Second-Hand Wife
(A Story of Love and Resilience.)
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“What’s your name?“
“My name?“
“No o, your mother’s name. Your name, of course!”
“Morohunfola.”
“How old are you?”
“ Just about your son’s age, Ma’am.“
“You are rude. “
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be. 39!”
“Why do you want to marry my son?”
“Actually, we’ve been…”
“Give me a direct answer, please!”
“Sorry Ma’am. First, I’m in love with him but when…”
“Love…hehehehehe. You have seen fine boy, abi? Or is it because he just came back from Belgium. Hmmm, do you even have what it takes to be his wife?”
“Excuse me, Ma'am. I…”
Facing Morohunfola’s mum, “Mummy Morohunfola, you need to teach your daughter good morals if she must find a good man to marry. Good men are difficult to come by these days. You can see the way she is responding to my questions as if we are mates. Can’t she add ‘Ma’ at the end of every sentence to show that she’s from a respectable home? Which one is ‘Ma’am, 'Ma’am' all over the place? In Yoruba land, we say ‘Ma’ for women or ‘Sir’ for men and you must use it as often as possible for those far older than you.”
“But we're speaking English, Ma'am.”
“Ma’am…again! You know too much English, abi? Do you think you are the only educated one? I lived in the UK for many years. Do you know how many qualifications my son has? What's your qualification to start with?”
“I have my bachelor's degree in Education and a Master's degree in Public Administration. I have a second degree in French Language Studies with a DELF Certification, level C1. I'm currently…”
“That's ok. What do you do for a living? I don't want a woman who will just sit in my son’s house and consume, rather than produce and reproduce.”
“I teach and I write stories!”
“Ah…Teacher, Writer! Was it not you who wrote that story about selfishness?”
“It was “Self-Love”, Ma’am.”
“ Like I care. Do you even have a car?”
“Not yet!”
“Ehn, you want to come and manage all my son's assets for him, abi? You are expecting him to buy you a car, right?”
“I…”
“Don't worry. This is the 7th interview I'm conducting this week to find the right spouse for my son and I will not stop until I get what I want. Ehn..em, have you been married before?”
“Yes, Ma'am.”
“Second hand wife? Mogbe!”
“Was your son not married in Belgium before returning to Nigeria?”
“So? Ehn-ehn? He married to get his papers. Marriage for men is different from marriage for women. A man can marry as many times as he wants but it doesn’t work like that for a woman. A woman should marry once, just like me.”
“Oh, really? I’m shocked to hear this.”
“Don’t question my authority. If you are not in good standing with me, there’s no way you can get to my son’s heart. Now tell me, do you have any children?”
“Yes, one!”
“Ah, that one that will come and take all my son’s property. You come with much baggage. I’m sorry, you are not the right person for my son. I can’t accept a second hand wife.”
“The man I married first is dead! My child is ….”
“Did you marry again? Ah! Just keep your explanations to yourself.”
Morohunfola stood in indignation. Mrs Skewers looked at the woman before her in shock. Tall, fleshy and smooth-skinned. She did not look like she had ever been married and definitely not like a teacher. She could swear her necklace was an 18 Carat Gold or thereabout. Her earrings, tiny and glittering, gave off an air of mild elegance. Her looks showed she had class but Mrs Skewers was not to be deceived. There was no way this lady would not be a liability. She was obviously raised in wealth but her profile said otherwise. ‘A teacher and writer’, she said she was. With that meager salary paid to Nigerian teachers? Does writing even put food on the table? How many viewers did she get on her poem, Immigrants of the Turbulent Waters? She was surely a good writer but there are doubts if her earnings were enough to support a large family.
Tunde insisted that he wanted to marry her and rejected all her offers for other women. She compelled him to make Morohunfola attend the interviews she was giving all eligible young ladies that she would love Tunde to marry. Her true intention was to find Morohunfola’s Achilles heel. In reality, Morohunfola’s ambience and charm beat all the women who came before her but then she was the only married one. Now, there’s new information about her; she is a widow and a divorcee. What killed her first husband? What made her second husband leave? Mrs Skewers wondered as she scanned the dark-skinned audacious woman with long luscious natural hair.
Omosalewa shifted in her chair holding her daughter’s left hand to make her sit. She had accompanied Morohunfola to her supposed future mother-in-law’s house but even the promise Tunde made that he and her daughter would be inseparable could not keep her still, as she reminisced the whole drama that had just unfurled.The sin of her past was haunting her badly. She never thought her punishment would come haunting her after so many years.
1970
Many years back, when she was just six months old, Morohunfola fell from her mother’s back and was plagued with the verdict of a myth; no man who climbs over her in intimacy, will live to see the light of day. Many did not believe it but Omosalewa was certain that this Yoruba myth was the cause of her daughter’s misfortune. If not, why would her first love have died at a very young age.
That unfateful day, the heavens sent its showers, the dust rejoiced as the waters kissed the earth profoundly. Some kids were dancing far off under the rain singing the popular Yoruba song, “Ojo n ro!”
Omosalewa aligned the black earthenware outside Kunle's isolated bungalow, under the corrugated roof and as each received the free gift of nature, she watched the hardened clay pots stand their grounds at the forefront of the raging storm.
The storm inside her was more intense. Her voluptuous bosom rose in rhythmic movement to the turbulent feelings she felt for Kunle. Here she was, like faithful Yanibo to the cunny ijapa, while her sly husband, Kunle, warmed the bed of a white woman - Agnes; the slim lady who always smiled like an imbecile every time she came to their home. Agnes worked with an NGO that fought for women's rights and Kunle worked as the clerk in the secretariat. Kunle had a good command of the English language and was intelligent too. From Agnes' stares at her, Omosalewa knew she would wonder what Kunle saw in a woman like her. She did not complete form five but she was a smart trader and frugal with spending. Like a cancerous cell, Agnes had taken over all of Kunle's senses that he hardly spent time at home.
