Chapter 7: The Woman Behind the Walls

Yes, a special bearing.

She was the kind of woman who could silence a room with a single glance, who could settle quarrels with just a word. Since I was young, I always felt my mother was different from other ladies.

Other mothers in the compound would gossip, complain about their husbands, weep in the corners. But when my father went off to fight, she packed his things quickly, never shedding a tear—truly considerate.

She would tie his charms in a small leather bag, tuck it into his wrapper, and press his hand, her face unreadable. When my father took another wife, she never made trouble—truly virtuous.

No shouting, no curses, just a quiet smile and new space made in the storeroom. When servants made mistakes, she never punished them harshly, and often freed them—truly kind.

There was a day she found the kitchen girl crying over broken plates. Instead of beating her, my mother just shook her head and said, “Tomorrow is another day.” If my father’s reputation as a community leader is good today, I think half the credit goes to my mother.

Neighbours would say, "Akin’s house stand strong because of his wife—woman wey sabi, na she dey hold house." But I always felt there was something heavy on her mind.

A weight she carried in her eyes, in the way she sometimes stood alone by the window at dusk, lost in thought while the rest of the house bustled behind her.