The Other Woman

The Other Woman
by Cheluchi Onyemelukwe

I felt like a stranger again in our house, the way I always felt when my mother-in-law visited. Each time she came to visit, she simply took over the house. She monopolized my husband. She had long conversations with him from which I was frequently excluded. She dictated what I should cook and sometimes did the cooking herself. You would think I was the most stupid woman in the world even though I had a Master’s degree in business. With every look, she reminded me of my great failure as a wife. Next June would be our tenth anniversary and there was still no sign of a baby. I wondered if this was the reason for her second visit to Abuja from the east this month.

As I prepared supper, they were closeted in the sitting room talking about family and village matters. They usually did not start talking about “my problem” until after supper and then only in the privacy of her room. I have often wondered if every mother-in-law has a room of her own in her son’s house. Well, mine did. On arrival, she would say, “Nkechi, take these to my bedroom” pointing at her bags. I would take the bags to her room door and wait for her to unlock it, in my own home. My own mother did not enjoy the same privilege. She slept in whatever room was available when she came for a visit. Given my childless state, where she slept when she came to visit, usually to discuss the newest miracle worker in town, was my mother’s least concern. With my mother it was always about “chasing the black goat while it was still daylight,” the goat being the baby that was yet to come, and the fading daylight, my age.

I caught myself as I nearly put in too much pepper in the Nsala soup. That would have guaranteed some cutting remarks from my mother-in-law, who did not really appreciate spicy food, and worse still, did not think too highly of my culinary skills, or any of my skills for that matter. My husband would also be sure to beg her to do the cooking the next day as if he had been starving before she came.

At first, I found his attachment to his mother surprising. He had certainly not shown any signs of being a mama’s boy when we were dating. As far as I know, he did not consult his mother before he proposed to me. That may well have been the only time he did not consult her. Perhaps that was what she had against me. I knew that she did not like me from the first day, but I had hoped that would pass. I did not worry about it too much at the time, particularly as we were not going to live with her in the village. Whatever influence she had on her son, the last of her seven children, it could surely not extend beyond the village. At least, so I thought. Time, however, had changed that opinion. He was the apple of his mother’s eyes. Although she had six other children, she doted on him as if he was her only child. As for him, his affections for his mother far exceeded the affections he had for anyone else. Frequently they had made me feel like the outsider in the house, the interloper who came in to disrupt the family peace. My infertility problems had only worsened matters for me. Now, she could justifiably find fault with me to her heart’s content.

As I stirred the soup, all the bitterness of the past few years swelled up in me. Not that Nduka was a bad man. He was very hardworking. He was a manager at his bank and earned good money. He was generous when he wanted to be. He could be kind, and he was nice to my people. He was still handsome although he had put on weight and was beginning to develop a potbelly. If he cheated on me, he was careful not to let on. Really, his major fault was allowing his mother to insult me constantly and this was a deep thorn in my side.

As for the infertility issue, we hardly ever talked about it these days. In the early days, two, three years after our marriage, he was optimistic, consoling me, waxing philosophical at every turn, ‘It will happen in God’s time, there is no point fretting.’ These days, nearly ten years after, whenever I brought it up, he switched off. He did not want to talk about it. When I complained about this, he would ask what I wanted him to do. His attitude said it all. It was not his fault; the problem lay with me.

‘Whatever you are cooking is certainly taking time,’ my mother-in-law said.

I looked up startled. I hadn’t realized she had come into the kitchen.

‘If I had not eaten some bananas on the way to this place, I probably would have died of hunger waiting for whatever you are making.’

I looked at her. Short fat woman, it was hard to see her starving. She may have been pretty once, but now her dry cheeks were fat and sagging, so were the folds on her neck. My husband got his height from his late father, but he and his mother shared the same fair complexion.

‘I am sorry, ma, I had to stop to buy some fish on my way back from work,’ I replied with all the sweetness I could muster.

‘Nkechi, how come you are cooking so late?’ queried my husband who had come to join the conversation.

As usual, no sign of wanting to take my part, I thought. Before I had time to respond, my mother-in-law said, ‘I would have thought that you would be doing bulk shopping, instead of buying one thing or the other everyday. You have a deep freezer after all.’