She's your benefactor, a voice inside her tried to cloud her thoughts but Omosalewa stifled it to death. Her immaculate teeth clenched in righteous indignation of a legal wife while the chilly winds sent goosebumps over her caramel skin like the sixth plague of Egypt. Kunle was her first man and no man had been intimate with her after him.
"Weeh, weeh!" A shrieking sound from the living room made Omosalewa jolt from her delirium as she recalled laying Morohunfola in her rocker after she had slept, the rocker Agnes had bought them as a gift when she had Morohunfola.
With the baby's eerie cry rendering the air, she jolted out of her reverie. Her tomato red lingerie hugged her skin seductively. The short faded adire material she wrapped cautiously around her chest almost fell off as she dashed inside with two full pots of water.
"Hush baby, now Hush!" She carried her little one to her bosom, rocked her back and forth like a tambourine while singing and dancing a few steps to some Yoruba lullabies before roughly pushing her areola between the infant's impatient lips.
"Greedy little one!" She murmured at her look alike and could not but smile as her bundle of joy innocently sucked out her strength. Her joys of motherhood was short-lived as the yellow beetle car Agnes rode, parked a little far from their verandah. The furnace of jealousy in Omosalewa resurfaced as she waited for Kunle to bring his desecrated body to their matrimonial abode.
She waited but he did not come. He stayed longer in Agnes' car than she expected. The heavy rainfall became drizzle but then, there was still a muddy flood. Without thinking, Omosalewa strapped Morohunfola to her back, raced right under the drizzle as quick as flash and was fast enough to see Kunle’s hand ease from under Agnes' cotton blouse. With the same speed, she opened the door on the driver's side and dragged Agnes out by her blouse. Her hard palms hit Agnes' pink face like thunder.
"Salewa! Salewa!"
Kunle screamed into the rain but Omosalewa got the opportunity to grab Agnes' blonde hair and pulled at them like weeds. Kunle came to the rescue. He needed to make her stop. In a bid to separate them, he snatched Omosalewa's fingers from Agnes' clothes and in the process sent her whirling round with her wrapper set free.
Everything went in slow motion. Kunle suddenly became conscious of the heart-rending cries coming from behind Omosalewa. He rushed forward to catch his child but before they could stop their baby from falling, Morohunfola fell with a heavy thud inside the muddy water. Omosalewa grabbed the baby and hugged her to her chest as she ran inside the house, breaking one of the earthenware that was in her way. Kunle stormed after her, fuming with rage.
All this was history but Morohunfola had lost her first love and now is on the way to a second marriage that might end as well. Omosalewa’s fear was more for Tunde’s mother who was over-protective of her only son. If Morohunfola were to marry Tunde, she would not enjoy her marriage with him and if anything should happen to Tunde, Mrs Skewers will not spare her daughter.
“Let's go, Morohunfola. We have received enough insults.” She stood from the comfy couch and made to leave, dragging her daughter along.
“No mum. You don't understand. I can't leave Tunde now. He needs me more than ever.”
Both women stared at Morohunfola in disbelief. She looked at the two women helplessly and did not know how to explain her situation to them. Tunde walked in at the moment holding the hands of a cute toddler.
“Charles, say hello to your Grandmas.”
“Grandma?”
The two older women were transfixed at his audacity. His mother’s rage was his acceptance of an illegitimate son but for Omosalewa, it was the shock that Kunle accepted Charles as his own.
Morohunfola had told her she had a child but never shared any other detail about her little one. She believed Morohunfola had Charles by mistake with a man she would rather not talk about and didn’t want to push further until she arrives Lagos. Since they arrived a month ago, Omosalewa has not said a word about her son even when she comes visiting.
Mrs Skewers subconsciously re-tied her Blue Cord-Lace wrapper, staring blankly into her son’s face.
“Ah, Oko mi, why have you chosen to punish me like this? What was my crime? Which vegetable soup did this woman cook for you that bewitched you this easily? I have become a grandma without having a daughter-in-law. Ah, my son wants to impose another man’s son on me. Why? God, what was my sin?”
“Mummy, Morohunfola is your daughter-in-law.”
“Ehn, God forbid, second-hand wife? Olorun maje!” Mrs Skewers flung her right hand over her head as would the Yorubas when expressing a sign of rejection.
Tunde was adamant.
“Do you recall the white woman I married in Belgium to hasten the processing of my permanent Visa. She scammed me and left me almost penniless. The one who never gave up on me is the one you call second-hand. After I met her in Belgium, she assisted me emotionally, financially and even in my spirituality.”
He moved closer to hold his mum by the shoulders. Mrs Skewers was stunned that Morohunfola knew her son that long and that she had such connections and resources. Tunde continued to cajole his mum.
“I recall how much you wanted to marry again after Dad left but was prevented because of stereotypes and nasty comments from people. I have since vowed to stand for women in such situations and now I found a treasure. The love of my life.”
“What about her son from another man?” Mrs Skewers was not too convinced.
“He's our son, we had him in Belgium but kept him a secret from our families.”
“Thank you, Jesus!” Omosalewa knelt, praying and crying simultaneously.
“What’s the matter, Mummy?” Morohunfola wondered what came over her mum suddenly. She walked towards her to help her get a grip of herself. A certain chubby hour-glass-shaped lady strutted in with the house help.
“Yes Ma” Amina, the house help, announced cheerfully, “this woman came for the interview.”
But Tunde was the one who cut in this time.
“No more interviews, Madam. We've found the right candidate.”
