My Perfect Husband
A man cheating on his wife in our community did not make headlines. Infidelity was as commonplace as taking a bath in the morning. In most cases, the girlfriend automatically assumed the status of deputy wife. The community accepted her as the official nyatsi even though the man did not marry her. She could even conceive two or more children with the man and he might provide a house for them. Then she would be accepted by the man’s family, especially the parents and siblings. Any woman who left her husband because of a nyatsi was considered an idiot.
“Where does she think she can get a man who does not cheat? All men cheat, it’s in their nature.” This was always said in our township.
The more affluent a man was, the more women he would have. The chances of finding a man who did not have a nyatsi were as slim as winning the Lottery. Some women had tried to take it up with their mothers-in-law and all they got was: “He is better, he has only one nyatsi. His father had five nyatsis. And look! I am still here. You just have to live with it. Be grateful that he is still supporting the family.”
Most women knew their husbands’ nyatsis. Some women fought tooth-and-nail with them, but those who did not were considered to be well-mannered and mature. Most women lived with the pain of sharing their men and family resources with these nyatsis.
I was one of the few lucky women in Sibasa township. My husband Mashudu was a decent man. There were no official or unofficial nyatsis. He was a devoted father and husband. He had never been unfaithful. Most women regarded him as the model husband. If they could, they would have traded in their adulterous spouses for him.
“You are the luckiest woman in the world. If all these men were like Mashudu, this world would be a better place,” my female colleagues often commented when they saw him dropping me off at work.
Mashudu was the kind of man that came home every day straight after work. He was also a sober-minded man who took neither alcohol nor cigarettes. If he was not at home I always knew exactly where he was. We went everywhere together: the shops, church, funerals and weddings. People called us the finger-and-nail couple. Up to now I could not even drive because he took me everywhere I wanted to go.
I was a teacher at Sibasa Primary School and Mashudu was the education circuit office manager at the Sibasa circuit office. He was a church elder at the Mbilwi Lutheran church and was also the chairman of the church building committee. In our house we all went to church every Sunday. After church he greeted everyone, offering the aged and disabled a lift home. His disarming smile displayed his perfect white teeth.
About a year ago, one showery Friday morning on our way to work, he told me he had been invited by the department to go to Pretoria that Sunday to attend an Outcomes-based Education workshop. The workshop was to commence on Monday morning and would continue until late on Friday. He told me that he planned to visit his uncle in Mapetla township, Soweto, on the following Saturday and would be home a week later.
That Sunday when he left for his trip my two sons carried his bags and the provisions I prepared for him out to our car. As he drove away, I watched him through our mesh wire fence with a feeling of misgiving that I could not explain.
“Don’t forget to find out if they can keep the food in the fridge for you.” These were my last words as he left.
Monday afternoon I went to the choir practice at our church as usual. My heart almost skipped a beat when I saw Mashudu’s twin brother Ntakuseni. His tall figure with its large stomach blocked the door. All of a sudden I could not sing. It felt like there was something stuck in my throat. For a while I continued to hum the song. Then I recalled that Mashudu had not phoned the previous night to tell me that he had arrived safely. I was not worried about him because he was the kind of man that did not care for cellphones. Most of the time, he forgot his in the car.
I stepped away from the inquisitive eyes of the choir and hurried to where Ntakuseni was standing. He looked gloomy. He took my hand and directed me to the car. I left without saying goodbye to the choir members.
“Ah, khotsimuhulu,” I greeted him, “why are you here? Is there a problem?” I said, expecting the worst.
“We shall talk at home. Mashudu is waiting for you there. My mother and father are also there,” he said.
“What is wrong? Is everything okay? Is Mashudu okay?” I asked.
“Mashudu is fine, but there is a problem. Don’t worry, it’s a solvable one. But only you can solve it. We will talk at home,” said Ntakuseni.
The five-minute drive felt like forever. I knew my brother-in-law well enough not to probe any further. I knew he was not going to tell me what was going on upfront.
Mashudu and his parents were sitting on the kitchen chairs and Mashudu was on the bed. His eyes were red and his expression grim. He was still wearing yesterday’s clothes. His black trousers and white shirt looked soiled. When I came in, his eyes fell to the carpet. I could feel heavy words and thoughts in the air even before anyone said anything.
I knelt down, clasped my hands together, and bowed my head to greet my in-laws appropriately.
“Aah!” I said, still kneeling.
“Aah!” said my mother-in-law.
“Ndaah!” said my father-in-law.
“Khotsi a Tshiandze, why are you back so soon?” I said. I then raised my head but remained seated on the carpet. I had to look down because as a daughter-in-law it would have been rude to look my in-laws straight in the eyes.
“Tell her what happened,” said my father-in-law to Mashudu.
“My dear wife,” he began, his voice trembling.
“What is wrong?” I asked.
Mashudu looked down again and breathed heavily in and out.
“This is the most difficult thing I have ever had to tell you, but there is no other way,” he said. “There has been a terrible accident. Our car is a write-off.”
