THE WOMEN

Popular Demand for Accountability, or tyranny of the majority? Feminist icon or elitist snob?
Dialogue or Political suicide?

Thel Alorma
Alorma95@gmail.com
The Women

THE WOMEN
1. STALWARTS AND EXECUTIVES:

The Meeting: The women’s executives discuss issues at hand.

POV Character: Chukere Mammanda

The ‘Protestants’: When campaigning political parties announce their candidate, few know or
care to know that a frontline candidate of a major party is one of their sons.
POV Character: Joy Omarom; a well-shaped middle wife. She was a party stalwart and part of
Mammanda’s taskforce of women collectors. Having failed too many times to get a teaching job
in the state education system, she opted to join politics. It brought huge rewards: a brand new
moped, a motorcycle for her husband, they built a house, several bags of rice, other
commodities, and the respect of peers and envy of many. It is said that she is the ‘husband’. She
is not a fan of Missus, having leaned toward Waro’s faction while attempting to remain neutral.
Waro had never paid much attention to her.
Storyline: On the market day, Joy is late to join the collectors, a habit other people attribute to
her extreme self-importance. Their analysis was correct. However it paid off on this day (as it
always did) because she isn’t present when the women sent to collect dues are slighted,
Mammanda among them. They angrily sit in the dust on the market road as a protest. Every
mature man who sees them asks why. Every mature woman who sees them keeps her wares
right there and sits in the dust, selling to passersby (or buys quickly and sends it home by a
young wife then sits in the dust). Joy has no choice but to enter the market by another route
and quickly does her purchasing. She finds her teenage son and has him take her wares home,
moped and all. Then she slips in among the sitting Protestants, hoping she wasn’t noticed.
Everyone is keeping mum and Joy is bored. She starts a conversation with a fellow bored woman
until Mammanda shoots them a look that not only says it’s against the etiquettes of the protest
to chat, but that she knew Joy came late and would fine her for it. Joy keeps quiet, even ignoring
the several side talks that spring up, including the other woman’s attempt to chat with her. A
motorcade of politicizing partisans soon passes by, singing party songs and screaming
propaganda. Joy cannot hold herself anymore. She breaks the protest etiquette by jumping
upon and cheering at the campaigners. When she is criticized by some (Mammanda had
resigned her statement to a steep fine cooking up in her mind), she asks if they don’t know.
‘Know what?’ they ask. She replies that their own son had won the primaries in the ruling party,
which party owned the motorcade that had come to his hometown to honor his selection.

Divided house: As the news spreads, first from stalwarts, reactions trail. Some rejoice while
others wonder why they should seeing as things wouldn’t change much for them personally. A
few engaged in a smear campaign: that he wasn’t going there with the community in mind
because, to him, they don’t matter.
POV Character: Sarima Fasimby, a corpulent young wife. Her husband is one of the more
successful young farmers. She is a hardworking jack of all trade who’s had 2 kids. She lives on
the fringes of women’s society, for while not a shy person, and being well known for her

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enterprise and diligence, she hardly participates in communal life. She does what she has to do,
and only what she has to do.
Storyline: Joy Omarom is coaching her younger sister-in-law Eunice Barrow on party politics.
Eunice is almost the only friend Sarima allows get close to her. The reason is that Eunice is
unsure of herself and eager to find her place. Sarima took her under her wing, but Eunice seems
to be finding shelter with her kinswoman. So when Sarima sees Eunice on a rally wearing party
vests with the candidates head on it, she gets curious. Though her curiosity pertains to what
Eunice is up to with the politics, Eunice fills her in, in the manner of a convert, on the various
communal and personal advantages to be gotten from voting in their candidate. Sarima’s older
kinswoman who always likes to borrow something, Mrs. Olaro Simby, happens upon the
conversation. She is outright pessimistic about the whole business. She’s been voting longer
than any of them and she could assure them that nothing much will change either on a
communal or personal level, except perhaps for a lucky few. Eunice is sure she’s among the
lucky few. Sarima takes farm produce with her husband to the market. A man is talking proudly
about how his kinsman will be the next governor. One woman seems to take exception to it. She
condemns the candidate. On the way from market she calls Sarima over just to tell her all the
reasons why the Candidate is a bad choice.

