The Secret Lives of Baba Segi's Wives (14 page)

Things are different in this house now. For five years, Baba Segi loved me the most. I was better than his other wives and he didn’t hide this in the way he behaved toward me. He would pretend he had an evening fever so he wouldn’t have to endure Iya Segi’s bed. Then he would sneak into mine at night so he could be with me. He took
me
out to visit his friends. He liked the way I dressed so I alone accompanied
him to parties. He loved the way I cooked, the way I looked. Who wouldn’t? I may be thirty but my limbs are quicker than a child’s. My stomach bears no signs of labor; my breasts are full. I can’t walk down the street without people wanting me. I couldn’t even walk across the sitting room without Baba Segi salivating, but everything changed the day the monkey stepped into this house.

Baba Segi found a monkey whose teeth had been cut on sorrow and he forgot about me. I cannot accept it. I will not accept it! How can anyone accept being pushed aside for a woman who stores blemished bowls? Let me tell you what makes me laugh the most: the day we planted the
ogun
in her room, she declared to the world she would give her husband a son! What a fool! The biggest thing that will come out of her is a good, hefty shit. The toad hates her so
she
won’t tell her the secret. The pygmy goat fears us so
she
won’t tell. And she won’t hear anything from me. I want her gone. I want my place back and I will get it.

T
HREE DAYS AFTER
I
YA
S
EGI
and I decided what we were going to do, the toad came to the kitchen. At first, I thought she had just come to beg for food. It was Kole’s fourth birthday and I was preparing a feast. All the children were buzzing with anticipation and wondering what dish I would dazzle them with that year. Even the other wives know what these days mean to me so they leave the kitchen and hover around for the meal.

Iya Segi tiptoed into the kitchen. “What are you making, Iya Femi? The ghost has left the house,” she whispered.

“Jollof rice and chicken. Baba Segi came to my room last night but he didn’t touch me. Before I could give him the
eja kika
I had prepared for him, he was fast asleep, or so he wanted me to think. For a man who cannot sleep without snoring,” I said, “I didn’t hear a sound from his mouth. That witch has cast a spell on him. If we are not careful, he won’t sleep with us unless he asks her first.”

“The gods forbid it!
We
forbid it! We will not let it happen. Look what I have brought you.” Iya Segi slipped me a small plastic bag bound several times over with a rubber band.

“Iya Segi, you have the heart of a lion and the wisdom of a tortoise. What better day to bring that rat to justice!”

“Keep your voice down.” Iya Segi peered out of the back door. “Iya Tope must not hear of this. Who knows where her weakness is leading her?”

“Yes, it is between us.
We
must settle this matter. And God will help us.”

“Listen to me. Place Bolanle’s portion outside her bedroom door like we normally do when she doesn’t join us. When she returns this evening, we will greet her as if all is well so she does not suspect anything.”

“How quickly does it work? Will we have cause to rejoice by tomorrow morning?”

“Mr. Taju said the medicine man who sold it to him promised immediate results. He said it was collected from the fangs of a cobra. Taju lied that it was for easing life out of an
ailing dog. When the poison turns her belly, Baba Segi will be forced to take her to her father’s house.”

“You can count on me, Iya Segi. Evildoers should get what they deserve. The Bible says so.”

As soon as Iya Segi left the kitchen, I tore at the bundle impatiently. The Lord is going to use me to conquer my enemy. The mantle of justice has fallen on me. Ha! I am blessed.

I
KNEW IT WAS
Kole’s birthday when I woke up this morning but rather than congratulate mother and son, I slipped out of the house and headed to the diagnostic clinic to collect the results of my blood tests. On the way there, I bought Kole a remote-control car. Boxed and gift-wrapped, the toy was heavier than I thought it would be so I changed hands every time my wrist ached. I didn’t want to return to Baba Segi’s house yet. I was perturbed by the rathead episode and I felt an unmistakable homeward draw. I decided to go to my parents’ house.

If I wasn’t so embarrassed, I would have visited my friends, if only to apologize. I’d hidden in my bedroom when Baba Segi told them that their foolishness was not welcome in our home.

“Is it not obvious to you that Bolanle has decided to choose the more virtuous path in life? You should both take
her example,” Baba Segi said. “What woman wants to be known as a harlot?” Yemisi gasped in disbelief. As she left, she stopped by the corridor mouth and shouted, “Let Bolanle know that people are like water. And the same waters that the streams divide meet again in the great ocean. Bolanle! You hear me?” I wept with shame.

I also wanted to go home because rumors had a way of growing feet. I reasoned that it was probably best that I tell my mother about the mysterious goings-on in my home with my own mouth. The last thing I wanted was for her to blame the decline in my morals on my father’s genes. I could practically hear her: “She has become a medicine man’s whore like your sister,” or, “She has developed a hunger for blood like your mother did, before God clutched her to His bosom to give me rest.”

I’d bumped into Segun’s guard in Dugbe market a few days before and he’d mentioned that my mother complained of an unbearable throbbing in her temples. I hadn’t been too bothered by this; Mama emptied sachets of Alabukun into her mouth so often when I was a child that Lara and I thought that was what all mothers did.

