Growing My Hair Again Setting Chica Unigwe

Source: vowinitiative.org

(Chika Unigwe)--"I am crouching abreast the bed, my palms flat on the deep red rug that swallows my sobs. The carpeting is warm. It is a female parent's paw. My posture is--I hope--appropriate to the occasion. My mother-in-law is watching me, her eyes hawk-like even through her own tears. She sniffs and says, 'You're non crying loud enough. Anyone would remember you never loved him. Bee akwa!'

She never canonical of me. I had an backlog of everything. Didactics. Beauty. Relatives. Hair. Certain to bring any human being down. At the thought of my pilus, my palms go common cold. By this fourth dimension tomorrow, it will all be gone. I shall be taken to the backyard by group of widows, probably all of them strangers. Ane of them, the oldest, volition lather my hair with a new tablet of lather (which will be thrown away once it's been used on me), and then shave all of is off with a razor blade. I shall be bathed in common cold water. Strange women splashing water on me. Cleansing me to make my married man'southward passage easy on him: a ritual to make the break between us final and so that he is not stuck halfway between this world and the next shouting himself hoarse calling for his wife to be at his side when he joins his ancestors.

'You should cry louder. You lot sound like y'all're mourning a family pet. You are a widow, nwanyi a! Cry as if y'all lost a husband! Bee akwa. Cry!'

In one word, she distill my life: widow. Even though Okpala has been dead for a while--three months to be precise--I am only officially now condign a widow. Three months were needed to organize a befitting burial. To have the invitation cards printed. The cow ordered. The dancers reserved. Iii months in which Okpala's body stayed in the only mortuary with a generator in Enugu and I gained a moratorium on widowhood. Just all that is well-nigh to change. This night, I shall be given the badge of honor: a head so cleanshaven that sunday rays will bounce off it. I wonder if she is observing me as I elevator one palm and run information technology beyond my hair, the whole length of the thick mane of shiny black hair that grazes my shoulders. I suspect that Okpala'southward mother has always been jealous of it, what with her downy hair similar the feathers on the underside of a chicken and a receding hairline that gets by the day. Still, I must non be besides hard on the woman. She did not invent the tradition of shaving widows' hair, did she?

'Is your pilus more important than my son?' Her voice is hoarse.

Every time she cam to visit Okpala and me in Enugu, she complained of the amount of time I spent grooming my hair.

'Nneka, the manner you wait after this your hair, one would remember it was your entrance to heaven.'

She complained so much that Okpala asked me not to go to the salon while she visited. 'When she goes, you can keep.' I listened. Opal was not one to be disobeyed.

I spent the last three months visiting salons on an nigh daily basis. Changing hairstyles every day. Experimenting with dissimilar styles. I was a perfect customer: I surrendered my caput to the hairdressers and said, 'All your. Do with it equally you wish,' I had shuku done: an intricate basket of braids. I had it plaited with wide blackness thread and standing up like nails protruding from my scalp. I had it permed and bobbed similar a beret. All the time painfully enlightened that soon my choices would exist limited. In the last iii weeks I try to grow dreads and despaired when my hair refused to knot, resorting to thin braids that took vii hours to put in. My mother-in-constabulary watched my changing hairstyles, her lips a spout of disapproval that got longer and longer. 'Anyone would think you did non love him.' I ignored her. I had them taken out yesterday. I poured palm kernel oil on it and wrapped it up in a scarf. And today, I tugged and combed until it was a shiny mass of blackness. I touched it again. I hear the former adult female hiss.

I know that if she could, she would have turned me out of the house. And not just this humongous villa in Osumenyi with red and maroon carpeting in every room--Okpala had no sense of ornamentation--but the duplex in Enugu equally well. Prime property that. A sprawling large house that my female parent-in-law had brought a barefoot prophet to anoint the day we moved in. Daba daba da, Jehovah El Shaddai, Jehovah Yahweh, Anoint this business firm of your apprehensive servant, Okpala. Continue him safety from the evil eye. Surroundings his house with spiritual military forces. Yaba Dabba Dab. I had walked out mid-prayer--the homo's toes distressed me and that angered Okpala.

Opal'south acrimony was always a wild hurricane. It cleared everything in its path: family pictures, tables, chairs. Null was spared.

This morning, my mother in law caught me in the kitchen. Bored and hungry and sick of sitting on the bedroom floor to exist besieged by crying relatives, I had gone to raid the pantry. Nada in it appealed to me. I opened the fridge and constitute the transparent bowl with my Christmas cake raisins soaking in brandy. I started soaking them a few days before Okpala died. Christmas is only a month-and-a-half abroad now. the raisins chosen me and I answered. I pulled out the basin, dug my hands in and grabbed a handful. I threw them in my mouth and chewed apace, the raisins exploding ferociously, releasing the brandy trapped inside. I was like a madwoman. I grabbed some more than, a trail of dark-brown liquid seeping through my clenched fist and snaking down my hand. i was on my third helping when she walked in.

'And then, this is where y'all are? The widow's food non enough for y'all?'