A woman they can’t forgive: It all comes to a head when politicking stalwarts bring their
campaign to the women’s meeting. They are immediately opposed by some of the women’s
executives, both hardliners and moderates, each for different reasons. To the moderates the
women’s party wasn’t a place to bring in partisan politics. The hardliners hit it in hard: Waro was
the women’s public enemy number one, a woman who betrayed them and treated them
spitefully and whom they’re yet to forgive, nay, whom they can never forgive!
POV Character: Anna-Sarah Amachere the woman who was critical of Jude Ojiovoh’s candidacy.
She had been one of Missus’ factionalists all along. But she was a true believer in the cause of
the anti-Waro opposition. She saw Madame Waro as a proud ambitious woman who puts her
ambitions above the interest of the women, especially the poor like herself. She was a true
advocate for the poor. Despite occupying no office, she had influence of sorts. She always
opposed anyone who taxes the poor. She even proposed proportionate taxing. Her support for
Missus lies in Missus’ disbelief in white elephants, her attention to day to day business and her
refusal to get her administration bogged down in a flood of book-keeping.
Storyline: Anna-Sarah could hardly contain her irritation at the politicking stalwarts. She held
side talks behind, opposing everything they said. She did this so effectively that Joy Omarom,
dame of the stalwarts, called out to stop side talks. As a matter of fact Joelyn had to harshly
criticize the bad manner of holding side talks while a presentation was on going. When Joy
Barrow, Missus’ hand maiden questioned if it was even right to bring politics into the general
meeting, given that partisan politics divides rather than unite. However someone cuts the
building argument short by raising a song and soon the meeting starts formally. After the
months burning issue regarding the market dues are addressed (it is proposed that the women
collect dues from women as a compromise but the women unanimously reject it). Anna-Sarah
sees the two Joys holding an animated discussion. It is clear they are of one heart just as they
are of one angelic form. Anna decides to light a flame: she talks about the news spreading about
that the women are endorsing Waro’s son as governor. She wants to know if it is true. It is clear

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what she’s trying to do. Yet the women take the bait. She sits back and watches the fires burn.
Sabina’s speech is the harshest: No woman endorses Waro. Waro was a public enemy who
called the police to arrest the executives of Ogbokiri women. Before her no person had ever
done it. She hadn’t been forgotten. She was not against any voting for their kinsman, but to say
‘endorsed’ was another thing. It was never to be spoken of again, and no one was allowed to
use the women’s gathering to promote any political party whatsoever. Anna watched the side
talks. Someone said that the women’s gathering had always been used for campaigning in the
past. Others were talking about Waro. The two Joys were still chatting. They mentioned that
before Waro someone had indeed called the police to arrest the executives – the Áre Jeofa.
However they did so as a body not as an individual. A third woman joined them. She had been
one of the arrested executives, she assured them that the hated Áre hadn’t actually invited the
police but that the court sent the police. Waro on the other hand had brought the police. Joy
Omaram pointed out it wasn’t Waro but her daughters.

2. WARENHAL: The women taxed themselves to build a tower but Nimrod said ‘bavel’.

Everybody knows: As the women leave they recount what everybody knows, how Waro was a
proud woman and how it led to the most public of women to end up locking herself in her
castle, as much an object of myth as wicked witches. They pass by Warenhal.
POV Character: Joy Barrow.

Abdication of Waro: It came as a shock to some who thought she had her buttocks glued to the
Lady’s chair when Waro suddenly announced her decision to quit office, midterm into her third
tenure. The biggest looming issue however –Waro’s “great feminine challenge ever” and the
background to the loudest feminine haggling ever- had to do with empty shell of Warenhal.
POV Character: Sabina Ogwuagara.

The Great Hall: The idea, according to Waro, was born in a dream, which ‘dream’ was inspired
by her travelling and living ‘’abroad”. She convinced the women shortly, and without much ado,
that they’d complete the hall and reap its benefits long before her first tenure ended. They
didn’t. What was meant as a gift for the ‘Daughters Abroad’ next August Meeting became a task
for the Daughters Abroad. They were taxed to relieve the burden on the ‘Home Branch’ who
were nevertheless doubly taxed. One faction refused to oblige and threatened to abstain from
paying further dues till they had gotten a detailed account of how their past collections were
utilized. The problems began there and then.
POV Character: Ajakpa Jolene Tabor.

