop myself from smiling at his dorky face. “I overheard you with the bouncers earlier.”

He nods and continues to mix more drinks.

“You’re a twin,” I probe, unwilling to let the conversation die.

He gives his attention to me. “Yeah but…we fell out a long, long time ago. I haven’t spoken to him in years.”

“I see,” I say, totally unsatisfied. I want to probe further. I must. “May I ask what caused your fall out?”

His eyes grow dark, and with a sigh, he answers, “He um… tried to kill me.”

“Unbelievable, I know,” Kehinde — and I can’t believe I’m calling him that — says in response to the shock on my face. “What about you? Any murderous siblings?”

His question successfully draws a laugh from my belly. Before I know it, I’m telling Femi — Kehinde — what he already knows. That I’m the last of six decidedly non-murderous siblings, that I used to live with my oldest sister until recently…we talk and talk and talk, and when his shift ends in the morning, it doesn’t come as a surprise when Kehinde offers to take me to his apartment.

He again, misinterprets my internal confusion about the whole situation for hesitance and rescinds the invitation, but as I’m curious to know whether he would take me to the same apartment I’ve been in a thousand times, I insist. He does, and the whole thing is like a fever dream. When our clothes come off, all I can think of is whether I’m cheating on Femi by doing this.

It is Femi and not Kehinde, who wakes up next to me at noon, with no recollection of what transpired between us the previous night. He asks me why I didn’t bother to wake him up when I came in, and I tell him I didn’t want to disturb his sleep.

When I call Abisola that evening and narrate the events of the previous night to her, she advises me to come clean to Femi and get him to see a therapist. I know what a doctor would do — Prescribe a bunch of drugs that would only make matters worse. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself. The truth is, I’m afraid of doing anything that might make “Kehinde” disappear. I don’t know how this works, but I do know, as a crazy as it sounds, that I want to keep seeing Kehinde. My relationship with Femi has run its course. He doesn’t make me happy anymore, but Kehinde…Kehinde is everything I wish Femi was.

And so, I lie to Abisola and allow my relationship with Kehinde to develop into a full-blown affair. Every night, for almost a month, I hang out with Kehinde, and the following day, Femi is none the wiser.

I get a text from Femi one afternoon stating that he needs to tell me something. When I arrive at his house later that evening, he’s a mess. His eyes are wide from terror, his room turned upside down.

“Femi — ” I’m a little scared to find him like this. “ — is everything okay?”

He stares back at me with sorry eyes. “Folake,” he begs, “I haven’t been completely honest with you.”

“What are you talking about?” I say, settling next to him on the bed.

Femi sighs. “When I was kid, I was diagnosed with a mental disorder. I used to see this other person that was me, but wasn’t me. I started seeing a therapist, got placed on some meds…and I got better. But um…um…not too long after I met you, I stopped taking my drugs, stopped seeing my doctor, stopped doing my routines. I was afraid you’d find out about my condition and leave me like my exes. I thought everything would be fine. It had been years since I had an episode. But…but…I think it’s happening again.”

He looks up at me with tears in his eyes. My God. I have never seen him so distraught.

“I found…found money and clothes…and even a phone and I have no idea where they came from. I have um…I have called my doctor and she asked me to come pick up my meds later today and resume my weekend sessions. I’ll get better Folake, I promise. And I am so, so sorry for keeping this from you.”

I pull Femi in for a hug and tell him we’re going to be okay. In my head, I’m thinking about how I mustn’t let Femi get his hands on those drugs, how to make sure he misses those therapy sessions with his doctor. I can’t let anything threaten Kehinde.

I kiss Femi deeply before asking him to give me his doctor’s number so I can go help him pick up the drugs. When I get to her office, she calls Femi to confirm that he asked me to fetch the drugs for him before handing them to me and then telling me to make sure he comes around at 5 P.M. on Saturday. I tell her Femi asked me to tell her he won’t be able to make it this weekend.

After leaving her office, I find the nearest bin and empty the pills into it, then stop by a pharmacy to buy some vitamins, and proceed to fill the empty bottle with them. I return to Femi’s apartment and hand him the fake medication.

“They’ve changed how it looks,” he says after I hand him the prescription bottle.

I shrug, smile and kiss him passionately. “Oh and by the way, your doctor wanted me to tell you she had to cancel your session this weekend. She’s all booked up for this week already. Actually, from what she was saying about how tight her schedule has become, I think it might be better for us to get you a new doctor.”

“But I don’t know any other doctor,” Femi says.

I wave away his complaint. “Don’t worry about that,” I say, “I actually happen to know a really good doctor, and she’s probably cheaper too. I’ll call her first thing tomorrow morning.”

Femi stares into my eyes with heartfelt gratitude. “Oh Folake, what would I do without you?”

I smile back at him and hope he doesn’t see through my deception. How long, I wonder, will I be able to keep this up for.