The Son of the House

by Cheluchi Onyemelukwe

  The woman’s discomfiture at seeing two dressed-up women crowding her tiny, two-seat living room was apparent. She kept retying her wrapper as though she wanted to keep her hands busy.

  When she offered us a seat, we refused.

  Obiageli left me to do the talking, and I brought out an envelope, placing it on the woman’s peeling Formica table. I had come with a large sum of money; it was my salary as a principal for a year.

  ‘Your daughter has been sleeping with my husband,’ I told her bluntly.

  She stared at me, not showing any response.

  Glad that a denial did not come out of her, I went straight to what I’d really come to say. ‘I will not let her in. Tell her that. I will go to any lengths, any lengths,’ I repeated, ‘to make sure of that.’

  When the woman found her voice, she simply said, ‘He wants to marry her.’

  Her tone was defiant, but I could see doubt in her eyes. Whether doubt about Eugene’s promise or doubt that it was a good idea, I did not know, but I pounced on that slight doubt.

  ‘My husband does this with young girls,’ I ventured in the most matter-of-fact tone I could muster. ‘You see, every man has his weakness. For some it is drink, for some cigarettes. For my husband, it is young girls. Today, it is your daughter. Tomorrow, it will be another young girl. I have borne it. I will continue to bear it. But what I will not bear is another woman in my home. I am prepared to die. And if I am prepared to die, then that young girl better be prepared too. He will not marry her.’

  ‘This is not my daughter’s fault. No. It is not. He was the one who pursued her, deceived her.’

  ‘She is young,’ I conceded. I was prepared to forgive her if she let it go. ‘She does not understand men like this. Last night, he told me everything and asked me to forgive him,’ I said with studied nonchalance. ‘It is not the first time, nor is it likely to be the last time. I will forgive him. But tell your daughter she is young and she will marry a young man, not an old akatikoro.’

  ‘But she is pregnant!’ the woman all but wailed.

  I saw it clearly then – she was not interested in hanging on to a rich man, my great fear.

  ‘I will take the child.’

  ‘You will? You do not want her to remove it? She wanted to remove it, but he threatened her.’ Victory is looming, I thought. ‘I warned her. I told her that I did not want the wahala of the first wife. I don’t want nsogbu o.’ I did not trouble to correct her.

  ‘I said I am prepared to take the child,’ I went on. ‘I have only one child. He is almost grown. I can raise another. She will hand the child to me and she will be free. In time, people will forget and she will marry. She is a beautiful girl. She can start a new life and marry a man closer to her age. But she must not see him again.’

  ‘What does she tell him?’

  ‘Nothing. I will tell him myself. She must not see him again.’

  Eugene came in at eleven-thirty that night. I had sat up waiting for him in the sitting room downstairs, something I had not done since our early years of marriage. He looked worn, older than I had ever seen him. The girl, or, I suspected, her mother had given him some unpalatable news. There was no time to pity him. He had brought this on himself and on me.

  ‘Nno, welcome,’ I said.

  Startled to see me, he quickly got himself together. ‘Julie, are you still awake? You need not have waited up.’

  ‘I did,’ I said simply. ‘Please sit down.’ My tone brooked no argument. He obeyed.

  ‘I know you have been seeing that girl.’

  ‘What girl?’

  I almost laughed. Even the most sensible men become like children when their hands are caught in the cookie jar.

  ‘You know what girl. Please do not raise your voice. You do not want to wake up the servants.’

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’

  ‘You do. Her name is Mmaku. Let us not be childish here. She may be a child. But I am not. I know she is pregnant.’

  ‘Yes, she is,’ he said after a pause, ‘And I will marry her.’ He looked at me, determination written on his face.

  ‘No, you won’t,’ I responded with a calm I did not feel. ‘What do you have to offer a young girl who will seek young blood the minute she tires of you? Let us be serious here, Eugene. She is not in your league. You cannot present her anywhere.’

  ‘She is pregnant with my child.’

  ‘I know,’ I reminded him. ‘That is not a problem.’