Stewardship: Warenhal was never completed. No accounts were ever made and payments
became disorganized. Yet Waro managed to maintain a majority. She tried unsuccessfully to
enforce payments. She even managed to clinch a third term victory amidst accusations of vote
buying. She bought a new SUV and made big friends. Then she suddenly decided to quit office.
The women, not just the opposition, called for an account of her stewardship. She refused to

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honor their invitation to the meeting. She only wrote them a “letter of retirement” that
explained nothing.
POV Character: Shawun Regina.

3. ONE WOMAN SQUAD: There are many women of valor, but Waro surpassed them all.

Visitations: Waro retreated into the shell of her castle. It wasn’t impregnable. The women
debate over whether or not to bring Waro to book. Songbirds report to her what the women are
saying. They send envoys to her and she’s hospitable to them. Yet she fails to honor their
invitation for the second time. A larger deputation of women make an august call on her,
catching up with her whispering songbirds who’d come to inform her about the coming army.
They invite her for the third time with a threat that their next visit won’t be friendly. Meanwhile
she’d been fined in absentia.
POV Character: Georgina Georgie-Jaffar

Panyaring: A gong is sounded. Anyone who fails to heed would have herself to blame. A few
though don’t come, and one or two slip away during the rallying calls including songbirds who
warn Waro about the seriousness of this one. “Let them come” she declared. She came out to
greet them but they have no words for her, only a hefty fine. She tries to dismiss them but this
only drives them crazy and they enter into a fit. Even the men of the compound can’t contain
them. They destroy nothing but leave with one or two things in lieu of the fine.
POV Character: Madame Waro Ojiovoh.

The Roundup: The men of the compound have a meeting. They would meet with the women to
return the seized properties, but the real problem was Waro. Her daughters arrive and along
with their mother they refuse the older men’s advice to the effect that they were powerless
before the consensus of the community. Instead they go to the women’s leader one by one with
threats. Then a police van arrives in the village and rounds up all of those whom they could.
POV Character: Grace Ojiovoh-Kachi (Waro’s daughter).

Dialogue: The womenfolk, even those who had erstwhile been her supporters, knew that Waro
had lost. No one ever fights the community and wins. Also the community had a law against
bringing the police into internal conflicts, a law set by the men whose authority she had
overstepped. The remaining women leaders, believing they had allies in the spurned patriarchy,
met with them. The patriarchy was angry and condemned her. They would call Waro and by
threats give her a piece of their mind. But when they met with her first in the comfort of her
living room, they ate kola and gently invited her to “hear her own side of the story so as to
vindicate her. When she came, they were all smiles and praises and pleaded with her to forget
the past and preached to her in a conciliatory tone about peace. They did get her to agree to
release the women though.
POV Character: Sokoma Hart-Obriko
4. WHAT GOES AROUND: The world goes round and round

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5. THE SERPENT’S VOICE: With the voice of a lamb, the serpent speaks

6. FREE AND FAIR: “… the elections were free and fair…”

7. THE SNAKE WE BUTCHERED: The snake we butchered has how many pieces

8. CAESAR’S: He asked “Whose image is on it” and they replied “Caesar’s”

9. THE ELEVENTH HOUR: The foolish virgins’ morning.

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STALWARTS AND EXECUTIVES

1. The Meeti ng

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Chukere Mammanda would forever regret this day. Who was Ninge to look her in the eye and call her
names? Even as she remounted her moped with all the dignity she could muster in the situation, the
middle aged matron of Ule Chukere shivered in rage, as if an icy bucket of humiliation had been poured
upon her on a cold harmattan morning.

Slowly, but not steadily, she meandered her way through the convoluted tracks of a tire-trapping sand
sea they use for want of a road. She wasn’t late for the Executives Meeting, being punctual by habit, yet
she felt slightly late. She had been late in landing the wiry saltwater girl a resounding slap such as would
reverberate in her ear for years to come! And in front of her husband too –let the ram-balled imbecile
say a word!

Makechi of ule Gorgon (Ogorongoron actually, Gorgon is an Anglicization) who bore her husband Alvan’s
name as surname for herself and her children because ‘We don’t know who Gorgon is and he doesn’t
know us, but we know Alvan and he knows us’, was hosting the meeting on that day. Upon reaching
Makechi Alvan’s house Mammanda, as was her habit, honked impatiently on her moped. It is a common
way of announcing one’s arrival in Ogbokiri and, possibly, many other rural communities in Nigeria.

