Wives in one household are natural enemies, it seems. Or so Lola Shoneyin depicts them in her debutnovel, The Secret Lives of Baba Segi’s Wives, excerpted here, with an introduction from the author.

The Secret Lives of Baba Segi’s Wives
Lola Shoneyin
HarperCollins/William Morrow (2010)

As a 10-year-old girl, I liked reading obituaries, and would stare in fascination at the photographs of the recently deceased. But on a particular day I couldn’t help noticing the large image on page two. In the picture was a tall well-known socialite with three women dressed in identical lace and head-tie, each with flawlessly lightened skin; each dripping with golden jewellery and each wearing the same eager smile. The caption read: Chief Solomon and his wives at a birthday bash.

I thought how fantastic it would be to be one of many wives. I was so impressed that I announced my fantasy to my mother.

She told me that the women in the picture might be smiling on the outside, but inside they were sad and bitter. I was crushed.

I often heard my parents offering advice to my older brothers. Ethnicity was not an issue for them; their main concern was that my brothers didn’t date young women from polygamous homes.

I haven’t always made the right choices. My first marriage was to a man who was born to the second wife in a polygamous home. I should have listened to my mother; the marriage lasted 40 days. After the annulment I was a little more careful. I was introduced to my husband by a mutual friend of both families. We had a short, intense courtship and were married 12 years ago.

A few months after I arrived in Abuja, I struck up a friendship with a very warm 26-year-old woman called Aisha. By northern Nigerian standards, she was ripe for marriage. Luckily she had Abdul, a man she couldn’t stop talking about. Abdul was in his 30s and very generous, showering her with expensive presents. On one occasion she mentioned that he was an amazing father to his three-year-old daughter. Naively, I asked how long it had been since his wife passed away. She looked at me coyly, hoping that I wouldn’t think less of her. She told me he was married and that his wife was expecting their second child.

Some time later, she came to me crying that this same man wasn’t returning her calls. He’s probably with that wife of his, she said through her tears. I told her that what she was experiencing was a foretaste of things to come, and asked how it would feel if, after marrying her, Abdul then took a third wife. I was shocked that she was shocked. I couldn’t believe this hadn’t occurred to her. A few days later, she told me she had broken up with him. I was pleased for her.

According to the Nigeria Demographic and Health Survey, one-third of married women in Nigeria are in polygamous unions and 16 per cent of married men have more than one wife.

But why do women agree to it? Why did Thobeka Madiba agree to become Jacob Zuma’s third wife? Was it because she fell hopelessly in love with a married man? Or was the allure of being married to the No. 1 citizen of South Africa too delicious to resist?

Last year, two of the daughters of the president of Nigeria married men who happened to be governors of northern Nigerian states. One became wife No. 4 and the other joined the family of a man who already had two wives. Yes, there is a possibility that the president’s daughters married for love, but it is easier to conclude that these marriages were politically motivated, the women pawns in a game far beyond what they themselves understand.