For a while I kept quiet. That was why his clothes were in such a state, I thought. The air was still heavy.
“Well, we must thank God. A car is nothing. We will get another one,” I said.
He was silent.
“There is more. Tell her,” said my mother-in-law.
“Someone else was in the car,” said Mashudu. “She did not survive.”
“She?” I asked.
“Yes. Mark Mulaudzi’s wife, Matodzi,” said my father-in-law.
“The accident happened last night, just before the Kranskop Tollgate. We were hit by a truck whose brakes had failed,” said Mashudu.
“I see,” I said.
I kept quiet and waited, hoping to get some answers.
“The major dilemma is that Mark and his family up till now have not been informed. Mashudu is the only person who has this information, other than the Bela-Bela police. Mashudu promised the police that he would inform the family in person, as we are all family friends. So he cannot go there alone to report this. It won’t look good,” said my fatherin-law.
“I see,” I said.
“It will look bad if they are told that it was just the two of them in the car. Mark might be suspicious or angry. You know how people are. They could interpret it negatively and Mashudu might be in trouble or, worse, they might even kill or bewitch him. My dear sister, you know how the Venda people are,” said Ntakuseni.
I felt hot and cold at the same time, like someone who was having hot flushes. It was then that I understood what was going on.
“So we will all accompany him to the Mulaudzi home. The story is that you were with them in the car. It’s the only way we can get out of this whole thing,” said my father-in-law, as if we had all been part of what had happened.
The disturbing and sad part was that they were not even negotiating with me. I was simply given instructions on what I had to do.
“I need time to think about this,” I said.
Sarah Ládípọ̀ Manyika
She is a writer, academic and overall lover of stories who was raised in Nigeria and has lived in Kenya, France, Zimbabw
e and England. Her bestselling debut novel, In Dependence, was required reading in a number of high schools and universities around the world, while her second novel, Like a Mule Bringing Ice Cream to the Sun, was shortlisted for the UK’s Goldsmith Prize and the California Book Award. Her non-fiction includes personal essays and intimate profiles of people she meets from Mrs Harris to Toni Morrison. She was founding Books Editor of Ozy Books and a long-time lecturer at San Francisco State University. She currently serves as Board Director for the women writers residency, Hedgebrook.
The Ambassador’s Wife
Yétúndé hears the soft click of the thermostat followed by a rapid whistle of warm air blowing through the floor vents. Night has fallen. It’s time to shut the wooden blinds to the cold and dark.
She returns to the oven which is hot enough now to heat the food. She reaches into the cupboard for a baking sheet and then, a surprise: four green bottles huddled together at the back. Oregano. Basil. Coriander leaf. Tarragon. Where have these come from? Schwartz they proclaim from labels circling their bellies. Only then does it dawn on her that this must be the work of her father. He must have bought them earlier and hidden them, knowing that, not long after his return to Nigeria, she would find them.
“Bless you,” she finds herself saying, using his words. “Bless you, darling.” She takes the four bottles and brings them to the edge of the stove where she places them in a row along the black granite counter, next to the white paper towels. “No,” she says, returning the ready-made meals to the freezer. Tonight she must cook. He would like that. She will make penne pasta, the children’s favourite.
She lights two candles, humming as she nudges the shallots round and round in a shallow pool of hot oil. The translucent, purple slivers turn quickly to a crispy brown, so she lowers the flame and sprinkles salt, ground pepper, and two pinches of cumin. She calms the noisy sizzle with the back of her slotted spoon and smiles, relieved to hear her youngest, now singing in the shower. His tantrum forgotten.
The herbs her father has left are not what he used when she was a child. Back then she remembers him cooking just one thing: àmàlà. And there was nothing about this staple food that she liked—not the dark colour, not the grainy texture, not the bitter smell, and certainly not the way he whacked the yam flour and hot water against the side of the pan with such vigour that it seemed to go beyond what was needed.
Take, eat. This is my body that is broken for you.
Strange how these words return. Words learnt from church where her father would assist with communion. Take. Eat. Broken. For this is how it feels sometimes—the body, broken for others. She wonders how he felt dishing out this very Yorùbá food to his half-American children. Take. Eat. To his two motherless daughters who, were it possible, would have held their breath, closed their eyes and swallowed without chewing. She wonders whether he interpreted their culinary dislike as cultural rebellion. As his two children pushing back on that which was Yorùbá. Or whether he regarded their wrinkled up noses simply as bad behaviour requiring discipline.
Four green bottles standing on a wall
And if one green bottle should accidentally fall
There’ll be three green bottles standing on a wall
He tried this once, maybe thinking that if he sang to them the way their mother used to, it might make things better. Yétúndé takes a deep breath, slicing determinedly through green peppers and plump shiitake mushrooms. “Good,” she sighs, pleased at least to have wriggled out of tonight’s event—more tedious, polite conversation-making at some other ambassador’s residence. At least conversation with the children was never forced—none of the artificial, diplomatic smiles of Washington DC. She stirs until the mushrooms lose their soft white edges and then adds chopped tomato, a splash of water, and a squirt of tomato puree. In retirement, her father has expanded his repertoire. Now he too prepares soups and vegetables and experiments with herbs and spices. Whenever she returns home to Ìlọrin, she looks forward to his fried plantains and smoked catfish made with palm oil and hot peppers.