  ‘I will not leave my child.’ He emphasised every word. I heard the ring of certainty in it.

  ‘I have said there is no problem. We will raise her child. I will raise her child as an Obiechina should be raised. We will forget that this unfortunate incident ever happened.’

  And that was that. I saw the tension leave his face and relief take over. I wanted to sneer in derision. There was a little more talk, of course, but that was merely taking care of the details – how the girl would be looked after in the meantime, how the baby would be brought into the family.

  But it was not to be that easy. Eugene left me the next morning. He went to her and, as he had done with me, he took palm wine to her village, where they accepted him. I thought I would die of shame and humiliation.

  Afterwards, Eugene came home occasionally to my coldness, to strut around the house and remind me that it was still his and he could live anywhere he wanted. With me, with Onyemaechi, with Mmaku. In the past, no one expected a rich man like him to marry only one or even two wives. One son was not enough. One would think I would be happy for him, he told me. Sometimes I shouted back at him; other times I looked upon him with pity and drove him mad with my condescension. I hung on for five months of madness and sorrow, plotting for my son’s inheritance. Five months that felt like a lifetime.

  But one day this too came to an end.

  Mmaku and her little girl died in labour. I was shocked. For a while, Eugene was inconsolable. But he survived. And so did our marriage.

  Our marriage persisted beyond his attempt to disgrace me, beyond his consistent fickleness. I reminded him often that I was the mother of his only son. I put his brief madness behind us so thoroughly that I had trouble remembering exactly what Mmaku looked like, or how blazingly consuming my anger and fear had been. Forgiveness, I found, was easier on the mind, the soul, the spirit, even the body, than bitterness. I wished I had had that knowledge when my brother died all those years ago. Forgiveness for myself for failing him, forgiveness for him for being what he was.

  Even with the imperfections of our marriage, when Eugene died, I thought I wanted to die. I went through days of haze. The doctor said I was depressed. Was that not something that afflicted white people and soft people suffered from? I wanted to know. God knew, my skin was brown, even browner with age. As for strength, the daughter of Headmaster and his wife, herself a principal, dared not admit to weakness of any kind. Did my own mother, the strongest person I had known, not go through this same thing when my brother died?

  When I came out of the haze, I became ever more aware of my mortality. But I could not embrace this awareness. I did not worship at the altar of immortality, of heaven. I was aware that life mattered. I wanted to live. Now more than ever. I was lonely, but I did not want to die. Now, grief came and went, leaving in its wake the uncertainty of when and how it would return. Sometimes it was with tears and sadness, other times its companion was anger and bitterness.

  As I sat thinking about my grief, my mind travelled to Nwabulu. There was something about her presence, her attitude to life, her stamina, that drew one to her. I did not think of her as a daughter, but I had never had such a young friend either. Her heavy, uncultured accent – which belied her beautiful clothes – even her rough bargaining at the market when we went to buy fabrics for the wedding told me that life could not have been easy for her. ‘You have no idea what suffering is,’ I heard her tell her daughter over the phone once when she complained of too much work at school, so much work th
at even their teachers pitied them. ‘Those people who are pitying you will not get you through school.’ Nwabulu took life by the horns; she looked at life and said: ‘Anyone who runs from a sheep will run from a lion.’ And she looked determined to stare lions in the face. She woke up every day, got to work early, worked as hard as and harder than her tailors. She treated her workers with firmness yet kindness. In short, she was alive. Something about that was catching.

  I might invite her to the house, I thought now. Maybe on a Sunday. We could have lunch, and when Afam called, as he usually did after lunch, I would give her the phone to say hello to him. That should give him enough to think about. The more I thought about it, the more I found myself nodding in agreement with myself. It would be something to look forward to.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  NWABULU

  When I woke up this morning, I did not go through my usual routine. I instead headed to the garage which we had converted into my workroom. Today was the deadline for Mrs Obiechina’s clothes. They should have been ready yesterday, but I was not enamoured with the sleeves on two of the blouses. I brought them home with me, and woke up with a clear and precise vision of what they should look like. So I came in and quickly undid the sleeves and got on the sewing machine.