This Honking-on-the-moped meme was a descendant of great forebears, being (as it was held in drinking
bars):

The son of Ringing-the-bicycle-bell-in-front-of-a-house,

Son of Clapping-hands-to-announce-one’s-presence,

Son of Saying-‘kpom-kpom-here!’

Son of Knocking-at-doors-that-don’t-fall-on-impact,

Son of Verbally-announcing-one’s-arrival,

Son of Manners,

Son of Silas,

Son of Etiquettes,

Son of Silas the tanner,

Son of Joseph,

Son of Amadi,

Son of Adamu,

Son of Amun,

Son of Seth,

Son of Tabor,

Son of Nuhu,

Son of Doeg,

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Son of Okossa,

Son of god.

It has its own children too:

Honking-in-the-car and his brother Honking-(at a spot where the meaningless words “Sound No Horns”
are painfully inscribed in bold letters)-in-your-air-conditioned-car-while-the-sales-girl-gets-a-tan-on-her-
ebony-skin-as-she-runs-back-and-forth-under-a-skin-scalding-,-scalp-burning-sun-to-attend-to-you

Father of Simply-being-mean and all his brothers.

When no sun-burnt faces showed up at the farmer’s wife’s door, Mammanda knew the drudge-rats
were buried under a giant heap of cassava their untiring mother had tasked them with.

“Is this house devoid of inhabitants?” she asked in pretended rage.

No response.

‘Didn’t Makechi make any arrangements for the Executives Meeting?’ she wondered. Perhaps the
widowed workaholic had gone on another of her infamous odysseys in the land of hoes and loam and
forgotten the planned rendezvous.

She put her hand into her purse and pulled out a contraption that was invented to deny the women of
Ogbokiri the opportunity to showcase their natural talent at long distance communication, especially
over the rooftops. It failed completely. It was mockery –and pity for the unimaginative inventors –that
prompted every woman in Ogbokiri to own one.

Mammanda dialed Makechi’s number. Even before her assailant had picked the call, three shots rang
out of the caller’s voice box.

“HELLO! HELLO? HELLO!”

She had mistaken the feminine voice from the service operator for Makechi’s voice. She looked at the
treacherous item in bewilderment when it responded with three tired beeps, indicating that the call was
over. In the end she hadn’t needed the airtime she didn’t have, Makechi had heard her loud and clear
over the roof.

“Is that my husband’s wife?” her colleague in the travails of marriage asked over the roof.

“No,” Mammanda replied, “It is your husband-land. Open your creaky door before I knock it down!”

“Oh my beloved husband-land, have mercy on your arthritic wife. Let me call these good-for-nothing
sons you gave me to open the creaky door lest it falls apart.”

“And you must leave the door open, there are more of us coming.”

“So it is our meeting day already?”

“Did you not want the last Friday of this month to arrive in its turn?”

“No, it is welcome. And so too every other last Friday to come.”

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At this point Mammanda was in the house. Makechi had sent her middle-child Eguro to get the door.
Mammanda feasted her eyes on the lean twenty-year-old as he opened the door for her. If she had any
illusions that the next generation of Alvan’s house would have hope through this one, she was
disappointed. He shot off like a guideless missile without getting her a chair to sit on. She could have
excused him for the fact that he was rushing to break even with his brothers on completing the peeling
of their allotted shares of cassava. Yet hospitality and courtesy are the marks of a citizen (Alali). Alvan
had been an Alali, no one contested his qualification for the Native Title he took: Onoghuo of Ogbokiri,
‘The Man of Honor’.

Mammanda was not impressed by the sight of six grown males who seemed to lack a sense of direction
in life. The oldest son was thirty three. His only achievement in life was getting a girl from his mother’s
maternal ule pregnant. He brought her home to live off his mother without as much as placing the
asking wine before his would-be in-laws! The others would follow soon in tow, including the seventeen
year old she once saw pinching Omarumo’s busty daughter’s side on their way from school. She had
forgotten to tell Omarumo. On a second thought she was glad she didn’t. Let the girl get pregnant. It’s
better than getting another Ninge style insult for interfering with other people’s children. When the arse
is stung by an ant, it learns to avoid getting stung by a scorpion.

