Growing My Hair Again by Chica Unigwe What Is the Tone

Source: vowinitiative.org

(Chika Unigwe)--"I am crouching beside the bed, my palms flat on the deep red carpet that swallows my sobs. The carpeting is warm. It is a mother's hand. My posture is--I hope--appropriate to the occasion. My mother-in-law is watching me, her eyes hawk-like even through her own tears. She sniffs and says, 'You lot're not crying loud enough. Anyone would think you never loved him. Bee akwa!'

She never approved of me. I had an backlog of everything. Education. Dazzler. Relatives. Hair. Sure to bring any man downward. At the thought of my hair, my palms become cold. Past this time tomorrow, it volition all be gone. I shall exist taken to the backyard past grouping of widows, probably all of them strangers. One of them, the oldest, will lather my hair with a new tablet of lather (which will be thrown away once it's been used on me), and so shave all of is off with a razor blade. I shall exist bathed in common cold water. Foreign women splashing water on me. Cleansing me to make my hubby's passage piece of cake on him: a ritual to make the break betwixt us terminal and so that he is not stuck halfway between this world and the next shouting himself hoarse calling for his wife to be at his side when he joins his ancestors.

'Y'all should weep louder. You sound like you're mourning a family pet. You are a widow, nwanyi a! Cry as if you lost a hubby! Bee akwa. Cry!'

In i word, she dribble my life: widow. Even though Okpala has been dead for a while--three months to be precise--I am only officially now becoming a widow. 3 months were needed to organize a befitting burial. To have the invitation cards printed. The cow ordered. The dancers reserved. Three months in which Okpala's trunk stayed in the only mortuary with a generator in Enugu and I gained a moratorium on widowhood. But all that is virtually to alter. Tonight, I shall be given the badge of honour: a head so cleanshaven that sun rays will bounce off it. I wonder if she is observing me as I lift one palm and run it beyond my hair, the whole length of the thick mane of shiny black hair that grazes my shoulders. I doubtable that Okpala'southward mother has e'er been jealous of information technology, what with her downy hair similar the feathers on the underside of a chicken and a receding hairline that gets by the twenty-four hour period. Still, I must not be too hard on the adult female. She did not invent the tradition of shaving widows' hair, did she?

'Is your hair more important than my son?' Her phonation is hoarse.

Every time she cam to visit Okpala and me in Enugu, she complained of the amount of time I spent grooming my hair.

'Nneka, the mode you look later on this your pilus, ane would think information technology was your entrance to sky.'

She complained and so much that Okpala asked me not to go to the salon while she visited. 'When she goes, you lot tin continue.' I listened. Opal was not one to be disobeyed.

I spent the concluding iii months visiting salons on an nearly daily footing. Changing hairstyles every twenty-four hour period. Experimenting with different styles. I was a perfect client: I surrendered my head to the hairdressers and said, 'All your. Do with it as you wish,' I had shuku done: an intricate basket of braids. I had it plaited with wide black thread and standing up like nails protruding from my scalp. I had information technology permed and bobbed like a beret. All the fourth dimension painfully aware that shortly my choices would be express. In the final three weeks I try to grow dreads and despaired when my pilus refused to knot, resorting to thin braids that took seven hours to put in. My mother-in-police force watched my changing hairstyles, her lips a spout of disapproval that got longer and longer. 'Anyone would think you did not honey him.' I ignored her. I had them taken out yesterday. I poured palm kernel oil on it and wrapped it up in a scarf. And today, I tugged and combed until it was a shiny mass of blackness. I touched it again. I hear the old woman hiss.

I know that if she could, she would take turned me out of the house. And non just this humongous villa in Osumenyi with red and maroon carpeting in every room--Okpala had no sense of decoration--but the duplex in Enugu also. Prime property that. A sprawling large firm that my mother-in-law had brought a barefoot prophet to bless the 24-hour interval we moved in. Daba daba da, Jehovah El Shaddai, Jehovah Yahweh, Bless this house of your humble servant, Okpala. Continue him safe from the evil centre. Surround his firm with spiritual war machine forces. Yaba Dabba Dab. I had walked out mid-prayer--the human'southward toes distressed me and that angered Okpala.

Opal's acrimony was ever a wild hurricane. It cleared everything in its path: family unit pictures, tables, chairs. Aught was spared.

This morning, my mother-in-constabulary defenseless me in the kitchen. Bored and hungry and sick of sitting on the bedroom flooring to exist besieged by crying relatives, I had gone to raid the pantry. Zippo in information technology appealed to me. I opened the fridge and found the transparent bowl with my Christmas cake raisins soaking in brandy. I started soaking them a few days before Okpala died. Christmas is simply a month-and-a-one-half abroad now. the raisins called me and I answered. I pulled out the basin, dug my hands in and grabbed a scattering. I threw them in my mouth and chewed quickly, the raisins exploding ferociously, releasing the brandy trapped within. I was similar a madwoman. I grabbed some more than, a trail of brownish liquid seeping through my clenched fist and snaking down my hand. i was on my third helping when she walked in.