  I needed to give her the best that I could. The wedding was seven weeks away. Just yesterday, my husband had laughed at me and wondered aloud whether I had ever devoted this much attention to anyone’s clothes besides my children’s.

  ‘You are not even going to this wedding,’ he pointed out.

  ‘She asked me if I would come.’ I could see that he was surprised by this. I answered before he could form the question: ‘Of course, I’m not going. I can’t afford it, and I would not let her pay for it. What would I be going as anyway? Friend of the bridegroom’s mother?’ I laughed and he joined me.

  ‘If I had a mother,’ I said afterwards, ‘I would make sure she looked lovely for her son’s wedding.’

  My husband had stared at me thoughtfully. I would have liked to see a picture of what was passing through his head.

  Now, he came into the workroom where I was sewing the sleeves. ‘You are up early,’ I said.

  He bent and kissed my cheeks and then rubbed them with his slightly rough hands. A warmth spread through me. I wanted to pull him to me but it was not the time. His afro, wet from his shower and still worn the way it was in 1980 when I was a housemaid and he a young boy living the vital life of an okolobia, left drops on my face.

  ‘Yes, you are not the only one who enjoys the early morning quiet,’ he said, his voice teasing.

  I smiled in response. I often joked that since our daughter Onyinye left the house for boarding school, it had become too quiet. I threatened to have another child just to fill the place with noise. But we both knew that road had been closed years ago. I found having children too hard.

  Having babies reminded me of Ezinwa, and for the first year or two – three years with Chukwuemeka – I could not let them out of my sight. My fear was unreasonable; Ifechi pointed this out carefully, kindly, and then not so gently. But I could not let go of my fear, or of my son. I could not even use the bathroom without taking him with me. I could also not let anyone else care for my children, and so, for six years, I could not work. I sewed at night when the children slept so I could stay awake to watch them. Clothes were never finished on time, and I lost customers. Our marriage struggled. Though, because of Ifechi’s giving nature, we found a way to live peacefully, if not very happily.

  After Onyinye, I told Ifechi that we could have no more children, but he was determined to have more. He came from a large family, one of the many differences between us. He wanted five, he said. But on this matter of more children, I would not, could not, budge. I could not tie five children to my waist, and that was what I wanted to do with my children, hold them close.

  I went to the doctor, had a coil put in, and went home, with a tight, defiant countenance, to face my husband.

  Nothing would make me change my mind, but I could see his point: he loved children, and was the warmest father anyone knew. But I could not imagine going through the process of pregnancy again and keeping unrelenting watch, with beating heart and clammy hands, over another child. It was the only serious issue we had had in twenty-one years of marriage; it threatened to break us apart where nothing else had or could. But my husband came round. When it was time for Chukwuemeka to go to secondary school, I did not want to send him to a boarding school. Ifechi insisted. I remembered our quarrel over having more children, the unhappiness of living with the weariness of never sleeping at night while I kept watch over the children.

  ‘Let us try it for a year,’ Ifechi said. My son loved it, and stayed on for five more years. I did not think I would survive it, but I did. When the time came for Onyinye to go, it was still difficult, but I knew that this time I could do it. I remember being surprised, even hurt, that my children could live without me, indeed wanted to live apart from me sometimes. But I packed my feelings into the bag in which I put things that baffled me about the world and went on.

  ‘Are you happy with the blouses now?’ my husband asked me, leaning over to look.

  ‘Yes, they are much better.’

  ‘You are a genius. I am sure she will love them and come back for more,’ he said, in his characteristic admiring mode. He was forever using superlatives to describe me to his family, his business partners, everyone he came across. Ask my wife, he would say when someone brought him a family dispute. My wife says this, he would say to someone else whose children were causing him heartache. He asked my opinion in business, and had taken my advice when I said that he might do better if he focused on the computer business he had been nursing, if he retired from the civil service. To my shock, he took me seriously, and thank God, he and I had not had much reason to regret it.

