Possessing the Secret of Joy
Uniowe
As she listened to the man beside her
Chika
Snore like an airplane revving its engine
for take off, she thought that she
should never have allowed her mother
to blackmail her into marrying him. She should have plugged her
ears with her fingers or stuffed them with pleces of cloth when
her mother-headscarf going awry on her head - had told her in a
pained voice, 'Chief Okeke is our only hope. Don't you want to
see me in nke clothes? And you, don't you want to be a madam?
Have a driver? A big house? Servants? Don't you want to enjoy
your life, nwa m?'
"But I don't love him, Mother. How can I marry a man I do not
love? I can't Her volce was sharp. Confident. Daring her mother
to contradict her.
But her mother had contradicted her, 'Love does not matter,
my daughter. There are things more important than love.' The
older woman's voice was firmer. Solid. It knocked the confidence
of hers.
As Chief's snore enveloped the entire room and kept her from
sleeping, she whispered, 'Love does matter, Mother. You are so
very wrong. It really does matter. Her voice was weightless,
floating like a ghost. Hovering above her head. She would not
have known she was crying If she had not felt the tears scarificate
her face.
Her mother had been persistent. She had been at it day after
day, sometimes-crying even, until she had eaien Into Uju's
reserves, corroding her confidence like acid on paper. Until there
was nothing left but consent. A heavy heart. A slight nod of the
head. And a voke as still as the night. 'Yes. I will marry Chief. I will
marry him.'
Chief.
Uju had just turned seventeen. Chief said he was forty-six. He
looked older, closer to sixty. tiis stomach wobbled and preceded
him whenever he walked into a room. It was like that of a woman
on the verge of delivering quadruplets, but without the firinness
of a pregnant stomach. The hair on his head was sparse, and
white, like cotton wool that had been haphazardly glued on by a
child. His lips were huge and drooped as if they were implanted
with lead that welghed them down. And when he spoke, he
tended to send a saliva shower on those closest to him.
People said Chief never married because he was too ugly to
find a wife.
She and her friends had made fun of Chlef, laughing at his
hair. His lips. His stomach. And now she was going to be Chief's
wife. What fate could possibly be worse than that?
She wished she could die. She desired, more than anything
else, to just lle down and never wake up. To disappear. Vanish.
Dissolve. Like salt in water,
Her mother threw herself into the wedding preparations with
a ferocity that was not commensurate with her skinny frame. She
whitled around the town, organising the caterers, the music
band, her daughter's wedding dress. She settled herself in one of
Chief's cars and sat in the owner's corner at the back while the
driver called her 'Madam' and asked where she needed to be
taken to.
Tonson's Supermarket.
Fanny's Bridal Shop.
Kenyatta market.
Love is Blind Bakery.
Your One Stop Tiara Shop.
Wedding Specialz
Mau's Cakes and More.
She always came back, a huge smile on her face, her eyes
shiny with new found wealth and her mouth full of praises for her
daughter who had made the right choice. "Uju. You are a
daughter to be proud of. You do not know what a relief it is that
you are inarrying a man as rich as Chief.
Poverty is not something to be proud of. Afufu ajoka!'
Uju knew all about poverty. She did not need to be told.
She was the only child of her widowed mother. Her father had
dled when she was seven and all she remembered of him was a
man as skinny as an izaga masquerade, dragging a battered
brown briefcase out of the house every morning. When she tried
to remember his face, she found that she could not. He was like
an old Polaroid picture. Defaced. Effaced. Without a face.
She tried to recollect his voice but no matter how light she
tears
Wasafiril 27​