The Village of Motanah, preview.
The
night was cold—how come he was soaked?
Her thought ran wild. She noticed the oil lamp had run dry and had stopped burning too.
She stood up hurriedly, traced the oil
lamp on the floor with her trembling
hands in the dark and filled it blindly
in the dark. Somehow, she was sure she poured some in; she shook it and
convinced herself that would be enough to keep the room lit for a couple of
minutes.
Ejuma became more nervous, her heart pounded
rapidly against her chest region, and she felt a sharp pain spread beneath her
breasts. She closed her eyes in anguish as
she fought hard to recover from the pain that had almost suddenly become
incessant within a stretch of ten
seconds. She opened her eyes slowly and as the reoccurring pain departed, she
forced out words again, “what do you mean foreign nightmare? I’ve not heard a
thing like that before—all my life, is it a ghostly nightmare Seconds later,
Okoro accepted his folly. “You are right
Ejuma, but then, potbelly is a sign of wealth—sign of good living, what do you
think?” Ejuma nodded. “I think differently, the way you look when you married me
is preferable.”
“How do I look,” Okoro demanded with chew
stick to his mouth. Ejuma glanced at him and muttered, “your belly was flat and
that made you walk smartly and—” Okoro stopped her quickly. “Just hear yourself talk with those big lips
of yours—are you not the one serving me with those heavy meals combined with
bush meats and now I know you’ll never want to accept the blame but you want me
to bear the shame, right?” “What shame?” Ejuma asked laughing. “Potbelly?” she
teased. ? Or—”
Ejuma
could feel her agony, her anguish—the anguish of a girl child desirous to go to
school but the hands of marriage beacon at her—what a life we live in, she
thought, as her heart throbbed, but then she wasn’t deterred to speak.
“The words of Ngozi must be taken seriously
my husband, the heart of a woman is a den of the unknown—length of days of a
man is in her hands—take her words seriously, I warn.”
Okoro watched her wife stand up carrying the
empty plates on a tray and seconds later watched her disappear into the
kitchen...
Her words crashed down like cold water— it
has so much weight that only the elders with white hair on their head could
unravel. His eyeball sunk as he sat back
on his chair reflecting over Ejuma’s words...
“Beauty,
they say is in the eyes of the beholder, when you bring in love here, how then
can you distribute it equally among your wives Aduka? Don’t you see love could
be erroneous, deceptive and could be fair to one and unfair to the other—humans
are never perfect, so be careful how you use the word love,” he lowered his
empty palm wine cup on the table and gave Aduka a broad smile. “One woman is
never different from the other, they are the same, it’s only their character
that differs—look elsewhere my friend and stop this love talk—it makes me
sick.” His cruel audible voice seems to lash into the ears of men around him...
She knew the breasts and
buttock was a pride to any woman and always a strong attractive force to the
opposite sex. As she looked into space, she remembered vividly what happened
few years ago—she was on her way to the stream to fetch water, she had placed
the calabash steadily on her head as she swung her waist graciously with her
breasts standing out invitingly on her chest.
She marched slowly to the stream counting her steps consciously. She
wasn’t sure who was looking, for all she cared she was overwhelmed by youthful
exuberance that seemed to have saturated the air roundabout her…
He opened the top button of his shirt to let
in air and continued keenly, “talk to us or you are shy about women now,
right?”
Aduka looked at their faces; he knew they
knew nothing other than talk about the white missionaries and women of various
height and shapes…
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