Chapter 1: The Day I Died

The day I died, na the junior wives for our compound cry pass everybody that day.

Their wailing echoed through the courtyard, mixing with the smell of woodsmoke and fried akara from the kitchen. Their wrappers twisted, faces streaked with tears—like say sky dey fall on everybody head. E be like dem sabi say, as I go, wahala go start for house; who go settle fight, who go warn dem when Otunba vex dey near? Even as I dey for my death mat, their voices pierce my fading mind—pity, guilt, all join together. Women bound by fate, rivalry, and that silent understanding wey only wife fit get.

After twenty years for this world—ever since I waka enter this kingdom—I fit finally rest.

I felt the tension in my body loosen, like when you bath for evening after market wahala—body just dey relax. Twenty years balancing for knife edge, dey look back, dey swallow words wey dey burn my chest. Rest finally dey possible, like harmattan breeze wey cool body after sun don show pepper.

1

To talk true, whether na as pikin born to junior wife for this era or as person wey waka enter new life, I try for myself.

Sometimes I go sit for back verandah, dey look compound, dey remember when I first enter—stranger for this world, dey learn which face to trust, which elders to greet, which law no get appeal. Even as junior wife pikin, I sabi hold my ground.

My husband na Otunba, second to king—high and mighty. For front of people, we dey do as husband and wife, always form one strong team.

For public, our steps dey match like say dem train us for dance. Townspeople dey look us, my head always bend small, him dey look me with eye wey no dey ever drop guard. Our unity na drama, show for council, other wives, and those palace eyes wey no dey blink.

As Iyalode for family, I dey run my Okechi family business well. Any time party show, anybody wey see me must greet me with respect.

Children go shout, “Good evening, Mama! Wetin you cook today?” Even elders go tap chest or kneel small. I sabi who dey owe, who need help, and whose gossip fit poison belle. Sometimes, sitting at the head of the table with my isi ewu steaming in front of me, I’d feel a little proud—at least here, my voice dey count.

I born one boy, one girl—both get sense. My son na youngest first-class graduate for kingdom; my daughter, with correct bride price, marry enter chief family, party no get rival.

Elders dey hail Zubair, dey clap him back: “This one dey make us proud!” Nnenna wedding scatter town—cow, yam, new wrappers for all my age mates. My family for outside be like example wey all women from here to Enugu dey envy.

Obinna give me everything. E just—like all men for this time—carry junior wives join body, na that one remain.

People dey always talk, “If your husband no get small wahala, na woman you marry?” Dem go laugh, dey sip palmwine, like say this pain join dowry. I learn how to make face dey calm, voice dey soft, as I dey count new wives, new wrappers, new bangles—proof say the love no reach me alone.

Everybody yarn say, as Otunba, e normal to get junior wives.

For every gathering, elders dey pat him back, “Otunba, you dey try! Which wife cook this jollof?” Men go wink me, dey expect make I join laugh. I go just smile, nod, press lip so curse no go fly commot.

People ask me:

"You get everything. Why your mind still dey heavy?"

Dem dey look me with side-eye, like say I greedy, want pass my share. Some go lower voice, say I too proud, too stubborn for woman wey get plenty. Sometimes, their words go bite me—like fresh pepper for eye.

I even ask myself—wetin I still dey find?

I go lie down for raffia mat, dey hear laughter from junior wives’ rooms, dey turn the matter for my mind. I ungrateful? My heart too strong?

I go read those old books about woman virtue, dey remind myself: na olden days, na so e be here.

My mother-in-law give me battered book of advice: patience, forgive, submit. I go read am loud, dey try swallow the words deep. “Good wife na river—she dey flow round every stone.” I try force myself believe am.

But each time Obinna touch me, my belle go turn, I go vomit scatter.

His touch cold like well water for harmattan morning, breath dey carry perfume wey no be my own. My body go vex, I go dey retch, dey hold wrapper tight.

Yes, I sick—

Sick of lips wey touch me after other women, sick of sweet words wey I know say e dey share.

Voice wey used to sweet me, now empty—like masquerade drum, dey echo secret. Sometimes, I catch am dey eye another wife, I go wonder if my name just join list.

That disgust chop my bone every day, like maggot dey bite inside.

Na slow poison—shame and anger mix, soul no dey rest for night. I go dey look zinc ceiling, dey count leak, dey beg sleep to carry me, but the feeling dey dig deep, dey chop my pride.

But e no kill me. That dull feeling just dey my body for almost my whole life.

E hang for me like harmattan haze—never thick enough to choke, never light to clear. Even when I laugh, happiness dey heavy—something sour dey hide under am.

For outside, I still dey act—gentle, kind, generous—dey play my part with Obinna for twenty years.

Neighbours dey hail, “That Madam, she too get sense!” I go serve pepper soup for party, dey nod, dey laugh, even as my mind waka far. I sabi hide my wahala under gele, gold, and sweet smile—nobody fit suspect.

But I don play this role too long, I dey tire. Now, the drama fit end.

I dey feel like old masquerade after festival—tired of dance, dey find how to pull mask. My heart dey beg for peace, for fresh air wey nobody go call me Madam, Wife, or Iyalode.

Sometimes I go just wonder, when I go die, how that other world go be?

Maybe I go reborn as man, free from chain. Or I go waka as restless spirit, dey look my pikin dream. The unknown dey comfort me—at least, e go different from here.