I did not make any response to this criticism deeming it wiser to shut up even though I was virtually choking with anger.

‘What are you making?’

‘Nsala soup.’

‘Ndu,’ she said, ‘does not really like Nsala.’

‘Ndu,’ of course, had nothing to say for himself.

‘Make sure it is not too hot,’ she instructed.

‘Yes ma.’ There was a small silence, and then she went back to the sitting room with my husband following close behind, as if drawn by a magnet. I sighed.

Naturally, my husband went into her room after the meal to continue the chat they had begun when he came home from work. He had become his mother’s property until she left, I thought bitterly. I had learnt to be patient during such times, but it was never easy. Sometimes, my feelings towards her were very similar to that of a co-wife in a polygamous family; a feeling of competition between wives. Feelings that probably made them wonder whose food would he eat today, in whose bed would he sleep. The only difference was that, in this case, I could not afford to show my resentment more openly, however justified. For not only did she who gave birth to him have, some would say, a stronger claim on him than I, a stranger who met her son only eleven years before, I had no serious hold on him without a child.

My infertility was certainly a problem. In a society where having children was still the most important reason for marriage and love was secondary, where religion was pushed to the background and young women encouraged to get pregnant before the wedding to prove that they were fertile and would thus perform the most important function of brides, and where no level of education or career achievement could veil the gross disadvantage of barrenness, I dared not show any hostility to my mother-in-law.

Nor could I really blame her for her animosity to me on this account. Did I not desperately desire a child? Had I not wondered why God would make me wait this long for something that other women took for granted? I had seen many doctors and specialists. They all said the same thing; I had polycystic ovaries and though it may take time, I could eventually conceive with treatment. But time was running out on me. At 38, I was no longer a young woman.
More importantly, I could sense Nduka’s mounting impatience. His mother had brought it home to me on her last visit. ‘Both you and my son are not getting any younger. When do you plan to give us this child?’ she asked. ‘You must start thinking of alternatives.’ Now what did she mean by that? Adoption? Perhaps Nduka marrying a second wife? I knew he would never consider marrying anyone else. He was very outspoken against polygamous families. Complications, he called them.

As usual, my bout with self-pity brought the beginnings of tears to my eyes. I sobbed quietly so that they would not hear me. I put on my nightie and tried to go to sleep and forget my sorrows. But sleep wouldn’t come. Nduka remained with his mother for a long time. Was he planning to spend the rest of the night with her?

He looked surprised when I said his name as he came into the bedroom.

‘You are still awake?’ he asked as he took off his clothes.

‘Were you able to take the car to the mechanic?’ I asked trying to start a conversation. We had not really talked since he came back from work. He had been taken up with his mother’s visit.

“Hmmm,” he murmured.

I sensed he did not want to talk to me. Perhaps he was too tired. No wonder, it was nearly two o’clock in the morning. I went to sleep. Maybe if I had known what the next few days would bring, I would not have slept as well as I did that night. Barren women, after all, should cry out to God at all hours of the night like Hannah of the Bible, especially when they had mothers-in-law like mine.

For the next one week, my life was uncomfortable with my mother-in-law making barbed comments about everything from my cooking, my housekeeping to the fact that I seemed to be living in the church rather than in my home. My husband ignored these comments with a deafness that would surprise anyone, striking up a new conversation as soon as she was done berating me. He spent his evenings in his mother’s room. I always wondered what, apart from ‘my problem,’ they could possibly have to talk about every single evening. This time though, I imagined that Nduka was avoiding my eyes everytime I looked at him. I was becoming paranoid. I couldn’t wait for her departure.

At the weekend, Nduka informed me that he was going to the village with his mother. This was hardly surprising. He usually took her home when she visited as if she could not find her way home the same way she had come from the village.

I was relieved when they left. I could breathe freely again. A cloud had lifted from the sky and the sun was shining again. At least until the next time she came to make my life miserable again.

On Monday, I left the office earlier than usual hoping that he would be back and that we could become a couple again. He came back. His mother came back with him. I was puzzled but I tried to hide my surprise.

‘Mama, good evening. You came back?’

‘Good evening,’ she replied. She gave no reply to my question. I did not ask again even though I could not fathom why she would come back after she had apparently gone back to the village just last weekend.

