A. M. K

The first time I took him, he was three months and three weeks old; not old enough to have neck control or developed enough to sit. I left him in the nanny‘s arms and rushed to the car with tears in my eyes.

This is what working mothers do, I thought. They leave their babies in the care of strangers and go off to sit at a desk. When I reached the car, I realised I had left my keys at the breastfeeding station. I found him surrounded by the gateman and another caretaker who were musing over his unusual name. My first instinct was to grab him and take him away. But, it was only day one, 10 minutes in. So, I shot them a look, touched his arm and as I looked into his face, I remembered who he was and why his name was what it is. I knew he would be okay.

Last night, as I walked through the kitchen for the third time or fourth time before allowing the day to end, I happened to look up and see my breast pump in the baby bottle container in the upper cupboard. My heart surfaced to the shores of my eyelids and I stopped and pushed it down again.

I took a picture of him in the backseat today, where he was mumbling silly words… “shay membe…” and the waves came surfacing again. I had done this before, but that time I had breastmilk packed. I had driven us both from maternity leave and jumped out at the side of the road, squeezed myself on the body of the car to avoid the whizzing bodas and speeding cars, carried him out of his newborn seat, pulled his baby hat back over his head and left him alone for a few seconds only to find him surrounded by others I knew even less than the woman I had just chatted with for a moment. This, today was the easier part.

I think today, he might have been about to cry. The silence and the “play for us some music” and the way he paced up and down the kitchen hovering behind me as I executed my pancake breakfast. “Can I put this in his bag?” he pointed to the setup on the counter.

“An important meeting today,” he had said. Though, as I watched him dress him up for his first day of school, I knew that he had stayed in town for more than just an important meeting.

This used to be my fantasy; going home with you, waking up next to you.

But a good wife never longs, never desires. She cooks and cleans until her hands are rubbery and peeling in white patches.

A good wife waits until you come back late in the night, with a happy face, a how was your day and a hot plate of food. If you detect any resentment in the “how” or “day” or how she opened the door, you quiz her out. “Why are you so angry? I almost had an accident on my way home!” … And I’m drunk and its 2:00 a.m.

Once the kraal you reeled her into was closed, you were off to conquer another project, off for another adventure. Your home was in good hands. When you had just met, you had whispered something like, I like you because you are the kind of girl who prays for her man. She was uneasy about it, not sure what it meant, but she does spend most nights awake looking for warmth in the arms of God.

It was supposed to be the beginning of life, finally, successfully off into the sunset, but walls are a cage if you are the only one within them.

A good wife produces beautiful obedient children who love you and take up your name. She always speaks well of you. She is always there for them when they need her, like if they run into a door knob and blood comes gushing out of the side of their head and she knows that she will be there for them but that there will be no one there for her.

A good wife must take care of her own self. You have important work to do. More importantly, your mother and friends need you. If you suspect that she really is sick and in pain, then declare that you are sicker. She must always take care of you, in sickness and in health. You did the chasing and now that she’s yours, her lifelong subservience to you as the accursed helper is your entitlement.

A good wife changes her name, her identity. You are an avalanche. She exists only under your own existence. Her story, her dreams, her self come second to yours.

A good wife wears her ring even though you hate yours, you can’t stand jewellery and besides, everyone knows you are married.

You remind her of when she was growing up. Children, to an African man are a nuisance in his path, an inconvenience – except to add to his manly stature when called upon the council of other men. Such is a wife to the curriculum vitae of her husband- good on paper. If they be bad, then what a loss, and if they be good, well, more accolades for him. His life is neither moved or tampered with, by the miniscule details of their own.

The good wife begins to crack right around the eyes- her expanding waist no longer of interest, she remains intact along paths untamed but no longer explored. She eventually becomes the matron that all good wives are- plump, forever tired, always within a second of delivering a slap to the maid or a neighbour’s child, her haughty laughter growing louder at every wedding.

Author: A. M. K

First day of school

The good wife