I wished I could talk back but years of habit are difficult to interruption.

'In some places, the just food a widow is allowed to eat for a twelvemonth is yam and palm oil. And still y'all think you're too good for nni nwanyi ajadu.'

I licked my lips, wiped my mouth with the dorsum of my hand and tried not to think of the food that I have been served since yesterday. Tasteless grub: no salt, no pepper. Simply manifestly white rice and even plainer tomato stew. For a widow must not be seen to enjoy nutrient; all her meals for one-year mourning menstruation must be fabricated without whatsoever salt or pepper. And I know I am lucky; information technology is a lot better than yam and unspiced palm oil. Plus, I go to swallow with a spoon. In some villages, my mother-in-law drummed into me, a mourning widow just eats with two long sticks. Whatsoever nutrient she drops belongs to the spirits; information technology's her husband'due south share.

'My son should never have married you. Yous're a witch, amosu ka-ibu. You cannot fifty-fifty cry for him.'

I tasted raisin and brandy on my tongue. I ignored her. She has called me worse. 'Murderer.' I killed her son. I was the one who sent the four teenager armed robbers to his boutique on that Friday nighttime while he was stocktaking. The police told u.s. he was shot at close range, in his centre and in his head. He had probably refused to paw over the greenbacks and tried to fight them; his tabular array was overturned. All he needed was enough acrimony.

I married opal straight out of university with a brand new caste in sociology. He was a trader with a boutique in Ogui Road. I had gone there to look for a graduate dress; he was reputed to have the best at affordable prices. I saw something I liked, a curt-sleeved clothes the color of a fresh trample on calorie-free skin. It was the almost gorgeous thing I had ever seen only the price tag put it across me. Opal convinced me to endeavour it on, his hands tapping on the table backside which he was sitting. He insisted on giving information technology to me as a present if I invited him to my graduation party. 5 weeks later on, he had paid my bride price.

My female parent liked him. She said he had busy easily: easily like his which could never keep still were the sort of hands that kept the devil at bay. The sort of hands than spun money. 'Nneka, he's a expert human being. You lot're lucky to have snatched him, eziokwu.'

At the wedding ceremony, Okpala's hands flailed and waved as he danced. At the high tabular array, reserved for the groom and helpmate, he played with the spoons and the forks set out for the fried rice and the dry out meat, tap tap tapping on the table like a restless child. My mother, resplendent in her white lace wrapper and blouse--paid for by Okpala--leaned over to me and whispered, 'Busy easily. If yous ally a lazy human being, your suffering will be worse than Task'south. I ga-atakali Job north'afufu.'

Fifty-fifty when we had our kickoff trip the light fantastic toe, his easily could not go on still. They went effectually my neck, effectually my waist, around my buttocks. My mother danced shut to me and winked. 'This man loves you very much,' she whispered and danced away, waist shaking, her behind wobbling to the boom bam blindside of Oliver de Coque and the Expo 76 Ogene Super Sounds.

The hymeneals tired me. The smile and the eating and the dancing. A success, anybody said and therefore nobody left until really late. The DJ kept playing music and Okpala and I kept being asked to dance. Opal loved dancing. It was his passion so he did not need much encouragement. 'Bia gba egwu nwoke m,' and Okpala would be at that place, dragging me with him, my multilayered hymeneals apparel getting heavier by the minute.

'No, Okpala. I'm tired. No more than dancing. Mba,' I tried to protest but his hand manacled my wrist and I had to get up, all the while smiling considering it was my wedding day and considering he was whispering furiously: Smile, grin, muo amu.

When we finally left and checked into the Purple Suite of the presidential Hotel he had booked, all I wanted to do was slumber, wedding apparel and all. Opal would have none of it. "My wedding nighttime and you want to sleep?' All the while his easily moved, tapping on the long sparse mirror beside the bed, on the huge brownish table opposite the bed. And when I said, "Opkala, darling, i am really tired. Whatever you lot have in heed can look until I've had some rest,' his busy manus continued with my face up. I saw flashes of lightning as Okpala pummeled me. And when he dragged me naked to bed, all I could come across was this huge darkness that had started to eat me.

'I promise that at to the lowest degree, when the guests start coming, you'll show a lot more than emotion than now.' She sounded guttural, like a masquerade. I nigh experience pitiful for her. I think of my son. I cannot exist easy to lose a child.

Tomorrow, the first guests volition brainstorm to arrive. Opal was a rich man, and so his funeral should reflect that: 5 days of receiving mourners. First, my townspeople, Okpala'south in-laws. They volition come up, as is customary, with a trip the light fantastic toe group and some drinks. The post-obit day is for Okpala'due south siblings' in-laws. Subsequently that his mother's people. Then members of the dissimilar associations he belonged to. Then the general public. They will all come with money, wads subconscious in envelopes for me, only I shall see none of the money. His brothers will take information technology and give me what they think I need. But I don't care. I have plenty money in my banking company business relationship, and the bazaar is doing well.

