Chapter 3: The Fire in the Compound

“Ahn ahn, Mama Ifeoma, congratulations o!”

The rustle of Ankara wrappers swept through our yard, mixing with the aroma of egusi and the clatter of plates. Neighbours’ voices floated in, and children chased chickens around the mango tree. Uncle Okoye led a group into our compound, balancing two loads of bride price on their heads.

My hands dropped weakly. I closed my eyes, feeling the weight of fate settle on my shoulders.

If this was the road God mapped for me, who was I to complain?

Let it be.

Even if my heart longed to run, I was still my father’s daughter. Peace and respect meant more than dreams.

If I didn’t marry Okoye Chukwuma, what else could I hope for?

In this village, girls like me don’t choose their husbands. Parents count our worth; we follow their will.

For a village girl, having a husband who doesn’t raise his hand or insult you is already luck.

Our mothers would gather at the well: “At least he brings you meat on Sunday, and your face still dey shine.” That was enough.

As for work—who rests after marriage?

From dawn till dusk, work never ends. Only lazy ones complain.

Who doesn’t endure a mother-in-law’s wahala?

Even my friend Nkem, whose mother-in-law was half-blind, still received scolding for adding too much salt in the soup.

When I became a council chairman’s wife, I realized that even girls from rich families do not have easy lives.

Behind every gele and gold earring is a struggle nobody sees. Their houses are big, but their tears taste the same.

When they are young, they must compete with half-sisters, fighting for their mother’s share of the father’s love.

Sometimes, the war begins before marriage, with mothers whispering secrets for survival.

With favour comes fatter bride price and a better match.

After marriage, they fight with junior wives and mother-in-law.

Whether palace or hut, the war continues—some with silence, others with hot words and broken plates.

If they win, it’s always for their children.

They say, “A woman fights for her children’s tomorrow, not herself.”

Everybody carries their own wahala.

For women, this world is not easy.

Every woman carries her own load. Some hide it better, but no one’s back is truly straight.

If I broke the engagement, village gossip would finish my parents.

Tongues are sharper than knives. Our family name would be dragged through every gutter.

Let it be.

Better to swallow pride than let my family suffer.

At least I knew the Okoye family’s ways—I could find a way to survive.

A wise woman bends but does not break. I could learn to twist fate to my side.

“Over my dead body will this marriage hold!”

A sharp, rough female voice exploded like thunder in the compound.

My heart jumped. I knew that voice—the one that haunted my sleep.

My mother-in-law’s voice.

Nobody could mistake that shrill command. My blood went cold.

I sprang up and rushed to the door, wrapper threatening to trip me as I hurried.

Truly, my mother-in-law stood in the compound.

Her eyes met mine—fire and storm—and in that moment, I knew peace would never find me in this life.