The Igwe household's sitting room exuded a quiet elegance, its tasteful furnishings giving an air of understated wealth. Yet beneath its polished veneer lingered a tension, a heaviness that seemed to seep into the very walls. Mrs. Igwe sat on the edge of her seat, her hands clenched in her lap, eyes downcast, awaiting her mother's entrance.
Mama Nkechi walked in, her steps slow and deliberate. She carried herself with a measured dignity, her chin held high as she took her seat opposite her daughter. Her gaze was steady, a blend of warmth and expectation in her eyes as she looked at Mrs. Igwe, waiting for her to speak first.
She sighed, breaking the silence with her familiar voice. "My precious child, Akwa ugo mu, how have you fared in these long days apart? Your father and I have waited patiently, but it has been too long since you visited. Tell me, have we unknowingly offended you?"
Mrs. Igwe looked at her mother, her face a mask of weariness. The burdens she carried were etched in every line of her posture, her shoulders bowed under an invisible weight. She took a slow, deep breath before speaking, her words heavy with exhaustion.
"Mother, do I appear well? How can you expect me to visit when my life is not my own? My husband dictates my every move, every action."
Mama Nkechi laughed lightly, brushing off her daughter's words with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Is that all, then? Then he performs his duty well. It is a blessing to have a husband who leads with authority, for that is as it should be."
Her daughter's face twisted with incredulity, a flicker of anger flashing in her eyes. "Mother, is that truly all you can say?" Her voice shook as she spoke, desperation bleeding into her tone. "Look at me—look closely! Each scar, each bruise, marks the rage he unleashes upon me. Every day, he batters me into submission, and you call it 'duty'?"
Mama Nkechi leaned back, looking her daughter up and down, unimpressed. She gave a slight shrug, her face impassive. "And what of it? I see nothing grave upon you."
Mrs. Igwe bit her lip, struggling to contain her shock. Her hands trembled as she held them up, displaying her bruised arms for her mother to see. "Mother, are you even looking? Look more closely!"
Mama Nkechi's gaze lingered briefly on the faint bruises, and then she sighed dismissively. "Ah, these faint marks on your hand? This is what troubles you so? A mere trifle, child."
Mrs. Igwe stared at her mother, disbelief widening her eyes, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Mother… Mummy…"
"Yes, child?" Mama Nkechi replied, her tone placid, unmoved.
"I am bruised, battered. How can you look at these scars and call them 'mere trifles'?"
Mama Nkechi's face hardened, her voice laced with mild reproof. "Because, my child, you bear responsibility for them. A true wife knows how to manage her husband. When we first met Ugochukwu, he was gentle, industrious, and respectful—an exemplary man. If he turns harsh with you now, it is your own failing as a wife."
The words struck Mrs. Igwe like a physical blow. She rose to her feet, her voice trembling with fury and disbelief. "My failing? You see my suffering, and you call it my fault?"
Her mother scoffed, brushing off her daughter's reaction with a cold detachment. "Yes, indeed. You call yourself a woman, yet cannot bring peace to your own home. I pity you. There were times, in the early days, when your father's hand would strike me, but I soon understood it was for my own correction, to make me better. Look at me now—do you see him raising his hand still?"
Mrs. Igwe's lips curled in bitterness. "Only because he has grown old, Mother. What strength does a man of seventy possess?"
Mama Nkechi chuckled, unfazed. "Age has nothing to do with it. If he wished to exert himself, he would. Since the day I was married to him at thirteen, my father prepared me to revere him as my god, my father reborn. Your grandfather taught me obedience, and my husband did not share my bed immediately; he chose his time, and I honored his choice."
Mrs. Igwe mumbled under her breath, barely containing her frustration. "I've heard this story too many times."
"And you shall hear it again," Mama Nkechi replied with a knowing smile, her eyes glinting with pride. "I was eighteen, he was thirty; in those years he lived as he pleased, entertained other women. Sometimes I even served them. Even when he beat me, I endured it patiently. When your brother was born, your father taught him the ways of a man, to lead his household, even with a firm hand if needed. This is our heritage, our strength."
Her daughter's face fell, her voice barely a whisper as she spoke, as if confessing a hidden shame. "I have suffered so much."
Mama Nkechi's expression shifted, her eyes narrowing with disdain. "Suffered, have you? What suffering do you know? Your husband is wealthy; he meets your every need, yet you wail over a few bruises. Be careful, lest your complaints drive him away to another woman, one who appreciates him. Think of what I endured—your father had other children, and when illness struck him, I bore their burdens for love's sake. And you, you call this 'suffering'?"
"Mother, I am your child, and I am in agony," Mrs. Igwe said, her voice breaking. "Yet you call me ungrateful? I could die from his hands one day."
Mama Nkechi's gaze turned steely, her voice cold and unyielding. "Then so be it. Better to perish in your marriage than abandon it. Not a single child of mine will bring disgrace to our family by fleeing her home. Do you understand?"
Stunned, Mrs. Igwe looked at her mother, her heart breaking under the weight of her words. She searched Mama Nkechi's face, hoping to find some spark of compassion, some glimmer of the mother who had once cradled her when she was a child. But there was nothing—only unyielding resolve.
"Mother…" Her voice cracked, lost in the chasm of her despair.
"Yes, you heard me," Mama Nkechi replied sharply. "Did you not vow 'till death do us part'? So it must be. Imagine the disgrace if one of your friends abandoned her husband. What whispers would follow? How they would say her mother raised her poorly. No, Nkechi, respect yourself. Safeguard your home. That is your duty as a wife. If you lose that man, you lose my blessing." She rose, gathering her handbag with a decisive snap, her gaze unwavering. "I am leaving. Reflect deeply on my words. Do not bring dishonor upon yourself, or me."
With those words, Mama Nkechi turned and walked out, the door closing heavily behind her, leaving her daughter alone in the silence.
As soon as the door clicked shut, Mrs. Igwe sank to the floor, her body collapsing under the weight of her grief. Her sobs filled the empty room, raw and desperate, each one tearing at her chest.
"God," she whispered through her tears, "why have you abandoned me?"