The Secret Lives of Baba Segi's Wives (19 page)

“So you agree that I shouldn’t tell him the results yet?”

“I think that’s reasonable.” Dr. Usman stood up, eager to return to his own department.

“But what about the girl? Doesn’t she deserve to know?”

“A few more days won’t do her any harm.” With this, he waved and shut the door behind him.

Bolanle and Baba Segi found themselves in the same chairs they’d sat on that morning, except now the air conditioner was on. The smell of the cheap lemon air freshener filled the room. Bolanle immediately noticed that there was a marked difference in Dr. Dibia’s demeanor: he was now disturbingly well mannered. As soon as Bolanle saw him stand up to receive them, she expected the worst. She looked at Baba Segi to see if they were thinking alike but he was sleepily scratching dry saliva from the corners of his lips; he’d nodded off outside Dr. Dibia’s consultation room.

The doctor flashed eight small teeth. “The investigation is incomplete,” he began.

Baba Segi was immediately riled by this statement: his nostrils flared and his eyes resembled overpowered torches. “Even the gods could not make me repeat that…that…immoral act. I will not!” He snapped his fingers over his head in defiance.

“That’s quite all right, Mr. Alao. I’m not asking you to provide another semen sample. In fact, I don’t need anything else from
you,
not for now at least. It is your other wives we need to see, or maybe just one of them. You choose.” Maybe he’ll respond to empowerment, Dr. Dibia thought.

“Why? You have seen Bolanle. You have seen me. Why
do you need to see another wife?” Baba Segi decided to play hard-to-get; he wanted to get his own back for the doctor’s earlier discourteousness.

“Well, you know, before you wrap leaves around liquidized beans, one must ensure that the ingredients are complete.”

“Indeed! Or you would be left with a plain lump of
moyin-moyin
.” Baba Segi completed the saying.

Dr. Dibia smiled. The traditional shit always worked on the older farts. “Well, exactly. Consider the invitation I am extending to your wives as a boiled egg, not half, not quarter, but a whole one which will complete this bounteous recipe.”

“Ha, Doctor! I see you like good things. I too like the very best for my stomach and I will bring you the wife who sees to it that that is what I get.” Baba Segi beamed. “Write down her name—Mrs. Labake Alao.”

“Perhaps on Wednesday? I normally teach on Wednesdays but I could squeeze her in at nine thirty.” He handed the appointment card to Baba Segi. “See you on Wednesday. And, please, don’t leave that wonderful wife of yours at home!” It was meant as a joke and it was received as one.

Baba Segi guffawed all the way down the newly mopped corridor, all the way down the narrow stairs and all the way back to the pickup.

I
REMEMBER A SAYING
from my childhood: only a foolish man falls into a trap prepared with his own hands. It is because of what happened to my father that these words were on everyone’s lips. My father was a hunter and he caught his foot in the snare he’d laid for an antelope. They say he heard the squawk of a wild guinea fowl and ran after it, forgetting what was before him. His ear led him to an early death; he was barely twenty. He didn’t wait to see my face or hold my little feet. He died lashing about at the bottom of a burrow. They say he was already buried when they found him; there was no point in digging him up to bury him again so they just shoveled more earth onto his body.

No other man would marry my mother for they feared that they might also die in a grave intended for a lesser beast. But they were all lesser beasts, all unworthy of her. My mother tied fabric and dyed it indigo. The soles of her feet were always
black and as a child I would sit for hours removing the black residue from her toenails. By the time I was twelve, I wished she would cut off her toes. Not because I hated her but because my arms ached and Mama was never satisfied. I think she just liked me to touch her feet.

When I was seventeen, I prayed that the gods would forgive me for all the evil thoughts I had ever had about my mother, because without her I would not be here today. She was a mother of mothers to me. She nursed me through an illness that reduced me to an infant—I lost my ability to walk or talk. They said it was my father’s spirit, that it had come to take me, but I knew that was a lie. Why would any father want to do that?

It all started with a headache. I was fetching firewood from the forest one day, when my head started to throb at the
ewuje
. It was as if the bones that had merged were being forced apart. I managed to stagger home. My mother had her hands deep in dye but when saw me coming, she ran to my aid. If she hadn’t, I would have broken my skull on a stone. She carried me into our house and lay me down on a mat. My body was covered in dye but I didn’t know it. It was as if a witch had set my belly on fire. With every hour that passed, the flames rose to my throat. They say I screamed “fire” until sleep smothered it.

It was when I realized my trousers had been changed that I knew another day had dawned. My T-shirt had not been touched and it was when I looked in the small mirror in the corner of the room that I understood why. It looked like I had
stuffed two mangoes in the curve where my neck meets my face. So swollen was my neck that my mother sighed every time she laid eyes on me.

The way my daughter is now, that was the way I was for weeks: of no use to myself or anyone. There were days when my eyes would close from pain, rendering me deaf and dumb. My legs would curl like caterpillars and my arms would have nothing to do with me. My mother would frantically bathe me in cold water only to stand and marvel when steam began to rise from my head.

