Chapter 2: Blood and Wrappers

My mother was just a pawn, carefully chosen by the first wife to deal with my father’s favourite woman. She was beautiful and talented, from a family of local chiefs—enough to catch my father’s eye. When my father loved her pass, the first wife give her herbal mixture wey make her fine but deadly. She want make my mama die like Mama Ladi—so only her, the most beautiful and gentle, go dey inside my papa memory.

That time, chief house na battlefield. The wives dey smile for each other but knife dey hide for their back. My mother—tall, fine like Sunday morning, with hands wey fit twist thread and still play ogene—na arrow dem send to scatter another woman joy. But she too become story for evening grinding stone gist.

Mama no send any plan again except her own death; the first wife already arrange the rest for the favourite woman. As expected, as my mama die, my papa vex scatter, start to do serious investigation. The favourite woman, wey enjoy almost ten years for chief house, dem beat am nearly die, come send her packing. Even her children lose status, chase them go back room by my papa.

The night my mama eye close, air for our quarter heavy like wet harmattan. My papa, him vex loud enough to shake doors, gather elders and diviners, dey find who poison im peace. That woman, the favorite, wey dey waka with pride before, dem drag her bare feet pass servants—her gele tear, tears mix with dust. Her children, once prince and princess, now dey sleep near kitchen, beside firewood.

The first wife kill two birds with one stone and dey very pleased. She keep her promise to my mama, shed small tears, come carry me as her own. She register me as her daughter, make me the legitimate second young lady of chief house. Her name soar, win my papa heart. Killing four birds with one stone, she kneel for family altar give thanks, dey weep and laugh like person wey don craze.

Her fake tears na for audience—her belle dey sweet her, but for face she dey form sorrow. That night, as she press my head to her bosom before shrine, she call me her ‘beloved daughter’ make everybody hear. Women come greet am, bring kolanut, yams, wrappers. She weep and laugh, her voice dey rise and fall, prayer dey mix with secret pride. If no be for the small lamp wey wind dey shake, people for say she don run mad from joy.