Each morning for 12 years, Ayo never failed to have Ajayi’s cup of tea ready at his bedside. She would wake up early, careful not to wake the man soundly sleeping beside her. And as he woke up - Ajayi was sure  to find beside him his hot tea “just as he liked it - weak and sugary, without milk”.

Then as he stepped out of the room, Ajayi would find his breakfast laid on the table while Ayo would be sweeping dried leaves in the yard.

No, Ayo was not his wife. She was his mistress. They had lived like husband and wife without the blessing of marriage and they got along very well. Ayo was a fine woman. She was loyal. She kept her lover’s house efficiently. She bore him children. And to say that Ajayi was proud of her was an understatement, so to speak.

Twelve long years, and Ayo showed no sign of complaint. Ajayi watched his mistress as she tirelessly moved about the house - tidying up a table, straightening the pillows, keeping the hearth warm and still managing to look her best to greet Ajayi on the door after he spent the day out at work.

Ajayi thought… why not he married Ayo? After these years, Ajayi contemplated - Ayo truly deserved his name. After all, they were no less than husband and wife. Only a piece of signed document to make their union legal, made the difference. He was determined - he would marry her, finally. He was convinced the sanction of marriage would even strengthen their relationship more.

So in a simple ceremony in the context of African tradition and some Western touch of wedding cake and speeches, Ajayi and Ayo’s union was given legal reinforcement. Ajayi thought - the marriage was a befitting reward for the faithful mistress. Ayo was indeed an excellent woman of the house, but certainly, Ajayi believed, the marriage would even further bring out  the good, if not the best qualities in her.

“The next morning as his alarm clock went off, he stirred and reached for his morning cup of tea. It was not there. He sprang up and looked. Nothing. He listened for Ayo’s footsteps outside in the kitchen. Nothing. He turned to look beside him. Ayo was there and her ‘bare ebony back was heaving gently. She must be ill, he thought; all that excitement yesterday.

‘Ayo, Ayo,’ he cried, ‘are you ill?’ She turned around slowly still lying down and faced him. She tweaked her toes luxuriously under the cotton coverlet and patted her breast slowly. There was a terrible calm about her. ‘No, Ajayi,’ she replied, ‘are you?’ she asked him. ‘No,’ he said. He was puzzled and alarmed, thinking that her mind had become unhinged under the strain.

‘Ajayi, my husband,’ she said. ‘for twelve years I have got up every morning at five to make tea for you and breakfast. Now I am a truly married woman, you must treat me with a little more respect. You are now a husband and not a lover. Get up and make yourself a cup of tea.’ (The Truly Married Woman by Abioseh Nicol)