As Wura settled in for a chilly night, the last words from her husband reverberated in her mind. He’d phoned earlier that day pleading for forgiveness and promised to be home the next day to make amends. But for Wura, it was difficult to silence the echo of empty vows as she tucked the blankets tighter around her children who were sleeping on a lumpy mattress. She reached for a kerosene lantern sitting at a corner, and turned its wick knob to cast a faint glow across the room. Lying on the rickety bed beside her youngest kid, she gently caressed his hair, and then, took a deep breath, hoping things might be different this time.
The following morning, she arranged her petty goods on the table outside the face-me-I-face-you building. The landlord had rented the space to her at a fair price. As the day progressed, her thoughts were divided, but she clung to the one that kept flashing the view that her husband would return soon.
The evening arrived with a shocking revelation when she received a call from a strange number. Her scream drew the attention of everyone within earshot, and some neighbours rushed over, asking if all was well. Her hands trembled, obviously—one clutching the phone close to her ear, the other gripping the edge of the table for support. Those around her swiftly sensed something was wrong when she asked the caller which hospital and how to get there in a quivering tone. Then, urgency took over; two neighbours volunteered to accompany her.
Wura felt every moment spent in the taxi like an eternity. She kept breathing in shallow gasps while her heart raced through a whirlwind of fears.
When they got to Emergency Unit that evening, the waiting area was crowded. And a receptionist told them to sit and wait. Wura found her eyes darting from the people moving up and down to the swinging doors where medical staff bustled through occasionally. Because her chest was rising and falling in jerky movement, she couldn’t register her neighbours’ calming words.
Later, a nurse came to ask if there was any male relatives present. But none. Then, she told Wura to follow her and suggested she bring her neighbours. The nurse ushered them to a consultation room where a doctor was waiting. The doctor introduced himself and paused. He glanced at Wura and gently constructed his statement, starting with the common words ‘I am sorry’ before revealing the worst. Her husband didn’t survive the accident—he was dead on arrival.
The news struck her like a thunderstorm. She rose slightly from the chair and collapsed to the floor, howling at the top of her voice. While her neighbours tried to console and help her up, the doctor stood nearby with his comforting words. But she couldn’t stop wailing.
She barely spoke in the days that followed. Every consolation was lost in the storm of her thoughts. Her husband’s death left her with mountain of responsibilities. Five children!
Her husband had married her straight out of high school. And for the past twelve years, she had been a stay-at-home mother, caring for her children while he was often absent to provide their basic needs. The neighbourhood had whispered about his infidelities and possibility of having children with other women. Despite being weighed down, she stayed silent, putting her children’s well-being above other concerns. Nevertheless, the neglect and the alleged cheating, she expected none. She’d tried to confront him whenever the wind of life directed him home, but shackles of doubt always pulled her back, and her words remained trapped in her throat. He never came back with a penny, but with tales of misfortune—either robbed or duped by 419 scams. And at the end of the long story, he’d vanish again.
She recalled a time when the continuous gossip became unbearable and was tempted to follow the path of several women in the community who had faced similar challenges. They had divorced their husbands and moved on to new relationships. Yet, reaching a conclusion wasn’t easy, especially with the sight of her children. The thought of leaving them behind was inconceivable.
To cater for them, she’d taken loans upon loans from the community women thrift. As her debts piled up, they were reluctant to release another loan to her. But in their final deliberation, they granted her one last loan on the condition that she would use it to start a business to repay them weekly. That was the genesis of her petty provision business. Yet, it wasn’t enough to keep up with her children’s school fees. She had to plead with the school management, and they designed an unusual monthly payment plan. Her husband’s promises of repayment remained unfulfilled.
Before her husband’s burial, she prepared herself for drama of women who would come and claim connections to him. It wasn’t uncommon in the community. She’d witnessed such occurrences before at some men’s funerals, where unknown women and their children emerged out of nowhere to claim special positions. Nobody could even dispute the facts, considering the shocking and striking resemblance those children bore with their deceased fathers.
The day her husband was lowered to the grave ended with no sign of any woman claiming connection. It was surprising to her. Perhaps, they were on their way and would appear later. Or maybe, they didn’t come because her husband was badly off. With these feelings, she realised how terrible the alleged promiscuity had shattered the trust she used to have in him. Obviously, the situation left the busybodies dumbfounded. They couldn’t believe it because they knew that no matter how faraway these women might live, somebody somewhere would inform them to come to the scene and claim their rights.
Some weeks afterwards, it was two men looking for her. They were in black suits and held briefcases. She never expected such visitors and couldn’t even tell if she’d ever seen them before. They must have noticed the confusion and surprise written all over her face, before one of them quickly uttered her husband’s full name and introduced themselves as his legal representatives. She never heard her husband talk about retaining legal counsel, but was eager to know why they came.
Some neighbours who were at her apartment left when the lawyers demanded to have a private meeting with the family. Then, she gathered her children to listen to what the strange men had to say.
The lawyers mentioned that they had initially consulted the community elders to determine an appropriate time to pay their respects during the mourning period, in line with the customs of the community. Then, they began to talk about the main purpose of their visit. Wura’s eyes blinked in seconds and her lips parted when they revealed that her husband left behind a will. A will? Her mind wondered, as though the words weren’t clear enough. She had no idea he had anything worth living behind.
One of the lawyers pulled out a thick document and revealed that it contained the details of her husband’s assets. He read through its contents, listing plots of land, landed properties, and shares in companies. Clarifying that the paper was merely to inform her about her husband’s estate, he stressed that the actual will would be formally read at the probate registry once the requisite procedures had been fulfilled.
Apart from specific properties given to the children upon attaining adulthood, the substantial portions of the estate were bequeathed to her. Her eyebrow swiftly climbed upwards and her mouth made way for the air that rushed into her lung. Everything was outside her imagination. Her husband described her specifically with a phrase ‘the mother of my children, Wura.’
The mother of my children. It seemed her ears replayed the words again. They were familiar. Searching her mind, the origin surfaced. It was the day her husband proposed marriage to her, and she remembered his exact words: ‘Will you marry me and be the mother of my children?’ She remembered that she’d nodded countless times, saying yes without fully comprehending the weight of his request. But now, she realised that her purpose had been clearly articulated from the very beginning by those simple yet profoundly powerful words. Be the mother of his children when he couldn’t father them. Be the mother of his children after he ventured into the realm beyond return.
Two drops of water escaped her moist eyes as she slowly turned to look at her children who were seated around her. She had endured all those years of hardship and uncertainty because of them. They were the reason why she stayed. They looked at her with pitiful faces, blinking their eyes as though tears were imminent. They were innocent. Perhaps, only two or three could understand the situation. She brought them to her bosom and enveloped them in a tight embrace.
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Abdulsamad Jimoh is a writer, lawyer, and avid reader from Nigeria. He adores crafting stories that delve deeper into the complexities and intricacies of human existence. Previously, he was an editor at Al Qasas Magazine, where his editorial sharpness and literary vision left a memorable mark. He was one of the finalists in the TEBEBA School of Writing Challenge 2023. His fiction has appeared in Reedsy, and he is currently working on his debut novel and collection of short stories.
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