My father’s new wife

When I was just a little girl, in standard six, we became popular on the streets of Lagos, precisely, Festac town. I mean, my parents became popular, no, our family. I think it was first at Ibadan, before my father got a new job as a driver with an oil company; we moved to the city of Lagos. The first time it happened in Ibadan, we almost made headline on local news; the whole of Ibadan gathered at the face-me-I-face-you yard, where we had to stand on a long queue to use the toilet or to wash our body.

At times, we almost didn’t take our bath before rushing off to school on the back of my father’s truck. After the incident, my father invited his brothers to the house; they all descended like vultures, but when they saw that the sickness was far more than they could cure, the matter was taken to the village.

I could remember that day vividly; while on my way back from school, I met my neighbours rushing from the playground –we had a central playground at Ibadan. I doubt if it would still be there. The last time I heard, it was converted into an estate, a hospital or something. The playground kept old memories alive. So, my friends rushed off, and I forgot I was to go home, i followed.

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But it seemed everyone was busy rushing to our compound. At first, I thought it was fire, a witch, a thief or a room had collapsed, just like we saw it, each time a heavy storm descended. But no, it was different. The problem, everyone gathered for, came from our own end of the yard, which was what we called it, our yard. Before I could squeeze myself through to get to the front, two men carried my father, he was covered in blood.

I ran into our room, and some men and women gathered around my mother. She couldn’t look at me; neither could anyone offer an explanation of what really went wrong. The only thing I noticed was that, my friends avoided me, and people made mockery of my parents. I was too young to understand all those things.

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The Move to Lagos

My father came home one day, and I discovered that were moving to Lagos. My teacher often talked about Lagos as a city of freedom and opportunities. She was very impressed when I informed her of my father’s new job with an oil company. The move was swift: we left in the early hours of the morning, and there were no neighbours that bid us farewell. They all watched through their windows; it was as though we would not be missed. When I grew a little, I understood that we had enough drama in our lives, and our neighbours must have preferred not to have us around.

My father’s new job was very close to a place called Lagos Island; it paid him enough for us to afford a flat at a place called Festac.  My teacher once brought a book to class, and on the cover, it was boldly written, .  She told of the time Nigeria hosted a very popular festival, and a place was specially mapped out to host guests. She described the place so much that, I imagined living in one of the flats.  The day we moved to our new house, I nearly ran mad when I found out it was the popular place my teacher told us about.

I ran around the flat while my parents packed our things; there were enough rooms for everyone, and for the first time, I had a room to myself. I ran into the kitchen, turned the tap but nothing came out. I tried the shower in the bathroom, but it gave out a hollow noise. I was disappointed, because I wished to know what it meant to have running water. The paints on the walls were pealing, and the ceilings leaked of water, but I didn’t care.

The Visitors

My father resumed at his new place of employment; it was just my mother and I. I had just taken my common entrance examination. There was nothing to do, but stay at home. After some months, in the mid-afternoon, we had a visitor, a neighbor of ours. He smiled at me and asked for my mother. But before I could answer, my mother came to the door, and asked me to go and play with the neighbours. At a point, the visits became frequent, and different men came to the house while my father was at work.

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One day, while I was at the neighbours’, we heard a loud cry. We all ran out, and noticed that the cry came from my own end of the flat. Before we could make our way up, the whole Festac town had already gathered. I forced myself through, and when I got to my sitting room, I wished I had not come at first; my mother was almost naked, beating up my father. By the side, the neighbor that earlier visited during the day was in nothing but his briefs.

The New Wife

At that time, it was uncommon for a woman to beat a man, much more, a woman that was caught in the act of adultery. When I came of age, I understood that things happened for a reason. Some months after the incident, my father came home with a young lady. My mother had travelled for Augustmeeting. The young lady slept in my father’s room, and cooked for us each day --something my mother never did.

She took her time to clear the house, washed my cloths and made my hair. When she left, nobody talked about her visit, including the neighbours who knew we had a visitor. I remembered the lady, because she was one of the choristers in church.

Few months after her visit, my father travelled to the village for a church launching. Fortunately, since we moved to Lagos, my father was honoured at important occasions, especially, things of the faithful. One day, someone knocked at the door, I answered. It was Uncle Philips and Uncle Emeka. My father was last, he came in with the same woman who came for a visit, some months back, she was pregnant.

My father took her to his room to get some rest. They waited till my mother came home from women’s meeting before they left. I must say, I never knew what they discussed over their meeting, but when I came to the kitchen, I met Sister Eunice preparing dinner while my mother quietly slept in the guest room. I never knew why I had no sister or brother, but I was sure to get one from Sister Eunice.

Written by Oluoma Udemezue.