I have been where Segi is now and I know the only thing that will save her is the arm of one that she chooses. That was how it was for me. It was my mother I wanted. I hope you understand why I didn’t discourage her from sleeping in Bolanle’s room. True, no one can love a daughter like her mother, but illness is not only about motherly devotion; it’s about the choices of she who ails. Anything different could hasten Segi’s journey to the gods. I will not bury my own child. Help me say amen.

Back to my own illness. Mama said there was a spirit that snuck behind the door every time she entered the room. She said she could feel its presence. She whispered in my ear that the smell of her husband’s sweat was unmistakable, so she called the medicine man to come and banish it.

“Do not let
him
take my son from me,” she pleaded. “Make him return to his resting place.” She knew the dangers of calling a spirit by its name.

The old medicine man whispered to the cowries and
threw them in the center of the cloth they came wrapped in. “Hmm. This spirit has come for revenge.”

“But what have I done to anger it?”

“It is not you; it is the boy.”

“What has the boy done?”

“He walks on his grave like the chief who strides the palace and neglects to pay his respects to the king.”

“But the boy does not even know where he was buried. The men refused to take even
me
there!”

“It is not your place or mine to question the spirits. Tell your son to abandon the forests or he will leave the land of the living. And as soon as he is of age, send him away from here to protect his own unborn sons.”

“I have heard your words and they are full of wisdom. Take these yards of cloth for your wives.” My mother handed him a pile of beautifully embroidered tie-dyed fabric.

As soon as he stooped through the threshold, Mama knelt beside me and held my right hand in both of hers. “Son, did you hear the words of the wise man?”

“Only some,” I said, but I’d heard everything.

“Then listen. Soon, you must go far from here. Go to Ibadan, where forests are few and palaces are plentiful. Go far from these roots that threaten to knot themselves round your feet and drag you into their tombs.”

The swelling around my neck went down within weeks. I swore to my mother that I would never go to the forests again, not to fetch firewood, nor even to hunt. But they say a hunter’s child is not trained but born. Though I resisted,
the leaves of the forests beckoned to me. The roots formed a path and branches begged me to perch upon them. Before I knew it, I was pressing my ears against solemn trees, listening to the hoot of guinea fowls I would never set eyes on. My disappearances did not go unnoticed. My mother heard my feet stomping on the doorsill and she knew straightaway that I was disobeying her. One day, she tied a wad of notes in a handkerchief, placed it in my pocket and sent me off to Ibadan with journey mercies. I was to work as an apprentice in a store where they sold plumbing materials.

I worked for many years not knowing the scent of women until the spirit of Ayikara found me and sucked me into its belly. That is how I met Teacher—the noble one whose rays of wisdom have guided me through darkness. If the gods took the form of men, they would fight for Teacher’s body. It was he who told me that I should return home and marry the woman my mother had found for me, lest the women of Ayikara bitter my blood with their bile. It was Teacher who pointed me in the direction of the medicine man when it seemed Iya Segi’s back would be permanently gummed to our matrimonial mat. Within months, she was forced on her side, her belly bulbous like the back end of an earthen pot drunk on rainwater. Segi, my daughter, was named by my mother. My mother looked into her face and died a contented death.

Lust points its finger at every man and soon after I married, the women of Ayikara began to look like princesses and goddesses. I was happy to have these women on the side, but Teacher said, “Two women at home are better than ten in a
bush. They are Jezebels. A man whose house is full of birth will never want for mirth.” And this from a man whose penis they say has never known the moistness of a woman! You see, the gods are always merciful: what they took away from the bottom they added to the top. The man is full of wisdom. I took a second wife, a peace offering from a desperate farmer. I took the third because she offered herself with humility. What kind of human being rejects the fullness of a woman? Would the gods themselves not have been angered if I had forgone the opportunity to show mercy upon another human being?

I chose Bolanle, I cannot lie; I set my mind on her, the way a thirsty child sets his eyes on a cup filling from a spout. Teacher said I was right to possess her. He bought me two shots of whiskey and patted me on the shoulder. Not a fleck of jealousy, not a speck of envy. I tell you, the man is to be admired.

T
HERE IS SOMETHING SPECIAL
about a mother bathing her child, so I have decided to bathe my daughter. I want to wipe away that woman’s handprints and reclaim my daughter. This Segi was not the daughter who left that night.

We had been waiting impatiently for her return. The children’s foreheads were pressed against the glass sliding door. I could not sit so I perched on the edge of my armchair. When the pickup drove into the compound, the windscreen brought a piece of the sun with it. The children jumped up and down as if their feet were made of rubber. Baba Segi had hardly opened the door of the pickup when they covered Segi with their hands. They all wanted to touch my Segi, as if to confirm that it was really her. Segi looked at them all and touched their foreheads the way she liked to do. She smiled but her lips were cracked and full of pus. Her father carried her into the sitting room and eased her into his armchair. Iya Tope rushed
to her side and propped her up with cushions but as soon as her back touched them, her head dropped onto the armrest.