“Good evening mamma” they repeated after one another. They all had ugly voices except the youngest
who wasn’t smoking weed; yet.

“Is it evening yet?” she replied coldly.

‘Who said a girl is not a child?’ she mused. She had been insulted for giving birth to three girls and didn’t
have a face in her matrimonial ule until she gave birth to her only son. Her daughters had become some
of the compound family’s most successful progeny.

“Our hands are full my husband’s wife.” Makechi apologized for the shabby welcome. She should have
brought ‘cola’ for her guest as customs demand. She didn’t have any kola nuts but an acceptable
substitute would have sufficed.

“It is nothing my husband’s wife.” Mammanda managed to smile.

‘So Makechi can buy association wrappers but can’t stock even cheap bitter kola for visitors?’ She
brought out the one in her handbag and began peeling it. Makechi felt a twinge of guilt at this. She went
inside and brought a porcelain tray full of fried peanuts. This she placed in her oldest son’s laps without
ceremony and went back to peeling her cassava. The brute that men are, he took half a handful and
pocketed it. He slapped away the one or two hands that reached for some, then rose and presented the
substitute cola on a stool before Mammanda.

“Mamma,” he said, “here is cola.”

“Hmm-hmm.” She acknowledged him through a mouth full of bitterness.

‘Why does Mammanda take offense over small things?’ Makechi wondered.

Mammanda went on chewing her bitter cola. The family went on peeling their cassava.

One by one the women announced their arrival through any of the Sons of Etiquettes at their disposal.
Each one exchanged the customary pleasantries with the household, and a few offered to help. One or

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two actually laid hold of a spare blunt knife and helped in the peeling process. Mammanda kept chewing
on her bitterness. She hadn’t touched the peanuts.

“I think its nigh time we started.” A lean chocolate woman opined. “It’s nearly four o’clock.”

She was of average height and looked in her sixties though she was just 52. She had a mole on her chin,
under her thin lower lip. The combined effect of that, a sharp nose, and sunken eyes made her look tired
of all the evil things she would do to you. Everyone referred to her as Missus. She was christened Sabina.
Her surname was Ogwuagara. Her husband’s compound family, Ule Ogwuagalara, was one of the
fourteen ule of Ewereku Quarter. Only her father-in-law’s descendants bore a name close to original,
other families of the ule having turned to something much more fashionable like Oggu or Alara (which
incidentally means Weird or Crazy), or simply shorter (if not fashionable) like Ogwuaga, Oguaga and
variations upon that. The choice of name mirrored Sabina’s personality: she isn’t fashionable and
doesn’t like shortening what can be dragged out. She hadn’t offered to help with the peeling.

“Finally!” Mammanda sighed. She shot the two women who were peeling cassava a murderous look.
They dropped their knives on cue. Not that anyone was afraid of Mammanda. She had the face of a child
and the eyes of a practiced hypocrite. Yet within her heart, she and everyone else knew she couldn’t kill
a rat. Her feigned brutality was for survival. The women obeyed her because she was a matron and they
were junior wives. Also, they belong to her faction, and in Ogbokiri, factions mean everything. Makechi
dropped her knife and joined them.

Few ceremonies are observed before the executives’ monthly meeting commences. They take their
seats and engage in a fierce competition over who would out-do others in saluting everybody present.
They conduct a head count and note any new faces, ascertaining why they came, who invited them and
all what not. Next they ask to know who didn’t come and who would be coming late, not out of any
concern for these, but so as to fine them. Excuses are made for friends. Same excuses are objected to
when made on behalf of a friend’s foe.

Finally everyone shut their eyes. Then someone dares whoever sits on the big chair up in the clouds, the
one who does nothing but watch while the poor among womankind suffer, to come down, if he dares,
and bid her stop disturbing the otherwise quiet country side.

“Amen!” they answer to that.

They had barely taken their seats when a sonic blast, which threatened to tear Alvan’s upholstery,
caused a mini quake that sent them all jumping.

“Ah-ah!” they protested. Many pinched their noses on instinct.