Anyway, today was a weekday so unless Mama was taking the day off work, I was certain I’d have to leave a get-well-soon note. That way, I could avoid the update on the progress my university friends were making in their high-flying jobs as bankers, businesswomen and lecturers, the life I should have had if I hadn’t married Baba Segi. Well, none of my friends had been horribly defiled so it didn’t bother me.
Today, I didn’t think I could stomach any lectures. I wasn’t in the mood to have my failures dangled before my eyes; I was already ashamed of them, more so in the last few weeks.

I reasoned that Mama would be glad we wouldn’t have to speak to each other too. She never visited me at Baba Segi’s house, but every so often a nameless visitor would drop off a branch of
awin
—bait to get me back home to wait for God to show me my
true
husband. At least she still remembered how much I loved
awin.

When I reached the T-junction, everything seemed smaller. The road seemed narrower and the tar was eroded by flooding. When Segun’s father was alive, he would tar it every January, but since his death, his wife had warned the tenants that if
they
couldn’t contribute funds to arrest the deterioration, they’d better be content with parking their cars at the junction and forget
her
road was there.

My parents lived in one of eight two-bedroom bungalows on a small plot of land. A tall fence separated the tenants from the landlords, who occupied a sprawling multilevel structure surrounded by horticultural splendor. Every member of Segun’s family, sisters included, had their own little suite within the building. Only Segun’s had a door that opened onto the gardens. Everyone else used the magnificent awning that spooned people in and out of the main door.

I walked through the gate to the bungalows and was immediately struck by the weeds that had grown around the section of fence that my parents’ bungalow leaned against. Given that Mama cleaned religiously for fear of being asso
ciated with dirt, I was surprised to see bits of paper strewn around our doorway. Mama would not have let that pass when I was living at home; she would have called me into her room and made known her disgust that I was going the way of my father’s shameless siblings.

I could hear my heart thumping when I knocked on the door. I’d already started searching my bag for a notepad and pen with one hand when I heard a voice from within. I pushed the door open and followed the aroma of boiled okra to the kitchen. I stepped quietly through the sitting room, avoiding a pile of stale, unwashed clothes to find Mama straddling a low stool in the living room.

“Bolanle?”

“Yes, Mama.” I was taken aback as she had her back to me. I didn’t think my name would jump to her lips so readily.

“A mother never forgets her daughter’s footsteps.” She was sifting
elubo
into a wide-mouthed basin. “I sent for you as soon as it happened.”

“As soon as what happened?” I moved closer to her and knelt to embrace her. When she turned to face me, I flung handbag and birthday present in opposite directions. It looked as if one side of her face had first been doused with oil, then set alight. From her left brow to her chin, every feature drooped like melting plastic. Her left eye was weeping, her left nostril running. There was a line of saliva dribbling down the left corner of her mouth. “Mama!” I spluttered as tears gathered in my eyes.

“The doctors say it is Bell’s palsy or perhaps a very mild
stroke. Calm down. Is this not my voice that you’re hearing? I am not dead. At least not yet.” Her voice was the same but an octave higher. Her words seemed to spill from the corner of her mouth with a slight slur.

I tried to swallow but my mouth was suddenly dry. I feared she would hear me forcing a gulp. Mama let out a long breath and droplets of spit flew from her lips. “I sent your sister to you but she said she would rather drown than stop at your husband’s house.” She must have seen the shock on my face. “Your sister is not what she used to be. No, that is a lie; she is exactly what she used to be.” She tried to stand but her left thigh shuddered and shook. “There is no room for me in her mind; it’s just one man after the other. We do not know which one it is at any given time.” She sighed. “She
too
says she’s found herself a husband.”

It may not have been an intended poniard but it hurt all the same. “Mama, when did this happen?”

“Just six days ago. I was slaving at work as I have always done—a mother must continue to do her duty to her children—when suddenly, I realized I couldn’t hear what my colleagues were saying. I could see their mouths moving but I couldn’t hear their voices. The last thing I felt was the cold tiles I have been begging my boss to change. He could at least use some of the government money he embezzles to make his surroundings pleasing to the eye. His home must be just as dirty. Anyway, when I came to, I found myself in a bed at UCH. They said I should stay but I threatened to jump off the balcony if they did not let me return home.” She looked
around and shook her head. “Just look how Lara has been living; the house looks like it has been taken over by harlots. You know how lazy she is! Well, I have gathered all the dirty clothes together for her to deal with. She thought I would die in the hospital but Eledumare did not permit it. She is stuck with me!” She motioned for us to sit on the cane armchairs. “The doctor said my blood pressure was exceptionally high. What does he expect? My life has been unsettled, in recent years.” Another barb.

“Everyone chooses their path in life, Mama.” I couldn’t let that one go, no matter how much her face had dissolved.