She looked like a ghost. Her face had lost its fullness and her forehead was full of scales. Her eyeballs were yellow like they had been bathed in urine. Even her breasts were flattened against her chest. What used to be firm, supple skin sagged like beaten leather. All her hair was gone; her scalp shone like a marble.

I went to my daughter and knelt down before her. I put one hand to her bosom and I caressed Segi’s head with the other. It was as if she was deafened by the sound but my daughter did not want to tell me to stop. She looked at me and said, “Mama, I am here. I am alive.”

“Yes, my child,” I told her. “You left me but you have returned.” I stood and turned to all the faces around us. “My daughter has returned.” My voice was no louder than a whisper but it reached every ear. Even Taju wept tears of joy on the veranda.

I would not have left her side but Baba Segi asked for his food. “My belly is ringing its bell,” he said. “Bring food for me
and
my daughter. This is a day of joy. The doctors said it was the speed with which we rushed her to the hospital that saved her life. She was at death’s door but the gods took mercy on me and sent her back. A million slaves and a thousand servants cannot equal the value of a child. When a man dies, only his children can truly mourn him. The gods have saved me from burying my daughter and I am grateful. Let everybody in the house drink a bottle of Coca-Cola!”

The children skipped around the room with glee. Seeing my husband in such high spirits gave me great hope. His affection for Segi was clear and unwavering.

When I returned with his food, I found Bolanle in the sitting room. She was at my daughter’s side. She touched Segi’s cheek with the tip of her finger. To my surprise, Segi clutched Bolanle’s hand and drew it to her breast. They traded words I could not hear. That was when Segi spoke the words that burned my heart. “My father,” she said, “it would please me greatly if you allow me to recuperate in Auntie Bolanle’s room.”

A whirlwind may as well have blown into the room and rained hailstones on all who were present. Every eye turned to me. What could I do when I knew it was my daughter’s sickness that was speaking? Whatever Bolanle had done to bewitch her was still working, but it was not the time to fight. Bolanle shook her head and covered her face with her hand.

It was the rumbling from Baba Segi’s belly that broke the silence. He looked fondly into his daughter’s eyes. “As you wish, my daughter,” he said. “As you wish.” He also knew it was not the time to ask questions but he did not just leave the matter like that. He called me to his side and told me to bring my ear. When I knelt by him, he said, “Your child will always be your child, and you will always be her mother.”

T
HE FIRST THING
I
DID
before preparing bathwater was to make sure Bolanle had left the house. I did not want anyone
to come between us. I was a woman and I knew where to sponge and where not to apply any pressure at all. I knew also that there would be no scrubbing. Segi was molting like a viper and the new skin was tender and raw.

I took off all her clothes and helped her onto the stool that I had placed in the bath. She sat there like a hunchback and I poured bowlfuls of tepid water down her back.

“Daughter, why don’t you speak to me?” I asked.

Segi raised her head to look at me. Her eyes were accusing eyes but she said nothing. I could tell that her stomach was full of words.

“Is it your hair? Is that why you are so silent? It will grow back, you’ll see.”

Segi shook her head from right to left and bowed her head.

“Then it must be your breasts. The fullness will return.”

Segi looked at her breasts and lifted them one at a time as if she was weighing them.

“Then why won’t you talk to me? There is no shame in illness.”

“Is there shame in death?” She did not even have the strength to clear her throat.

“Daughter, why would you say such a thing?” I was perplexed. “You will not die. I will not mourn my own child.”

“But other mothers can mourn their daughters. That would please you, wouldn’t it?”

“What goes on in other homes is no concern of mine, Segi.
You
are my concern.”

“No, Mama. What I asked was if it would please you if another mother had to mourn her daughter.” She coughed and grabbed the pail for support. Blood trickled from one of her nostrils.

I reached out to rinse away the blood but Segi brushed my hand aside.

“Mama, the doctors said I was poisoned. They said I could have died. Why would there be poison in our house? It was the food I ate the night I went to Auntie Bolanle’s room, wasn’t it?”

I dropped the small washbowl into the pail and reached for a towel. “Segi, do not delve into matters that do not concern you!” I said firmly.

Segi stood up and stretched out her arms, exhibiting what remained of her. “Mama, look at me and tell me again that this matter does not concern me.”

I looked away and swallowed the lump in my throat. Segi looked like she had been in the ground for weeks. Her skin clung to her bones. “You are provoking me, Segi.”

“Then let the daughter who provokes you die!” she said. “If someone in this house is serving poisonous food and my own mother will not find out who it is, how is my life worth living?”

“Let me cover you, child. The wind has teeth today.” I tried to spread the towel around Segi’s shoulders but she flung it into the bucket with all the strength in her wasted arms.

“No, let me die!” she screamed. By the time she closed her mouth, she was breathless and spent.

“The food was not meant for you, child! It wasn’t meant for you!” It was as if I had gone mad. She watched me as I tore my dress from the neck to the hem. I slapped the walls and scratched my face. I boxed my breasts and pulled my hair. I could not control myself.

Segi knelt in the bathtub, slowly shaking her head. Then, as quietly as when she started, she said, “Mama, I am cold. Please bring me a dry towel.”