“Madam Okaro this is unacceptable!” Missus protested.
“Please pardon me my husband’s wives,” Grace Okaro of apologized, “There is no toilet built for farts.
No one can resist nature.”
“Is this how you gas your husband’s wives at home?” Ajakpa Jolene Tabor of house Atabor asked. Her
yellow face was ruddy, and she was literally fuming.

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Okaro shot her an ugly look. She threw a quick glance at the eponymous wife Elizabeth. The junior wife
did her best to avoid her senior’s gaze. The fly who lives with the toad doesn’t join others in calling her
fat, an ugly squat.
“What is the cause of this insult?” Okaro got up, enraged. Her seat-mate rose also. Okaro’s broad behind
had been right in her face. She wouldn’t take chances.
“Madam Okaro please sit down.” Missus appealed.
“Madam please sit down o?” Seat-mate pleaded in her humblest voice.
“No! I want to understand something.”
“Madam Okaro please sit down,” Missus repeated. “Jolene apologize to her. She’s a Senior Wife!”
The offender did as she was told and seat-mate managed to rest comfortable. For a while.
The meeting began in earnest with a reading of the last minutes and its adoption. Before anyone else
could do so, Mammanda seized the moment.
“My husband’s wives I salute you.”
They responded.
“Yes, what I’m about to say is less of a complaint and more of an announcement. Last Saturday, I and
the other women enforcers received the greatest insult of our lives. Hmm, in short I cannot tell it all.
Betty tell them what happened.”
Betty felt she was being picked on. It was typical of matrons and senior wives to pick on the younger
women, especially those holding side talks while their superiors are talking.
“My husband’s wives I greet you all!”
They responded.
“On Saturday we went to the market in the company of our leader Madam Chukere to sell market
tickets. We were doing so quite successfully until we got to a certain line of shops. There the traders
refused to buy our tickets, asserting that they had already being sold tickets that very day. They even
showed us – myself and Elizabeth my husband’s wife – the tickets. It had Saturdays date on top. We said
‘Ah, Madam Chukere should hear about this’, so we went to report the matter to her…”
Mammanda seized the moment: “They came to meet me. They reported the issue to me.”
She shot Betty a ‘go and seat – and stop the side talks’ look.
“I was going to look into the matter when Soburama and her party came back with even worse
complaint…”
Saburama, knowing it was her turn to narrate what happened, rose to the task. “We were also selling
tickets o! Myself and Happiness, in peace, without trouble…”
“Saburama and her friends came to me almost in tears. I was shocked and wondered what the matter
could be. They said they were stopped from selling tickets by some young men who claimed the sale of
tickets as their prerogative. I said ‘really? Who dares to go against the community law?’ Some good for
nothing had stopped them from selling tickets…”

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“And even threatened to beat us up if we ever sold tickets there again!”

The women gasped in shock. Eyes widened and mouths gaped. Mammanda squinted and tightened her
mouth. Saburama didn’t take a cue. “It was a serious issue o! It could have been worse even!”
“Really?” the women gasped.
“They nearly beat Saburama and Joy up!” Mammanda added.
“What?!” The women got up as one body. They were ready to fish out whosoever had attempted the
abomination and fine him so hard his ancestors would turn in their graves.
“You know how they behave now, the disobedient children. I had told them ‘if anyone resists you, mark
them and report to me’. They went about exchanging words with them and running their mouth.”
The women became divided between those who felt the ladies had brought it on themselves, perhaps
even fanning the flames, and those who felt that regardless of what happened the men were never
justified to threaten the women.
Sabina Ogwuagara belonged to the latter party. She wanted to know: “Who are these young men in
question?”
Mammanda threw a preemptive look in Saburama’s direction. As sure as the fact that Okaro had fart
again Saburama was planning to talk. Mammanda’s eyes threatened to have Saburama drawn and
quatered and burnt at the stake. Saburama turned to her co-accomplice Happiness for psychological
support, but the middle wife was wearing a gas mask made from her own palm. She was Okaro’s seat-
mate and bitterly regretted it.
“Have you lost your voice?” Mammanda asked Saburama, who was surprised the matron had called on
her. The sole purpose of Saburama and her peers sitting in the meeting had been to testify to this
incident. After Mammanda had related the matter informally to some of the executives, they had
insisted on the younger women being brought to the meeting so they could hear for themselves.
Everyone knew of Mammanda’s exaggerations.
“It was Johnny-boy and that his friend, the one with the crooked fingers.”
Everyone knew the one with the crooked fingers, they wanted to be sure which Johnnyboy it was.
“The son of Georgie ‘Palmy’” the corpulent Madam Georgie was explaining. Georgie was not their
original name. It was her husband’s grand-father Jufogha Aradayi who was christened Georgie by the
colonialists. His descendants became surnamed Georgie. Georgie ‘Palmy’ was her husband Georgie
‘Palaver’s cousin, making Johnny-boy her kin-by-marriage. Someone pointed this out.
“How is he my ‘husband’s son’?” Madam Georgie asked the unsolicited genealogist, “We have nothing in
common with animals!”
Some felt she was too harsh about it and so murmured, loud enough to be heard.
“I am not ‘disowning a kinsman because he has fallen into disrepute’,” She willingly sated the gossips.
“See, this young man is no kinsman of mine nor of my husband. He doesn’t greet my husband whom you
people say is his uncle!”
There was a general consternation directed at the absent young man. His fine would be steep. One who
doesn’t greet an older kinsman must have a grave reason for not doing so or else…