'And so, this is where you are? The widow's food not enough for you lot?'

I wished I could talk back but years of habit are difficult to interruption.

'In some places, the only food a widow is immune to eat for a year is yam and palm oil. And yet you retrieve you're too good for nni nwanyi ajadu.'

I licked my lips, wiped my mouth with the dorsum of my hand and tried not to think of the food that I have been served since yesterday. Tasteless chow: no salt, no pepper. Just plain white rice and even plainer tomato stew. For a widow must non be seen to relish food; all her meals for one-year mourning period must exist fabricated without any common salt or pepper. And I know I am lucky; it is a lot improve than yam and unspiced palm oil. Plus, I get to eat with a spoon. In some villages, my mother-in-law drummed into me, a mourning widow only eats with two long sticks. Whatever food she drops belongs to the spirits; it'due south her husband's share.

'My son should never have married you. You're a witch, amosu ka-ibu. You cannot even cry for him.'

I tasted raisin and brandy on my tongue. I ignored her. She has called me worse. 'Murderer.' I killed her son. I was the one who sent the four teenager armed robbers to his bazaar on that Friday dark while he was stocktaking. The police force told us he was shot at close range, in his eye and in his head. He had probably refused to hand over the cash and tried to fight them; his table was overturned. All he needed was enough anger.

I married opal straight out of university with a brand new degree in sociology. He was a trader with a bazaar in Ogui Road. I had gone there to expect for a graduate dress; he was reputed to have the all-time at affordable prices. I saw something I liked, a short-sleeved dress the color of a fresh bruise on lite pare. It was the most gorgeous matter I had ever seen simply the price tag put information technology beyond me. Opal convinced me to endeavor it on, his easily tapping on the tabular array behind which he was sitting. He insisted on giving it to me as a present if I invited him to my graduation party. Five weeks later, he had paid my bride price.

My mother liked him. She said he had busy easily: hands like his which could never keep nonetheless were the sort of easily that kept the devil at bay. The sort of hands than spun money. 'Nneka, he'due south a good man. You're lucky to take snatched him, eziokwu.'

At the wedding, Okpala'due south easily flailed and waved as he danced. At the high table, reserved for the groom and bride, he played with the spoons and the forks set out for the fried rice and the dry meat, tap tap tapping on the tabular array like a restless kid. My mother, resplendent in her white lace wrapper and blouse--paid for by Okpala--leaned over to me and whispered, 'Decorated hands. If you ally a lazy man, your suffering will be worse than Job's. I ga-atakali Job n'afufu.'

Even when we had our first trip the light fantastic toe, his hands could not keep still. They went effectually my neck, around my waist, around my buttocks. My mother danced close to me and winked. 'This homo loves you very much,' she whispered and danced away, waist shaking, her behind wobbling to the blast bam bang of Oliver de Coque and the Expo 76 Ogene Super Sounds.

The wedding tired me. The grinning and the eating and the dancing. A success, everyone said and therefore nobody left until really tardily. The DJ kept playing music and Okpala and I kept being asked to dance. Opal loved dancing. Information technology was his passion then he did non demand much encouragement. 'Bia gba egwu nwoke m,' and Okpala would exist in that location, dragging me with him, my multilayered wedding dress getting heavier by the minute.

'No, Okpala. I'm tired. No more dancing. Mba,' I tried to protest but his hand manacled my wrist and I had to get up, all the while smiling because information technology was my wedding ceremony mean solar day and considering he was whispering furiously: Smiling, smile, muo amu.

When we finally left and checked into the Imperial Suite of the presidential Hotel he had booked, all I wanted to do was slumber, wedding dress and all. Opal would have none of it. "My wedding night and y'all want to sleep?' All the while his easily moved, tapping on the long thin mirror beside the bed, on the huge brownish table opposite the bed. And when I said, "Opkala, darling, i am really tired. Whatever y'all have in mind can wait until I've had some residue,' his busy hand connected with my face. I saw flashes of lightning equally Okpala pummeled me. And when he dragged me naked to bed, all I could see was this huge darkness that had started to consume me.

'I hope that at least, when the guests showtime coming, you'll show a lot more emotion than now.' She sounded guttural, similar a masquerade. I almost experience distressing for her. I think of my son. I cannot exist piece of cake to lose a child.

Tomorrow, the kickoff guests will begin to arrive. Opal was a rich homo, then his funeral should reflect that: five days of receiving mourners. Kickoff, my townspeople, Okpala'southward in-laws. They will come up, as is customary, with a dance group and some drinks. The following day is for Okpala's siblings' in-laws. After that his female parent'southward people. And so members of the different associations he belonged to. So the full general public. They will all come with money, wads hidden in envelopes for me, but I shall see none of the money. His brothers volition accept it and give me what they think I need. But I don't care. I have enough money in my banking concern account, and the bazaar is doing well.

