Who killed Papa’s Favourite Pretty Wife? By Emmanuel Enaku and Becky O. Peleowo
You leave the dental clinic in the rain, back to your father’s house. With the pain from an extracted tooth, you hurry, not minding the drizzle of rain as every thought in your head was why your father has no health plans for any member of his family except his last wife, Amanda, and her kids. Rather than enter your father’s compound, you sit on a tree stump close to Mallam Usman’s store comparing your father’s house to that of Mr. Afanu, the story building next to yours. Both buildings have a similar structure but the house owners have different opinions about life.
Mr Afanu married one wife and had four children but your father married four wives with the youngest wife being your age mate. He had at least three children from each wife except the second wife who had none at all. Mr Afanu made insurance plans for his family and invested in housing, stock trade and farming but your father invested in cars, a high-power diesel generator and the extravagant wedding he had with his last wife.
You are always called the son of a rich man but you know you are poor both in spirit and in truth. Your dental care bill was paid by Ada, your girlfriend when she could not stand to see you in pain from a bad tooth. Even your mother could not offer you enough to cover your dental bills.
“But you attend one of the best schools in town?” Sulaimon, your best friend on the street, once asked you when you visited him and shared his lunch like a victim of famine.
“How come you get hungry all the time?” He questions your appetite.
You lie to him that his mother’s food was your favourite when the truth is that you cannot boast of three square meals a day. Your father is more skilled at producing babies than providing the nutrients to nourish them but his latest wife was an exception. She enjoyed the best things in life.
Aunty Bimpe, the unfortunate second wife, says that the Kayanmata Amanda used is responsible for your father’s inability to think with his head but you know your father has an incurable disease of chasing after robust women. You think he prefers to think with his quéquette and sow his royal seeds in unbecoming soil.
In your reverie of your misfortunes, Fatima, the third wife of your father screams as if she has been bitten by a Black Mamba. Fatima was barely eighteen when your father brought her back as a souvenir bride from his trip to Maiduguri.
Reluctantly, you decide to check what would have caused a ruckus at that time of the day. The drama in your home never ceases. If Mama Adeolu, your mother, is not lamenting to your father about her meagre allowance, then Amanda, his favourite, is screaming at the top of her lungs that your younger sister is stealing some of her baby's diapers to take care of her baby. You wonder what drama awaits you this time. Being the first child and only son of Mr. Bello makes you wish you were a rat instead.
“Amanda is dead ooo...!” You hear the shout before you open the front door.
“Dead?” You fling the door open hastily. Your face is suffused with confusion and all your worries before the scream evaporates into thin air. On the floor is Fatima, wailing like a Banshee. Her face is gaunt and awash with tears. Mucus drools down her nose in a rather disgusting trail and her hands are on her head in despair and shock.
You are perplexed! "Amanda is dead," you say repeatedly. Your brain struggles to wrap meaning around the event taking place in front of you. Suddenly, Aunty Bimpe bursts into the sitting room in her usual tight, stretchy gown that accentuates her curves and perfectly carves out the shape of her bum. You notice a lopsided smile playing on and around her lips. Why would she be smiling? You feel it must be her chubby cheeks that are playing tricks on your sight and you dismiss the thought while you focus on the cries of “Mummy” reverberating from Amanda’s first daughter.
"What happened to her?" You ask no one in particular. Fatima sprawls on the floor like a member of the Celestial Church of Christ undergoing deliverance. You know she is good with her dramas and exaggerated scenes.
"Amanda is dead ooo!” You hear her scream again. “We found her foaming from the mouth. The doctor said it was poisoning. Haa! Who killed your father's favourite pretty wife?"
You weigh Fatima's words and they sound like mockery. Before you left in the morning, Fatima was fighting with Amanda over using up the clothesline in the compound for only herself and her children, leaving no space for other wives. You saw her complain that Amanda didn't even wash your father's underwear. You noticed Amanda asking Fatima why she did not go to school and you saw Fatima create a scene swearing that she would show Amanda what Hausa juju meant. You told yourself to check up on the meaning of “Anofia” after you hear Amanda spit out the word to her rival. You did not interfere because it would have upset your mother.
"It’s okay, Fatima", the second wife of your father says and holds Fatima in a tight hug, leading her through the corridor away from your shocked form standing in the centre of the spacious living room. As you hold your cheek from the sudden resurfacing pain, you notice the vibrations of excitement on your father's second wife's body. You see the spring in her steps and notice the deliberate excited jiggle of her derrière as she goes away with Fatima and these actions leave you even more confused. You can not help thinking that they were overjoyed that their main rival was now out of the way. You think of your mother, and guilt envelopes your heart at the secret you have kept and are about to reveal.