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“And for what reason?” Georgie continued, “Because the young man’s brothers are all in the city and
have left him in charge of their lands, he chooses not to be gainfully employed, but to subsist off selling
his family’s land! My husband called him once and advised him. What did he do next? As if to spite my
husband, he decided to sell the land on which his late grandmother’s hut had been built! The very place
both herself and her husband were buried!”
The whole narrative had been punctuated by expressions of repugnance. The final line was met with so
strong an outcry that Georgie was compelled to stop and allow the women to noisily process the
abomination.
“…ewoh! Abomination!”
“How can someone sell his father’s grave?”
“The young man would come to nothing!”
“Na wa o!”
“Abomination…”
“My husband couldn’t stand it. An elder doesn’t sit back and watch while a goat labors in tethers. He
called the idiot for the second time and advised him against it. The useless boy told him to mind his
business, told my own husband so. My husband called the compound family and informed them of what
was going on under his own nose. They called the nonentity who squarely insulted them and told them
to eat their shit. Ever since then myself and my husband became his enemies. We don’t worth as much
as used toilet paper in his eyes.”
Everyone digressed to talk about the stupid, animal, good-for-nothing, useless boy, and completely
forgot about Crooked Fingers.
“So that cow-born threatened to beat you?” Sabina asked no one in particular among the younger wives
present. They nodded in consent.
“They even threatened to beat Lady Chukere and the rest of you if you got involved!” Saburama added.
She hated Crooked Fingers because she felt he was a bad influence on his younger kinsman – her
husband.
The whole room arose as one person. Everyone ran amok. They hadn’t been nearly insulted this much
since Madame Waro! Mammanda lost her mind. They had called her by name.
“That imbecile, that pig, that dirty boy! He can’t even stand before my daughters! He’s not ashamed of
himself. Other men are prospering – my first daughter is a doctor, the other one is a lawyer – and he’s
leading a useless life sleeping with his fathers’ wives and selling his mother’s grave.” She paused to
swallow. “Let me see him progress in this community. He’ll know next time how to threaten his
mother’s betters! Let me see him become anything useful, his mates are making it – ooh how my
daughters would surely love to get their hands on him – let me see him make it I say! He’ll know how to
threaten – chai Mammanda Dominica Chukere Wada, daughter of Apuma Bozeman! You have suffered
in no mean way!”
Mammanda kept quiet suddenly. She was the last to sit. She hadn’t heard Missus restore order.
Everyone had been listening quietly to the second half of her rants.

