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White Lie

Enobong Emmanuel

    “Look at me when I’m talking to you,” she yells, but you do not hear a word— or rather, you choose not to. You look at her as she blares, emanating such fierce intensity it seems as if charges of lighting flowed through her veins instead of mere blood.
    While she talks. or rather blabs, your eyes wander and land on her blue buba. The same buba you got for her last Christmas together with the iro James paid for. Your eyes wander up and meet her eyes. For the first time you notice that your mother in-law has eyes like red flame that glitters in the lantern light.
    “Barren witch.” The words hit your lobes and you flinch as if you were slapped by an invincible hand. What a terrible name for any woman to be called by! It tastes sour in the mouth, like bitter leaf, twisting the tongue, soiling the mouth like the sticky mess of saltless okro soup

    You blink back the wetness from your eyes. You can’t understand how a woman can be this cruel, let alone your own mother in-law. You can feel the urge to talk back at her, burst out breathing fire and fury. You want to tell her to shut her trap but you bite your tongue. It is a taboo for a young woman to speak back at an elderly woman. You want to tell her that you aren’t barren, but what use will it make? You dismiss the thought because in that moment you are not really interested in what she thinks or says. You turn your attention back to the long forgotten TV opera, pretending not to hear her. She walks back to her room and you give your head a few shakes.

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

    James stands outside in the dark waiting for you to open the door. You grin at him while unlocking the bulgar bar. Your husband, a fine man with his mother’s nose, amber eyes like his late father. He ignores your hug and walk past you.

    “Honey...” You want to ask him what the problem is but he speaks before you get the chance to.
    “Don’t ever talk back at my mother.” His amber eyes flashes to yours. His voice low and rough. A Silence passes over you and you hear the words he doesn’t say: she is right, you are barren.

    “I did not....” Your throat constricts and that’s all you can manage. You reach out for his hand but he flings out his arm pushing you hard against the dinning room table. You hit your abdomen on the hard wood causing a raw cry to tear from your throat.

    “I’m sorry, did I hurt you?” He asks.

    “I’m fine.” Your lie comes automatically. He blinks at you without word, looking for truth in the lines of your face.
    “I’m just fine.” You lie again as you feel the liquid streaming down your thigh.
    There is blood on the floor. You have just had a miscarriage. It was a month old.

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