–Woman Talk and Stranger Wahala
Dust and silk
The afternoon sun had softened just a little, but the village heat still clung like wrapper on wet skin. A few goats bleated lazily under the mango tree by the corner while the sweet smell of ogiri wafted from someone's kitchen. Amaka, bored and avoiding chores, had been tiptoeing around the house hoping her mother wouldn't notice she hadn't fetched water. She was headed to check on her mother who had earlier gone to visit Mama Emeka next door.
As Amaka approached the compound, she heard voices. Familiar ones. Her mother's laughter—loud, commanding, and slightly sarcastic—mixed with that of Mama Emeka, her plump neighbor whose husband had recently caused drama of national importance with a younger girl. There was also a third woman's voice Amaka didn't immediately recognize. The women's wrappers were hitched up as they sat under a shade, fanning themselves with big plastic fans, talking animatedly as if the world depended on their gist.
And there he was.
Daddy Emeka.
Pot-bellied, sweating, and sitting on a stool like an overcooked yam, using his raffia fan like his life depended on it. The moment his eyes met Amaka's, he visibly flinched. His hands paused mid-fan, and he cleared his throat nervously.
Amaka's eyes narrowed, her lips curled into a smirk. He should be scared. He ought to be. But remembering her mother's warning—"If I ever hear you tell anybody what you saw that man doing, Amaka, I will reset your teeth!"—she just hissed and greeted the women.
"Good afternoon o, Mummy Emeka… Mummy Njideka."
She ignored Daddy Emeka like he was pure air and squatted beside her mother, folding her arms with an innocent face.
"Ehn-ehn, you this girl," Mama Amaka said, side-eying her. "Hope you've done the sweeping?"
Amaka scratched her head, her eyes shifting.
"Not yet, Mama."
"Not yet?" Her mother's eyebrow flew up. "So it's gist you came to join?"
The women chuckled.
"Leave her now," Mama Emeka said, patting Amaka's back. "She came to learn how to become a good woman. Abi, Amaka?"
Amaka giggled and nodded.
"She better go and learn how to hold broom first," Mama Amaka grumbled.
Then the conversation turned sweet and spicy.
"Have you people heard about the visitor that is coming?" Mama Njideka asked dramatically.
"The rich one?" Mama Emeka asked, leaning forward.
"Yes! The one the chief is preparing welcome ceremony for."
Amaka perked up silently, her ears wider than her eyes.
"I heard he's not just rich o," Mama Njideka said, lowering her voice. "They say he's young. Young and fine. Ehn! With beards that look like they were carved by God Himself."
Mama Emeka gasped.
"Ha! That one is not just money. That's grace. So it's not one old papa that's coming?"
"Mbanu!" Mama Njideka waved her hand. "My sister, they said the mansion that's been under construction near the chief's house— that beautiful, white one with black gates and fountain—he's the one staying there!"
"JESUS!" Mama Emeka slapped her thigh.
"That house is like American film!"
"Money dey that man hand," Mama Njideka confirmed with a nod. "They say he wants to invest in our village. Build factory, tech center, even school."
Mama Amaka, who had been quiet, hummed. "God bless him o. At least my daughter will learn something better than shouting at people and arguing in the market."
"Mama!" Amaka cried.
"Keep quiet. Have you done your sweeping?"
Amaka sulked.
Then Mama Njideka, ever the drama queen, leaned closer to the other women.
"As for me, I will dress both my daughters well that day o. God can use anybody. Maybe one of them will enter the man's eye."
The women burst into scandalous laughter.
Mama Emeka held her chest. "So you want to do daughter giveaway?"
"Why not? Are we not tired of these village boys who don't even know how to brush their teeth?"
"I support her jare," Mama Emeka added. "At least let one girl escape poverty."
"Mama, I'm here o," Amaka mumbled, laughing.
"You're always here but never in the kitchen. Lazy girl."
Just then, the conversation took a deeper turn.
"So... Mama Amaka," Mama Emeka said, turning serious. "You're strong o. Allowing that man back into your house."
Amaka froze.
Her mother's smile dropped.
"Which man?" she asked flatly.
"Your husband na. Daddy Amaka. After what he did…"
Even Daddy Emeka shifted uncomfortably.
"I didn't allow him," Mama Amaka replied, voice stiff. "I tolerated him. Because of Amaka. Because I have to feed this child, and men—no matter how useless—sometimes bring rice."
Mama Njideka clicked her tongue. "Me I cannot do it o. If it was Chukwudi—God forbid—I won't even let him greet me again. Talkless of staying under same roof."
Mama Amaka sighed. "Sometimes, shame is lighter than hunger. You won't understand until your child needs uniform and you have nothing but broomsticks in your wallet."
The women went quiet.
Amaka stared at her mother, heart clenching. She had never really seen that pain. Her mother always joked, always scolded. But now she saw it—the weariness under the wrapper, the struggle behind every pot of soup.
Suddenly her mother clapped her hands. "Amaka, before I forget—have you fetched that water or should I reset your brain with broomstick?"
"Ah! I'm going now now!" Amaka sprang up.
"Better be going. Lazy child. You're sitting here like you came for conference."
As Amaka turned to leave, she heard the women bursting into another round of laughter.
"Ehn-ehn," Mama Njideka shouted. "So I should name one of my daughters 'Ngozi International' and paint her face like city girl? Abi?"
"Please o," Mama Emeka added. "Let me go and buy better wig. I cannot shout!"
Amaka walked away, grinning like a thief, broom forgotten, heart dancing with both laughter and quiet sorrow.
Village mothers. Drama queens of destiny.
And yet… their words stayed with her.
Rich, young, fine, bearded man… staying in the mansion near the chief's house.
Something was coming to their village.
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