  My fairy tale had come true with Ifechi. It was not the glossy, prince-save-the-princess-and-live-happily-ever-after fairy tale like the ones in Ikenna’s book. It was a warts-and-all, real-life romance.

  ‘Are you going to deliver the clothes yourself?’ he asked.

  I delivered to some of my customers, the older ones, the richer ones, the ones who requested it, the ones who needed the clothes to arrive at an event or a party. I usually sent someone, but sometimes I delivered them myself. Seeing as it was Mrs Obiechina, my friend, I certainly was going to deliver them myself to her house and check the fit for any adjustments. I had called already and made arrangements.

  ‘Yes, this evening, on my way home.’

  ‘Okay, I am off to work. Ezigbo m, have a great day. I will see you this evening.’ We hugged and held each other. I put my head on his shoulders, though he was shorter than me. God, if there was any such being, had rewarded my pains very richly indeed.

  I left the shop at half past four and drove to Mrs Obiechina’s house. The part of town where I had spent my first years as a housemaid in Enugu had changed – more houses, more flower beds, more tarred roads. I wondered if my school was still there, if Daddy and Mummy would recognise me, driving my own car.

  I wondered where Daddy and Mummy were now. Chidinma said that she heard that Ikenna now lived abroad in the USA. His father lived by himself in Lagos, where he had been transferred years before, while Mummy lived alone in Enugu. Perhaps she had given up on cleaning and mopping, and dealing with his tantrums, I thought. Good for her. I wondered if I would ever see Ikenna again. Life, I mused.

  I found Mrs Obiechina’s street. It was lined with imposing houses, although some had peeling paint and overgrown gardens, evidence that the family had fallen on hard times or that children had moved to Lagos or London and had little use for a house in Enugu. When I found her number, I tooted my horn and waited. A man, perhaps in his fifties, opened the gates. Did he have a family? I wondered. Was he able to feed them on his gateman’s salary? I drove in towards a large, arresting house, slightly dated in style, surrounded by the sort of flowers you saw only o
n the television. A small gazebo stood in the corner, inviting you to ‘ooooo oooo don’t worry, be happy’, like the old song said. Whoever had built this place had wanted all and sundry to know that there was money.

  I parked close to the gate and walked up the path to the entrance with the bags of clothes. A woman – she looked like a cook or help of some sort in her uniform – opened the door. When I told her I’d brought some clothes for Mrs Obiechina, she smiled: I was expected. She led me into a sitting room where she gestured for me to sit while she went to get Madam. Around me, everything spelt luxury – the flowery smell of the room freshener, the wooden console and mirror by the door, the Arabic-looking furniture. But what I was most interested in were the pictures on the mantel. I stood up to get a closer look. A man, who must have been her husband, herself, much younger than she was now, a young boy. What was familiar about him? I pondered as I moved nearer to pick up the picture. But, before I could do so, Mrs Obiechina came into the room.

  ‘Good afternoon, my dear.’ Her voice was as soft as always, and yet you could hear that mettle of steel somewhere.

  She held out her arms for a hug. I embraced her and she clung to me for a second.

  She was dressed more casually than she had been when I last saw her – a big blouse over blue jeans. She was a trendy old woman, I thought, letting my inward smile reach my face.

  ‘Good afternoon, Ma,’ I said respectfully.

  ‘So happy to see you in my house, at last.’ A gentle reminder that I had declined all her attempts to bring me this way.

  ‘What do I offer you?’ she asked, pressing a bell on the wall. Would it not be nice to have help at the touch of a bell? Perhaps I would install one at home for my girls. I imagined Ifechi laughing at my silliness.

  ‘Nothing, Ma.’

  ‘Ah, ah,’ she complained. ‘You cannot come to my house and not eat anything. If you do, I will stop eating okpa at your shop,’ she threatened mockingly.

  I broke into laughter. Mrs Obiechina had discovered my favourite okpa seller, Mama Chibike, who made the best okpa in the whole of Enugu – properly red with good palm oil, soft without being mushy, with salt and pepper in just the right combination. Mrs Obiechina said it reminded her of the okpa her own mother had made.