The whispered discussions in the rooms that each wife shared with her children were eventually reported to me in detail by my half-siblings. The words did not bother me; it was a game the wives played, trying to prove which woman had produced a superior stock of children. It was the threats that were never carried out, even when my fighting became a daily event, that bothered me. It was the whips that were not unleashed, the extra chores that were not assigned, the dinners that were not withheld that reminded me that none of them really cared.
‘Our mother?’ Funmi said. She was still on her knees.
I swallowed my memories like an oversized bitter pill. Funmi had placed her hands on my lap; her manicure was perfect. The nails were painted hibiscus red, like the matching mugs Akin and I had used to drink coffee that morning.
‘Our mother?’
I never painted my fingernails any more. I used to paint them when I was at university. Was it the nails that made her attractive to him? How did he feel when she raked those beautiful nails across his chest? Did his nipples tighten? Did he moan? I wanted . . . no . . . I needed to know immediately, in detail. What did she have of him that had always been just mine? What would she have that I had never had? His child?
‘Our mother?’
‘Who is your mother? You better get up now,’ I said.
There was an empty chair next to me, but she chose to sit on the arm of my chair.
‘Why are you here? Who showed you this place?’ I whispered because the background chatter between customers and stylists had stopped. Somebody had turned off the radio and the salon had gone quiet.
‘I just thought I should come to greet you.’
‘At this time of the day? Are you jobless?’ It was an insult, but she took it as a question.
‘No-o. I don’t have a job since our husband is taking good care of me.’ Her voice rose as she said ‘our husband’, and it was obvious that everyone in the room had heard her. Chairs creaked as customers shifted in their seats and leaned back as much as possible in their attempts to listen in on the conversation.
‘What?’
‘Our husband is a very caring man. He has been taking good care of me. We thank God that he has enough money for all of us.’ She smiled at the top of my head.
I glared at her reflection in the mirror opposite us. ‘Enough money for what?’
‘For us, our mother. That is why a man works, abi? For his wives and children.’
‘Some of us have jobs,’ I said, keeping my clenched fists firmly by my side. ‘You have to leave so that I can do mine.’
She smiled into the mirror. ‘I will visit tomorrow afternoon, Ma. Maybe you will be less busy then.’
Did she expect me to smile back? ‘Funmi, don’t let me see your broomstick legs in this place ever again.’
‘Our mother, there is no need for all this-o; we have to be friends. At least for the sake of the children we will have.’ She went on her knees again. ‘I know people say you are barren, but there is nothing God cannot do. I know that once I conceive, your own womb too will be opened. If you say I should not come here, I will not come, but I want you to know that this bitterness can be one of the things causing the barrenness-o. Goodbye, Ma.’
She was smiling as she rose to her feet and turned to leave.
I stood up and grabbed the back of her dress. ‘You! This wretched . . . this evil egbere. Who are you calling barren?’
I was not prepared for the confrontation. Even my insult was off the mark. Funmi did not look like the mythical egbere. She was not short; she was not carrying a mat or weeping incessantly. In fact, when she turned to face me, she was smiling. I was surrounded by customers and stylists before I could land the first slap on her cheek.
‘Leave her alone,’ the women said. ‘Let her go.’ They pulled my hands from Funmi’s dress and pushed me until I was back in my seat. ‘My dear sister, please calm down. Just take it easy.’
5
I bought new mugs.
‘You know why I don’t like white mugs?’ Akin said at breakfast.
‘Please enlighten me,’ I said.
‘You can always see the coffee stains too clearly.’
‘Really?’
He pulled at his tie and frowned. ‘You sound angry. Is something wrong?’
I spread more margarine on my toast, stirred my coffee and clenched my jaw. I was prepared to keep my mouth shut about why I was upset until Akin asked me why at least five times. But he did not even give me a chance to sulk.
‘I don’t like these white mugs.’ He held a finger up and paused to drink some water. ‘Where are the old ones?’
‘I broke them.’
His mouth formed an Oh that it did not expel and he took another bite of toast. I could see that he assumed I had simply knocked the mugs over by mistake or dropped them as I was putting them away. There was no reason for him to think that I had slammed each hibiscus-red mug against the kitchen wall as the cuckoo clock in the sitting room chimed at midnight. He could never have imagined that I had swept the broken pieces into a dustpan, put them in a small mortar and pounded them until I was sweating from every pore and wondering if I had lost my mind.
‘You know the internal auditors from the headquarters were in the office yesterday, we were so busy with them. I forgot to send someone to look at that roof. Today I’ll –’
‘Your wife came to my salon yesterday.’
‘Funmi?’
‘Who else?’ I leaned forward in my chair. ‘Or do you have another wife that I don’t know about?’ It was an idea I had not been able to shake since Funmi had left my salon the previous day, the possibility that there could have been other wives out there – in Ilesa, in any other city – other women that he could love, other women who made him less mine.
Akin covered one half of his face with a hand. ‘Yejide, I’ve explained my agreement with Funmi to you. You shouldn’t let her bother you.’
‘She said you are taking good care of her.’ My words did not carry the power that I wanted them to, because I could not find any of the anger and disdain I had directed at Funmi the previous day. I wanted to be angry with him so I kept speaking; trying with my words to reach past what I really felt to the anger I was supposed to feel. ‘What does that mean? Explain to me what “good care” means.’
‘Sweetie . . .’
‘Hold it. Just hold it there. Please don’t sweetie me again this morning.’ But I did want him to call me sweetie again, only me and no one else. I wanted him to reach across the table, hold my hand and tell me we would be all right. And I still believed then that he would know what to do and what to say just because he was Akin.
‘Yejide –’
‘Where were you yesterday night? I waited until well past