In the out-kitchen behind the house, huge pots, osite, are being fix for cooking. Cassava. Rice. Meat. Four unlike varieties of soup. Truckloads of beer and soft drinks have been arriving for the by ii days. There is a huge stock of palm wine. Cartons of wine. The St Stephen'south Gospel Band has been hired to provide the music. Opal's brother insisted on inscribing drinking glasses and beer mug with Okpala'due south name and engagement of death, souvenirs to hand out to people. He also had key rings made with Okpala's picture. Simply he said the primal rings were not for everyone. They would be given only to members of the traders' association to which Okpala belonged. Frankly, I discover information technology all a bit vulgar, this recent tendency to memorialize the dead in key rings and plastic trays and wall clocks. Only what can I do? I have got no say in the matter. I am simply his widow.

'Tomorrow, you'd amend not show me up. You'd better cry well.'

I know what I am expected to practice. To scream and bung aroused words at death. Onwu ooo, expiry why have you taken my Panthera leo? Why have yous taken my man? Onwu, you lot are wicked. I joka. To weep, my phonation above everybody else's, the loyal wife'due south. To beg, when he is being put in the ground, to be allowed to go with him. Chi thousand bia welu ndu m ooo, my God take my ain life too. I shall struggle with Okpala's burly brothers who will endeavour to cease me from crawling into his grave, pleading to exist buried with my husband, the best man in the earth, my son'southward father. They will tell me to think virtually my son. He needs a mother. He is still a child and has only lost his father; he does not demand to lose his mother too. Think nigh him, they'll say. Jide obi gi aka. agree your heart in your hands firmly, then that it does not slip and splinter.

I think virtually my son. 4 years quondam. The reason Okpala'southward people accept non kicked me out yet. Will non kick me out. I am the mother to Okpala'south heir. If I had had a daughter, his witch of a female parent would have had me on the streets by now so what? Who would marry a widow with a young daughter? But I have a son, so I get to keep the boutique. Afamefuna is my trump card. Also young to understand death, he is playing in his room, crashing toy cars and asking Enuma, the househelp, if his daddy was back from his trip. Afamefuna has been asking that question since the dark Okpala died and I told him his daddy had gone away and saw a light come up on in his eyes.

'5 years of wedlock and all you could manage was i child. One. Good thing it was a boy. I warned Okpala that college destroys their wombs with all that knowledge. As well much knowledge is not skilful for a adult female. Information technology destroys their wombs. What does she demand all that education for eh? He should have married some other woman. 1 that would have given him many more than sons.'

When Afamefuna was i-and-a-one-half years, I became pregnant again. I had by then, become good at avoiding Okpala's busy hands. making sure his food was served on fourth dimension. His apparel clean and ironed. The house tidied and welcoming. But in my viii week of pregnancy, I slipped. I burnt his supper: egusi soup with snails he had ordered especially from Onitsha. The snails, charred, clung to the bottom of the pot, curled up similar ears. Opal liked egusi with snail and, as I realized within a week of living with him, it was akin to a mortal sin to serve it up less than perfect; the punishment smarted even afterwards forgiveness had been granted.

So, that evening, when I smelt the soup burning, I knew what was in stock for me. I tried to recuperate it, to scoop up the snails and with some h2o dunk the burnt taste. Cypher worked and The Hand descended on me while Afamefuna watched from behind his bedroom door. Opal upturned the bowl of soup, my burnt offer, on my head and the soup ran similar tears down my cheeks and soiled the white blouse I had on in readiness for the Legion of Mary coming together at St. Christopher's.

Of course, I could not go any more. The pepper in the egusi stung my eyes and the smell of burnt soup found its way into my nostrils and nestled in that location cozily. When I went to the toilet and released clots of blood, I knew that Okpala had martyred my babe, sent it back to its source before I fifty-fifty had the chance to cradle it in my arms. I knew I never wanted to give him another child, male or female.

The calendar week Okpala was away, seeing to new supplies in Lagos, I went to the Riverside Private Hospital and had my tubes tied. The night he came back and called me to his bed, I touched the tiny scar that only I could see and felt information technology throbbing warm under my hand and I smiled. When he released his manhood inside me and spoke to his seed, ordering them to requite him a son--Opkala wanted another son desperately, to raise his condition amidst his peers--I wanted to giggle out loud.

I elevator my head and plough towards my mother-in-law. She is sitting on my bed. I look beyond her and see my new life stretched ahead of me: a multi-colored wrapper infused with the olfactory property of fresh possibilities. No Okpala. My hereafter secure in the fact that I have his son. An independent adult female with my ain boutique. I shall regrow my hair. Nurture it and delight in its growth. Maybe in a year or two, another relationship. I am in no hurry, though. I shall savor my liberty showtime. My optics run into those of my mother-in-law and I feel it coming. I do not even want to stop it: a laughter that comes from deep inside my belly and takes over my entire torso."

Chika Unigwe (2010: 75-81)

In I World: A Global Anthology of Short Stories.

hulseyfacheneve.blogspot.com

Source: https://nollyculture.blogspot.com/2015/08/growing-my-hair-again.html

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