I Fought My Mother-in-law With Pie / Chapter 1: Pie for Wahala
I Fought My Mother-in-law With Pie

I Fought My Mother-in-law With Pie

Author: Elizabeth Lynch

Chapter 1: Pie for Wahala

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Mother-in-law make one big batch of meat pies, keep am inside freezer like treasure.

She no stop there—she carry her phone, enter WhatsApp, begin brag for my husband siblings: “I don make special meat pies for my daughter-in-law o! May God bless all mothers-in-law wey dey look after their own.” The pies dey arrange well, stacked for takeaway bowls, foil tight like bank vault. She even use marker label am: “For Nnenna. Eat well, my daughter.” As sweet as that gesture sound, e just add pepper for my own wahala.

*Ping!* My phone dey vibrate. Family group dey scatter with mummy’s video, aunties dropping crying emojis and “chai!” comments. The moment she step out, I carry all the pies and dump them inside the dustbin.

Omo, I no even fear. As she comot, I lock door sharp, carry the container with heavy hand, tiptoe reach backyard, tip everything inside the green dustbin. I even press am with stick to make sure e no show for top. My hand dey shake, but my mind dey stubborn—no be today I dey hide tears for this house. For my mind, I dey pray make no neighbor dey look me from their balcony. If dem catch me, wetin I go talk?

Who go believe say she go come back suddenly, catch me for the act?

Na so I hear her slippers for corridor—kpra kpra. Before I fit dodge, she open back door, catch me red-handed. I nearly drop for ground. My heart jump reach my mouth. Even mosquito for backyard freeze, as if e wan watch the drama.

She wipe face, balance phone for hand, and start Facebook Live for family group—tears dey flow, voice dey tremble. She dey record, dey sob, dey lament: “The meat pies I make for my daughter-in-law—she just throw them away! Why she hate me like this?”

You know those dramatic aunties? She hold wrapper for chest, tears dey run. “God, see my life! I make pie with my own hand, my son’s wife throw am away. E pain me o!” As she dey record, she dey sob, voice dey shake, dey repeat, “Why she dey do me like this?”

Not up to twenty minutes, the whole family land for my house to finish me with insult.

No be small thing. All of dem arrive in one keke and okada, noise full everywhere. Keke horn dey blare, slippers slap ground, gist and curses mix for compound air. You go think say person die. Even landlord peep window, dey reason which kind palava dey bust for my compound this afternoon.

I pain but I carry myself go kitchen, cook all the pies and dish out plate for everybody. Kitchen dey hot, aroma of flour and meat mix with scent of palm oil from last night stew—neighbours fit think say new business don open. I no want more wahala. I boil the pies well, make sure say everybody go chop. As I dey dish am out, my hand dey shake. I arrange plates for tray, add small pepper sauce for side, carry go parlour. Na everybody go taste the result of this drama today.

As dem chop, na so face change. As dem bite pies, you go see as eyebrow rise, nose squeeze. Some dey try hide am, but everybody know say something dey wrong. Na so wahala start afresh. I just siddon, dey watch the whole show like film for NTA. I no know say the next scene go be my own trial for family court.

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