Chapter 2: The Hidden Tears of Madam Okoye

Everybody said I was the luckiest girl in the whole area.

In Umuola, luck is measured by the man you marry and how brightly your Ankara shines on Sunday. My name was always on people’s lips, and my mother’s friends would hail her as the envy of all mothers.

After I married Okoye Chukwuma, it was as if his eyes cleared overnight.

People said I brought him blessing—"A woman’s feet bring fortune to her husband’s house." My father would nod, eyes shining in the firelight each evening.

In three years, Chukwuma became a local government scholar. In six, he passed the state exams.

His name echoed from radio speakers, and villagers crowded our house with kolanuts and bottles of Star. The Okoye family, they said, now soared higher than the village eagle.

At twenty-seven, he was posted as council chairman in a rich part of Palm Grove region.

We packed our bags, leaving the red earth of Umuola behind, my mother-in-law grumbling at the back of the bus. The new house had cold tiles, not mud, and I wore wrappers sent from Lagos.

I, too, changed from village girl to council chairman’s wife.

No more pounding yam till my arms ached, no more borrowing earrings for church. I learned to speak softly at parties, to smile with only half my mouth.

But those ten-plus years that people envied were not sweet for me.

Behind closed doors, sorrow grows fat. People saw my fine clothes, never the tears I wiped alone at night.

My mother-in-law never liked me.

She would purse her lips, mutter prayers under her breath, and always find a reason to scold me in front of visitors.

She raised Chukwuma alone after becoming a widow, treating him like a glass cup.

To her, her son was her only sun and moon. Every woman was measured against him, but none—especially not me—ever reached her standard.

In her eyes, he was a star from heaven, meant to marry a princess, not me.

She always let everyone know: "My Chukwuma is really unlucky."

Her sighs were loud enough for the neighbours to hear. Even the goats would pause when she started.

"A whole council chairman, but his main wife is just a village girl."

She would throw these words like hot pepper every time she passed me, making sure they stung.

"I’m too ashamed to visit anybody. Which commissioner’s wife is not from a respected family?"

She would compare me to the wives of big men, as if my blood was water and theirs was palm wine.

So she made my life bitter in every way she could.

A pinch here, a slap there, a sharp word always. Nothing I did pleased her.

In eighteen years of marriage, I never once ate at the same table as Chukwuma.

Even on Christmas, when families gather under the mango to break kola, I sat in the kitchen, listening to laughter through a cracked door.

Back in the village, every time I finished cooking, she sent me on another errand—

"Chidinma, fetch water. Chidinma, cut grass for the goats." The list never finished. By night, my back ached, my hands shook with tiredness.

Cutting grass for goats, feeding chickens, sweeping, splitting firewood, fetching water from the borehole.

Some days, my knuckles bled from pounding yam, but she only pointed out another cobweb or dust on the floor.

There was never an end to housework.

Sleep came only when the cocks crowed. It was never enough.

By the time I returned to the kitchen, tired and sweaty, all that remained was cold yam and half a plate of ugba.

I ate in silence, swallowing tears with every bite. My stomach never full, but pride kept me quiet.

When my husband became an official, my mother-in-law would say, "In big houses, daughters-in-law must stand and serve their mothers-in-law."

She made me stand behind her, carrying trays and serving water, while she ate slowly, ensuring I watched every swallow.

I was still eating leftovers—the only change was the food itself.

Sometimes, I tasted fried rice and chicken for the first time, but it was always cold when it got to me.

When we were poor, after eating, my husband would lock himself in his room to read.

He lived among his books, far from my world. Even his silence was heavy.

Whatever happened in the house, he ignored it, his mind buried in books.

He would shut his door, and all I heard was the turning of pages late into the night.

Our house had three rooms: parlour, my mother-in-law’s, and my husband’s.

I slept on the floor beside my mother-in-law’s bed, my dreams folded and hidden under my pillow.

She never allowed me to stay with my husband, claiming I would disturb his thoughts.

She said my presence would distract him from important things. I could only watch him from afar.

She even made a timetable—twice a month, no more. She ticked the dates in her book, watching that I never overstayed.

In her room, she fashioned a bed from a door and two benches.

The boards creaked, the wind howled through cracks.

On that hard bed, I slept for nine years.

Every harmattan, my fingers turned numb. I doubled my wrapper, but the cold still crept in.

For nine years, I can’t count how many times I got up at night—

Her cough would start, and I would be up, fetching water or balm, my eyes half-closed.

To bring her water, empty her potty, massage her legs, rub her shoulders.

No job was too small. My back bent under duty, my spirit stretched thin.

In harmattan, she would make me heat the room; in the middle of the night, she’d order me to open the windows.

No matter the weather, her comfort came first. My own body was a tool for her needs.

In dry season, she’d make me sit by her, fanning with a raffia fan till my palms blistered. If I slowed, she snapped her fingers and glared.

I fanned her all night.

Sometimes, the sun rose while I was still fanning. My eyes burned, but I forced a smile.

Even after moving to Palm Grove, I still slept in her room. The city changed nothing. Her eyes watched me, sharp as before.

She refused to let housegirls serve her, claiming they were clumsy and unlucky. Only my tired hands met her standard.

Since I married Chukwuma, I never slept a full night.

I forgot what it meant to dream in peace.

After Chukwuma became council chairman, he took two junior wives and three girls who also shared his bed.

He said it was for the family’s future. I counted days on my fingers, learning to look away when he passed.

The junior wives were jealous, and he was too busy to care.

We became strangers in the same house, our words lost in a crowded, noisy family.