As soon as the two women round the bend, your mischievous eyes dart about the room to make sure no one is present. You cannot believe the turn of events and you are not surprised at how excited you feel. Your father is getting paid back in his coin for betraying your mother many years back and marrying all his concubines. You know that things are bound to change and you've been ticking the time since you found out a terrible secret. A secret that could only lead to doom. And yes, it was happening already. You cannot wait to see the look on your Father's face when the truth pierces his heart.
You chuckle inanely and begin to retreat to your room. The spasm from the nerves in your cheek and the tingly numbness of your lower tooth make your head ache in reels. Yet, you move quickly and tap a series of numbers desperately on your mobile phone. You navigate through the contacts that show up on your screen and tap on one. There is a report from the other end of the line and you speak in whispers as you go through the entrance door with brisk steps and shut it rather surreptitiously. In your eyes are glints of light that show the moment for reckoning.
At dusk, your father returns home with his eyes bleak and puffy and his strides, without enthusiasm; a shadow of his usual cheerful self. Even his huge distended belly seems to have a wilted look. You want to run and give him a tight hug but you think of the days you had to go hungry while job hunting. You reminisce on your mother and immediate younger sister, selling second-hand bedsheets at Tejuosho Market. You remember that was where your sister was impregnated by one good-for-nothing lout who failed to carry out his responsibilities.
Your blood boils and your fists clench angrily at your sides. Rage sizzles within you, evaporating every atom of affection you may have felt for the old man. You are reminded that this man you call "father" is legally married only to Amanda. The realization that the smart Igbo girl, whom you have all the while underestimated, was making secret plans to have your father send her abroad while you and your parents starve at home, causes a fresh burst of fury to leap up your guts, so palpable was it that you can taste bile in your mouth as you grind your teeth in suppressed anger.
You stand your ground and do not say a word as your old man passes by your side. You watch him slump into a nearby chair with tears rolling down his sunburned cheeks like a toddler. You do not say a word to the neighbours trooping in, giving their condolences. Many of them say you are in shock but you are waiting for a full audience to reveal your truth. Soon, your mother and your sister rush into the compound in wails. You smirk at their public display of grief when you know in your head they never liked Amanda.
You quietly watch Aunty Bimpe narrate sad tales to the mourners. “Even the baby in her belly was not spared,” she was saying. So Amanda was pregnant, you thought. You believe it because Aunty Bimpe is known for her high-class eavesdropping skills but the revelation is like a blow to your face. So, Amanda was planning to have a baby in the UK and perhaps, get dual citizenship for the child while you wasted your life in penury here in Nigeria! You never thought there was such an effectively working brain within that small head Amanda had.
What is even more shocking is the display of care shown by your stepmother, Aunty Bimpe, whom you have caught on several occasions with diabolic objects in the dead of the night chanting Amanda’s name in her horrible-sounding incantations. None of them loved Amanda! Any one of them could have shot the young wife in the head without a second thought if they had the chance to do so and get away with it.
“Ahh!” You hear the mourners react to Aunty Bimpe’s pathetic tale. You hear them ask who could have poisoned her. You see some throw glances at Fatima, who kept singing Hausa dirges that only she could understand. You know they suspect her because of the day she deliberately put the hand of one of Amanda’s twins in a hot bowl of pap because she was jealous the toddler looked fresh and well-fed, unlike her baby. You decide to stop the charade and let out the truth.
“No one will mourn Amanda,” you suddenly shout. “None of her children are my father's. I have all of the evidence on my phone including the picture of her lover. I believe her lover poisoned her. He has been threatening her lately with pictures and videos of their secret affairs. He must have poisoned her.”
Your pronouncement leaves everyone shocked. The place becomes quiet like a graveyard until Fatima laughs sadistically, clapping her hands and jeering at the other wives who previously were staring accusingly at her. Your father looks like he is carved out of marble and his face is expressionless. Not long, he looks up and stands firmly on his feet.
His eyes, suddenly, are glinting orbs of hatred as he stares directly in front of him. Your face shows no reaction and you do not even peel your eyes away. For a brief moment, your eyes meet and he bites his lower lips aggressively. In that instance, his bitterness seems to be directed at you but he suddenly looks away and begins to speak.
"I know all of these and that is why I began to poison her slowly. When I realized that she was deeply in love with that riff-raff lover of hers and kept on milking me to satisfy his never-ending demands, I knew she had to go. I began to put the poison in the salads I served her. The glutton loved salads a lot but was unaware that they were contaminated by thallium. This morning I added a bit of ricin to her glass of wine because I could no longer bear the deceit."
So your father knew the truth all this while? You watch him spew out his confession and look around to see the reflection of horror on the faces of those who heard him. You feel disgusted. Someone calls the police.
"You can come in, Inspector!" You say with ease as you see three policemen pause at the entrance of the house. The officers handcuff your father and lead him away to a parked Hilux while he stares ahead blankly. Your mother tries to stop them and then hugs you in uncontrollable tears.
"Finally!" You say, as you exhale and allow your muscles to give way in your mother's arms.