The minute Nduka went into the bedroom to change, I followed him. ‘Is Mama ill?’ I asked him.

‘No,’ he replied without elaboration.

‘Then why did she come back with you?’ I asked when I saw no explanation was forthcoming.

‘Is my mum no longer free to come to my house?’ he asked with sudden ferocity.

What was the problem? Could I no longer ask a simple question? I wanted to say, ‘Free to come to your house? She is practically living with us!’ I decided not to argue. I did not want Mama to overhear us.

I said quietly, ‘I thought she wanted to go home?’

‘She has gone home and she has returned.’ Just like that, no reason. I stood looking at him, waiting to see if he anything more to add. He turned away and began undressing. When I saw that no explanation was coming, I left the room.

I could not control my whirling thoughts as I put some rice to boil. Why had she come back? She had not said anything about returning when she left. Was she planning to live with us permanently?

Over dinner, we ate in silence. This was strange. The two of them always talked over my head at the dining table. Nduka did not eat much. There was some kind of tension in the air but I could not make out the cause.

I tidied up after the dinner and was about to enter the bedroom, assuming that they would retire as usual to her room when she called out to me, ‘Nkechi.’

‘Ma?’ What did she want now?

‘Come and sit down,’ she said. It was an order, not a request. I looked at Nduka, what was going on? He turned away from me rather woodenly. I concluded that we were probably going to get some words of wisdom on ‘my problem.’

His mother said, ‘Nduka,’ as if prompting him.

‘Ehn, Nkechi, you see I have decided to marry another wife,’ he blurted.

At first, I couldn’t absorb what he had just said. I stared at him. What did he just say?

Before I could respond, his mother said smoothly as if she had rehearsed this scene, ‘You see, you are not getting any younger. Ndu too is getting older. He needs a child.’

She paused, then continued, her eyes boring into my face, ‘We paid the bride price of Nduka’s new wife over the weekend. I hope you will understand that Nduka has exercised sufficient patience. Ten years is a long time to be married without a child.’ She stopped. She had said it all.
I looked at my husband. He was staring down at the carpet. In that moment I hated him. For humiliating me like this, telling me this horrible thing in front of his mother, allowing me to hear the worst news of my life from this woman who took pleasure in my misery. It would not have been wonderful news in any case, but to tell me right there with his mother sitting there, prompting and helping him was worse than any nightmare that I had ever had.

I did not shout or cry. I simply stood up and left them. They did not call me back. My husband sat there and did not follow me. My husband, who had promised before God to love and cherish me till death did us part, who had promised my parents he would take care of me. Had I not forfeited these promises when I had failed to bear a child? I sat down on the bed and I still could not cry.

When my numbed feelings finally awoke anger was my first reaction. How could Nduka do this? In this day and age, he was going to marry a second wife? He, a Christian? He who had always considered it to be uncivilized, a complication of one’s life? Nduka was educated, but where was the education in allowing his mother to make him marry another wife?

I wanted to call my mother on the phone and cry. But I was no longer a child; I had to take care of my own problems. In any case, what would she say? I knew she would say that I should stay and fight. She would ask how could I leave my husband with all the things we had struggled for over the past ten years for someone else to enjoy. But would I not remain the stranger in my home, with not only my mother-in- law but also another woman sharing it?

I wiped the tears that I did not know had started coming, and quietly got up and went to the wardrobe, pulled out suitcases and began to pack. Tomorrow morning, I would leave. I had a good job. I earned good money and I could take care of myself. I was not sure what the future held, but I could not live with one more woman in my marriage. It dawned on me that, whereas the other woman was usually a secret from the wife, I had lived with the other woman right in my home. If I were to be honest to myself, I had been sharing my husband with another woman for the last ten years. I had covered my eyes with the cloak of my own victimization - the self-blaming of a barren woman. It was not a pleasant experience. Another woman would be too much for me to handle. And I was not sure Nduka was worth that kind of soul-destroying heartache. It was time to go.

First published in Open Wide Magazine, Issue 20. A longer, slightly different version published in Farafina Online Magazine, Issue 4 as "A Barren Woman's Dilemma."

© Cheluchi Onyemelukwe, 2007