Leaving her pasta sauce to simmer, Yétúndé goes to the foot of the stairs and calls for her children to set the table. “Coming,” shouts one, then the other. She passes the display cabinet on the way back to the kitchen where her father, on his most recent stay, had placed her framed, double first from Cambridge. And there it still stands in the crowd of family photos. He said, “Your mother would have been so proud of you,” as he made porridge that morning, the way he always did—half a cup of oats and a generous gush of water taken from tap to saucepan. She had smiled and was about to reply when he splashed cold milk all over his oats and added, “She would have been so proud to see you now as an ambassador’s wife.” Yétúndé watched him then, in silence, as he prayed over his porridge, tea, and smattering of pills.
He had a tendency to bump into her when they walked side by side. He nibbled his fingernails and fidgeted in church when he needed to use the toilet. For all these things he was always saying sorry. He couldn’t resist making notes in the margins of every book he read, no matter who the books belonged to. Little pencil ticks and bars by the side of pertinent lines. For this too he would sometimes express remorse. Markings that she followed, trying to guess what had moved him and whether it might move her too. But he never apologized for not understanding what her graduation certificate meant to her.
Her tears flow because she misses her father and cannot stand the distance that now separates them. The tears flow because she’s content by the stove and happy to remember her father complimenting her on what an excellent homemaker she is. The tears flow because she has struggled, for so long, to be acknowledged for something more than this.
Ros Martin
Born in London, of Nigerian and St Lucian parentage, she is based in Bristol, UK. She is a writer, cultural activist, feminist, playwright, author, poet, digital artist and creative educator in schools in local African diaspora history and heritage which she links to active citizenship. Her practice is collaborative and socially engaged. She is published online and in the anthologies Marginalia (Jerwood Arvon mentoring scheme Anthology vol. 2, 2011), No Condition is Permanent (2010) and The Reality Is . . . the Bristol Black Writers Anthology (1998).
Being Rendered Visible in The Georgian House Museum, Bristol
1798, Valet to Mr Pinney, Pero/William Jones has just died. A distressed maidservant to Mrs Pinney, Fanny Coker, is visited by an ancestral spirit, “the Old Slave”
“Like the wind on the ocean, violent, then eerily absent.
Gone.”
Events dot,
an ever-moving timeline
Here, now, time stands still,
a Georgian time,
This room, this house, this city, globally
Eighteenth-century gentility
merchandise extracted from cane juice,
the sinews of sugar cultivation
in field, in house,
Invisible woman
Objects,
These
Memories . . .
in clay pipes,
Smooth, meditative, comforting,
distract from rumblings in an ever-hungry belly . . .
Ancestral spirits come.
. . . “Shall I tell you what it is like, life in a mulatto skin? In this household, I am tragedy, I am a lie! I am to be eternally grateful. I am to say nothing, think nothing, feel nothing, be nothing, but answerable to endless whims. Be grateful for what?”
“To the gods not them,” the Old Slave Spirit says.
She, Fanny Coker, can see nothing to be grateful for.
The Old Sage motions to the open window. He holds out his palm, an emaciated hand releases a feather. It floats before it descends.
“A symbol of our ability as humans to rise above problems, pains, heartbreaks, illnesses; to travel to another world, to be reborn, to grow spiritually is our freedom.”
“Please . . . don’t say that word! I am so free,” Fanny says, �
��I have freedom papers issued me aged eleven, yet my mother remains in captivity. With this new ‘freedom’, my owners draw me closer to them. I am raped aged fourteen.
“Nothing of my will can contradict theirs.
“Escape? Where would I go? Who do I trust? I must stay with Mrs Pinney, when Mr Pinney dies, he says, or my annuity goes.
“I know nobody. What would be my fate? I have seen and heard all I need to know about England, her freedoms the coterie of Baillies, Tobins, Gills and their ilk, uphold.
“In and out, in and out, like ships in yonder harbour, the claret-faced coterie, go in and out the house, apoplectic with rage. They lobby Parliament to counter the abolitionists’ petitions. Jubilations from church bells and firecrackers resound long into the night the slave trade bill is defeated. Hoorah!
“But what is there for me to do, but dress up in fine petticoats, take tea in bone china cups with Mrs Pinney, so my sisters believe . . . ‘Fanny will never wield a cutlass to sugar cane grass!’
“Enough! No more Fanny Cokering!
“I am defeated by all this madness like Pero . . .
“Ah! At least he’s free . . .
“And I am?”
“Who are any of us?” the Old Slave remarks. “Why are we here, but to add or take away from the sum of humanity of our own free will? Don’t let their demands imprison your soul. Be free in your spirit or your heart will sink.”
New Daughters of Africa Page 51