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Queen

When a plan does not go right, you plot again. One day you will succeed. One day you will be able to damage the person who hurts you so completely that they will never be able to recover. I have told Iya Segi this on several occasions. I keep telling her that we need to find a permanent solution but she does not have wisdom. She says we should continue to humiliate Bolanle until she runs away. ‘Let us cut her feathers,’ she says.
Well, the bird has shown that she can fly without feathers. I knew we should have gone for her throat. We should have bled her into a hole in the earth!
I have suffered too much in my life to let that rat spoil it all for me. So what if she is a graduate. When we stand before God on the last day, will He ask whether we went to university? No! But He will want to know if we were as wise as serpents because that’s what the Bible says we should be.
If we let Bolanle ruin us, then we will all have failed before God. I reject failure in Jesus’ name. I will not fail. The prophets in my church have seen that this rat has an evil spirit. I can’t say God has not revealed it to me too. He shows Himself to all who serve Him in spirit and in truth. I’m glad Iya Segi has come round to my thinking. She has now seen that we need to do something. Now that Baba Segi has decided to take the rat to the hospital, time is short.
When Bolanle first arrived, I scrubbed her tongue with bitter leaf! Ha! I made her understand who was in charge of this house. I showed the sting of hot peppers. If she comes to this world again, she will run if she hears the name Iya Femi.
Let me tell you one of the things I did. Laughter kills me when I think of it. I don’t think she had been with us for a year when Baba Segi asked me to make aso ebi for the entire household. The neighbour’s birthday was in two weeks’ time and he wanted us all dressed in the same fabric from top to bottom. ‘I want you all to look like queens,’ he said. I looked at him and wondered why, if he wanted wives that looked like queens, he married a woman like a toad or that scrawny rabbit that nibbled at Bolanle’s burrow.
And that Bolanle! Is that his idea of a queen? Being a Graduate does not make you beautiful. I know true beauty. And it is in pale yellow skin. I was born darker than this but I use expensive creams to make my natural beauty shine. I take my nails to a proper nail studio. I buy good make-up, unblike that Bolanle who wanders around with her face as haggard as a sack. Ha! Queens indeed!
Anyway, on the day I went to collect the clothes, I came out of the house and heard Bantu’s ‘No More No Vernacular’ screaming from giant speakers on the neighbour’s fence. I danced into the pick-up, leaving the entire family waiting in the sitting room.
The tailor’s store was only twenty minutes away but I stopped at a few places. By the time I got home, even my sons were sweating from anticipation. I rushed into the sitting room, arms laden, and surrendered the pile of clothes to the stool by Iya Segi’s feet. The witch sniffed the air around me. She must have picked up the scent on my thighs.
‘I was waiting for the tailor to put finishing touches to your clothes,’ I said. ‘Would you have preferred it if I came home without them? It is wonderful that we will all be dressed the same!’
Ha! Sometimes I wish I could pat myself on the back. My cunning knows no bounds!
For a few moments, Iya Segi stared at the outfis. The children couldn’t conceal their impatience. ‘Mama, the clothes!’ Akin pretended to cough as he spoke so his mother wouldn’t think him wayward.
Iya Segi cocked her head with interest before reaching for the pile and placing it on her lap. The witch touched all the clothes before anyone, as if she wanted to render them second-hand. She fingered the plastic buttons and touched the threading before giving each outfit to its respective owner. One by one, everyone stepped forward. Iya Segi told Iya Tope to drop Bolanle’s clothes by her bedroom door. She said everyone should return to the sitting room in thirty minutes so we could set off for the party.
I got dressed quickly and headed to the sitting room so I could see everyone come in. Iya Segi caught me in the corridor as she came out the bathroom. She ran her eyes over my outfit. ‘Such beautiful old thread! Such fine sequins!’ she said. Her throat was thick with fury.
‘The tailor said he ran out of sequins when he started to sew yours. He said the girl who sold them to him was in confinement. But if you want, let us exchange. I’ll wear yours and you can wear mine.’ I even started to unzip my blouse at the side. Ha! She would be lucky if she could fit just one of her breasts into my entire blouse. She hissed and turned into her bedroom.
Baba Segi joined me soon after to inspect us the way he always did. As the children walked in, he looked with pride at the parade of red stars against royal blue. He nodded as his eyes went from face to face.
Iya Segi soon waddled in. Her dress resembled a pillowcase with long sleeves and a ruffled collar that extended all the way up to her ears. That thick neck of hers is an embarrassment. If she always had to wear clothes with high collars maybe she would eat less. Maybe she’d stop grunting like a pig.
Iya Tope, for her part looked no different from her three daughters. Did she not behave like them? Was she any cleverer than they were? I told the tailor to sew the skirt two sizes too big, and her blouse baggy and without darts. As usual, she didn’t say anything; she was more concerned about Bolanle, who had just emerged from her bedroom.
Bolanle’s outfit looked like it had been knocked together by a rogish hand. To be honest, I sewed it myself. I watched the tailor on a few occasions and made the skirt from the discoloured ends that he did away with. Instead of the square metre that the rest of the wives received as headgear, Bolanle’s head was bound by bright purple strips of cloth about eight inches wide. Her face was bland as if there wasn’t a single thought in her head. Who knows what the lizard was thinking! Everyone stared at her. Iya Tope drew her palm to her lips but Iya Segi’s eyes began to twinkle. Ha! I knew she would like it.
My husband finally asked me to stand up. You can trust me. I gave him the queen he asked for. My skirt was fitted and the slit rode just above my knee. My blouse was adorned with crystals and the darts shaped my figure and lifted my breasts. I was well accessorized too: matching court shoes and a bag, coral beads on my wrists and a large gold crucifix around my neck. It was a good day.

Back to the present problem, Iya Segi and I decided to meet on our own after the rat-head incident.
That stupid Iya Tope ruined it all! I said.
‘Let us thank the gods that she did not tell Bolanle beforehand. I thought she would carry Bolanle to her bedroom to breastfeed her! Iya Tope’s foolishness could start a village war. The only chance we had was to be united. Now see how Bolanle marches out the house gloating.’ The stone in Iya Segi’s throat was travelling up and down like a man’s. ‘Iya Tope is a traitor. She is like a demon who accused the gnomes of mischief. He woke up to find his sword inside his own belly and there was nothing he could do! Nothing! He lay in the forest with his blood clotting at his side, too weak to stand, too frail to shout.’
‘Iya Segi, forget about Iya Tope! Let us take care of this matter ourselves. We have the wisdom and the strength. Between the two of us, we can restore this home to what it was.’
‘You have spoken well, Iya Femi. You have spoken the truth.’

This story, and others, features in Chronic Books, the review of books supplement to Chimurenga 16 – The Chimurenga Chronicle (October 2011), a speculative, future-forward newspaper that travels back in time to re-imagine the present. In this issue, through fiction, essays, interviews, poetry, photography and art, contributors examine and redefine rigid notions of essential knowledge.

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