He would say I was overthinking. He would say, “Don’t worry, you are my wife,” like that sentence should close every discussion.
For a while, I accepted the comfort of that line.
It’s easy to accept comfort when you are tired, and I was always tired—working, raising children, solving problems for people who never ran out of problems.
Then last month, Mama called me directly.
Not through Emeka. Her voice sounded weak, like she was lying on a mat, and she called me “my daughter” in a sweet tone.
She said, “This sickness is taking me.”
She paused to breathe and added, “But before I go, I want to do thanksgiving, so God will know I am grateful.”
I felt my chest squeeze with fear.
No matter what was happening between me and Mama, I didn’t want death on anyone. I pictured an old woman alone, suffering, and my heart moved.
I sent one million naira immediately.
I didn’t budget. I didn’t argue. I didn’t ask the hospital name. I only sent money and told myself I was doing a good thing.
The next day, Emeka came with another request.
He said Mama needed stable electricity for the thanksgiving, because they wanted to hire sound, lights, and cooling vans for drinks and food.
He said the village power was unreliable.
He said, “If the power fails, people will laugh. Mama will be ashamed. Let’s just do it well and finish.”
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