In the out-kitchen backside the house, huge pots, osite, are being prepare for cooking. Cassava. Rice. Meat. Four different varieties of soup. Truckloads of beer and soft drinks have been arriving for the past ii days. There is a huge stock of palm vino. Cartons of wine. The St Stephen's Gospel Band has been hired to provide the music. Opal's brother insisted on inscribing drinking glasses and beer mug with Okpala'southward name and date of decease, souvenirs to hand out to people. He also had key rings made with Okpala's picture. But he said the cardinal rings were not for everyone. They would be given only to members of the traders' association to which Okpala belonged. Frankly, I find it all a bit vulgar, this contempo tendency to memorialize the dead in fundamental rings and plastic trays and wall clocks. Just what can I do? I take got no say in the matter. I am only his widow.

'Tomorrow, you'd better not show me upward. You'd ameliorate cry well.'

I know what I am expected to do. To scream and hurl angry words at decease. Onwu ooo, decease why take you taken my Lion? Why accept you lot taken my man? Onwu, yous are wicked. I joka. To weep, my voice above everybody else's, the loyal wife's. To beg, when he is being put in the ground, to exist allowed to go with him. Chi m bia welu ndu one thousand ooo, my God take my ain life also. I shall struggle with Okpala's burly brothers who will endeavor to stop me from crawling into his grave, pleading to be buried with my husband, the best man in the globe, my son's father. They volition tell me to recollect near my son. He needs a mother. He is yet a child and has just lost his father; he does not demand to lose his mother also. Think about him, they'll say. Jide obi gi aka. hold your eye in your easily firmly, so that information technology does not sideslip and splinter.

I think nearly my son. Four years old. The reason Okpala's people have not kicked me out however. Will non boot me out. I am the mother to Okpala'southward heir. If I had had a girl, his witch of a mother would have had me on the streets by now and then what? Who would marry a widow with a young daughter? But I have a son, and so I get to proceed the boutique. Afamefuna is my trump card. As well young to understand death, he is playing in his room, crashing toy cars and asking Enuma, the househelp, if his daddy was back from his trip. Afamefuna has been asking that question since the night Okpala died and I told him his daddy had gone away and saw a light come on in his eyes.

'Five years of marriage and all you could manage was i kid. Ane. Adept matter it was a boy. I warned Okpala that college destroys their wombs with all that noesis. Too much knowledge is not good for a woman. Information technology destroys their wombs. What does she demand all that education for eh? He should have married another woman. 1 that would have given him many more sons.'

When Afamefuna was 1-and-a-one-half years, I became pregnant once again. I had by then, become adept at avoiding Okpala's busy hands. making sure his nutrient was served on time. His clothes clean and ironed. The house tidied and welcoming. But in my eight week of pregnancy, I slipped. I burnt his supper: egusi soup with snails he had ordered especially from Onitsha. The snails, charred, clung to the bottom of the pot, curled up like ears. Opal liked egusi with snail and, as I realized within a week of living with him, it was akin to a mortal sin to serve it up less than perfect; the punishment smarted even afterwards forgiveness had been granted.

So, that evening, when I smelt the soup called-for, I knew what was in stock for me. I tried to recuperate information technology, to scoop upward the snails and with some water douse the burnt taste. Nothing worked and The Hand descended on me while Afamefuna watched from behind his bedroom door. Opal upturned the bowl of soup, my burnt offering, on my head and the soup ran like tears down my cheeks and soiled the white blouse I had on in readiness for the Legion of Mary meeting at St. Christopher'due south.

Of grade, I could non get any more than. The pepper in the egusi stung my eyes and the aroma of burnt soup found its way into my nostrils and nestled in that location cozily. When I went to the toilet and released clots of blood, I knew that Okpala had martyred my baby, sent it back to its source earlier I even had the adventure to cradle it in my arms. I knew I never wanted to requite him some other kid, male person or female.

The calendar week Okpala was abroad, seeing to new supplies in Lagos, I went to the Riverside Private Hospital and had my tubes tied. The night he came back and chosen me to his bed, I touched the tiny scar that only I could meet and felt it throbbing warm under my hand and I smiled. When he released his manhood inside me and spoke to his seed, ordering them to give him a son--Opkala wanted another son badly, to heighten his status amongst his peers--I wanted to giggle out loud.

I elevator my head and plough towards my mother-in-law. She is sitting on my bed. I expect beyond her and meet my new life stretched ahead of me: a multi-colored wrapper infused with the olfactory property of fresh possibilities. No Okpala. My futurity secure in the fact that I have his son. An contained adult female with my own bazaar. I shall regrow my hair. Nurture it and delight in its growth. Perchance in a twelvemonth or two, another relationship. I am in no hurry, though. I shall savor my freedom first. My eyes come across those of my mother in law and I experience it coming. I do not even want to stop it: a laughter that comes from deep inside my belly and takes over my unabridged body."

Chika Unigwe (2010: 75-81)

In I Globe: A Global Anthology of Short Stories.

foleyweesamight.blogspot.com

Source: https://nollyculture.blogspot.com/2015/08/growing-my-hair-again.html

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