She tried to raise her eyebrows but only the right one responded. She was surprised at my audacity, I could tell. I held out my hand to help her to a chair but she wouldn’t take it; she preferred to limp on ahead. I sat opposite her, nervous as hell. Mama had always unnerved me. When I was in primary school, the journey home from school at the end of term was torture. I counted each step to make it take as long as possible, knowing that I had Mama to contend with. She would usher me into the house as if I was a visitor and ask me to kneel half an arm’s length away so she wouldn’t have to stretch if the need arose for her to slap me. After half an hour of waiting for her to digest every number and analyze every word written on the report, she would fold it up and look at me intensely. The words that followed tore me apart. Because there was maybe one subject I hadn’t topped the class in, Mama would look at me over her glasses and tell me I wasn’t her child. “My child comes first in everything,”
she’d say, “because I didn’t raise a dullard.” The one time that I protested that I had at least come first in everything else, she dug her nails into the back of my ears and twisted my earlobes until they burned. After that, she sat me down and asked me to write her a letter explaining why I had failed to beat the boy, whose father was English, in English literature. Both ears burning, I tried to work out what to write given she’d insisted that the only acceptable explanation was that the boy had two heads. While waiting for my letter, she would move on to Lara and whip her for her consistent, all-round failure. Then she would ask why Lara couldn’t be more like me. Lara soon learned to doctor her report cards. I never had the guts. I was the long sufferer. I wanted to be perfect for Mama. It was on nights like those that I prayed for my father to come home early, but it was as if he knew what awaited him at home. When he did return after midnight, he would be too drunk to save us from Mama’s madness.

B
EFORE
M
AMA FLOPPED ONTO THE
cushions on the cane armchair, she did what looked like a jig: left turn, foot forward, arms akimbo, arms down, flop. The cushions broke her fall and she patted them in gratitude. They were the same ones she’d made for her New Year ritual in 1992, nine years before. I was sixteen, and well into the second year of lifelessness. Mama liked to change at least one thing in our home; she said a new year wasn’t truly new unless you made it new by buying a new water jug or new curtains. Every Christmas, she
troubled my father for money and he always gave in in the end. That year, however, my father had spent all his money replenishing his supply of gin. We all saw the cartons in the hallway but Mama kept asking all the same. On the twenty-third of December, Mama dragged me and Lara around Dugbe market and begged every fabric seller to pity her and her children by giving us their off-cuts for Christmas dresses. Mama had instructed us not to wear shoes and to put on the shabbiest dress we had. Lara almost died of shame and kept saying she needed the toilet. It didn’t bother me at all because my dress reflected the way I felt. My tattered hemming captured my innermost feelings accurately. I stood by Mama and together we trawled the entire market until, at last, we bundled the rags onto our laps and took a taxi home.

From the moment we opened the front door, Mama decided she wasn’t sleeping and neither were we. She made us cut along her unsteady lines with a rusty pair of scissors while she carefully threaded the old sewing machine she’d dragged out of storage. And while she swayed over the needle, she told us to stand behind her and watch while she thought up ridiculous chores to send us on. One by one, she sewed the silk to the taffeta, the polyester to the wool, the cotton to the velvet, until she plumped eight patchwork cushions and set them into their cane frames. Lara, who I’d thought was slumbering on her feet, burst into tears. She was always better at expressing herself; I just stood there praying for my father to come home and wipe the smug look off Mama’s face. He swaggered in at one
A.M
. He didn’t look drunk, just mellow.
So mellow that he patted my head without asking why I was up so late. He had a soft smile on his face and his eyes had a glossy film.

“Won’t you sit down?” Mama pointed at one of the armchairs.

Baba noticed the difference right away but still he settled himself in his seat without commenting on the shambles Mama had turned our living room into.

“The cushions look very interesting.”

Interesting? I thought. Not enchanting, provocative, affecting, alluring, striking, arresting, captivating, intriguing, enthralling, entrancing or riveting. What was
interesting
was that, for someone who loved words, “interesting” was the best he could come up with.

“I will never be able to bring my friends home again!” Lara yelled, startling everyone. I just stood there listening to my father hum happily to himself. Mama rolled her head back. I couldn’t tell if she was hiding tears or resting. You could never tell with Mama.

“T
HE OKRA SMELLS AS IF
it is cooked. Won’t you help your poor mother? Or have you come to rejoice over my misfortune?” Her voice returned me to the present.

I dashed to the kitchen before she finished so her words hit the back of my head and fell to the floor. It wouldn’t surprise me if she were making hideous faces behind my back so she could feel a sense of victory.

“Hmm,” she exhaled when I returned to my seat. “Maybe God has decided that it is time to relieve me of my sadness.
Trust and obey for there’s no other way to be happy in Jesus but to trust and obey.
” The song oozed from her lopsided mouth; it lacked melody and sincerity. She’d never been a churchgoer. Mama used God at her own convenience.

“God wouldn’t take you without letting you see your children’s children. That’s what all mothers pray for, isn’t it?” It was all I could think to say.

“Oh, really? Tell me, is it the one from that buffoon you call a husband that I should look forward to? Because if it is those ones you speak of, I pray that God keeps them in his bosom.”

All the air inside me escaped through my mouth.

“How could you expect me to look forward to such grandchildren? Have you never paused to wonder how my heart stopped when you brought a married man to visit me? Or how long the dagger he dipped into my throat was when he told us that you had been courting for months? Under my roof, Bolanle! Under my roof! My house was burning and I didn’t smell the smoke!”