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The Women

“We don’t blame them,” Sabina took charge of the situation. “Do you know why? The bee stings he who
chooses to get stung. We don’t blame them at all. If the elders had not come to us with their burdens,
will small children who cannot toilet properly have the words to throw at us?”
“No!”
“No. We were living quietly, loving ourselves,” she was fond of this line, “and then men brought their
corruption and laid it on our tables. We, being women, - and women will always be women. We are like
mothers. They are like children, always bickering and never coming to a consensus except to do evil. So
they conspired and brought to us a mask that Agiri Okigbe, the mighty forester, cannot bear to wear on
our heads. This same market due is the reason why they poison one another. I had thought they have
finally seen wisdom – I had my doubts too – but it was a trick!”
“And I warned you!” Okaro felt justified. She had taken advantage of the commotion to empty her gas
tank. Happiness had taken advantage of the uproar to bully her way out of Okaro’s side, forcing
Elizabeth, Okaro’s nephew’s wife to sit beside her senior wife.
“Oya!” she slapped Elizabeth’s laps, “Up! Go and enjoy your fried beans!”
“This is not the time to apportion blames!” Georgie stepped in.
“Tell her o!” Makechi adjoined. She had witnessed and egged on the removal of Elizabeth, saying to
Happiness “Before she chokes you with gas.”
“Please let’s have one house,” Mammanda had recovered her poise, “the junior wives are watching.”
“Tell them o!” Makechi pretended not to have taken sides.
“Okaro what was that supposed to mean?” Sabina asked, just when everyone thought the case was
closed.
Okaro weighed the situation. She had run out of ammunitions and was short on allies. Yet she forged
ahead, the sword of her tongue raised high.
“It means that when the head hits a wasp’s nest, the head is stung by wasps.”
Sabina stood up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Okaro, who was fond of threatening others with her height and size, being over six and half feet tall,
stood too. She kept pointing her index finger at Sabina as she spoke,
“I warned you to stay out of the market collectors issues. I warned all of you. It is a man’s thing – this
market toll collecting thing – and they’re ready to kill one another for it. We should have some decency
not to involve ourselves in certain things. But you said ‘They’re our husbands, when husbands mess up,
we the wives tidy things up.’ Now they’ve wifed us into threats. Or do you think the young bullies have
no backing to dare threaten us? Who does that?”
No one dares threaten the executives as a body. In truth the young men hadn’t done so. Saburama was
as infamous as her matron for exaggerations.
“Madam Okaro, we all deliberated on the matter before accepting to collect market dues for the men,”
Sabina defended her stance, “Don’t make it seem like I took that decision alone.”
“Missus calm down!” Makechi pleaded. She wasn’t looking at Okaro and definitely didn’t want the giant
to knock down her Alvan’s chandelier.

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The Women

“Why am I being told to calm down,” Sabina Protested, “I didn’t take the decision alone, did I?”
“And now it’s clearly not in our favor – hold on Okaro, you have your points – you don’t think we should
scrap the decision and tell the men to take their shit and eat it?” Jolene Tabor made her first tangible
contribution. She always came in at critical points, a point for which she took great pride.
“We can’t just tell the men to ‘take their shit and eat it’,” Georgie offered, “They came to us,
respectfully, and offered us to collect in their behalf. We had options but chose to eat fried beans. Can
we at least go to toilet honorably, not complaining about the consequences of our diet? We should also
return to them and honorably decline. Until then we must collect the dues!” Okaro sat down.
There were dissensions and agreements, Sabina worked hard to calm everyone down.
“Is it until they beat us up that we will learn something?” a tiny voice intoned.
“No one is beating anyone up!” Missus was still standing, “They wouldn’t dare lay a hand on anyone!”
She was so fierce everyone actually paid attention. Even Okaro was pacified.
“Listen, those boys just want to threaten us into submission. Fear! That is the enemy’s tactics. Fear! But
fortunately for us, we don’t pray for strength to defeat someone we are stronger than! We are greater
than those boys. So on Saturday we will collect the tolls as usual. If anyone tries to stop you, report
them. Do not resist them. On Tuesday I will attend the men’s meeting and give them a piece of my mind.
They have to put their foot down and rein in their wild boys if they expect responsible due collections.
Does anyone have any contrary opinions?”
Almost no one spoke. Sabina had her way of pacifying them. They could trust her to do what she says
she would, unlike Dame Joelyn Omaram, who would say one thing before the women and another
before the men, betraying her gender to garner favors. The old wretch was still alive. Madam Waro was
also like Missus but the two were bitter rivals. The Pharisees were the only Jewish sect to survive the
Great Jewish Wars, modern Judaism is essentially Phariseeism, the Sadducees have been written off.
Same was true about Missus and Madame Waro. Bamaram was glad Waro had been paid in her own
coins and return to active public life at 85 years of age.
“We won’t wait.” Mammanda said at last.
“What did you say?”
“We won’t wait for the men to act. We the women have our traditions and if any man insults a mother
on this soil…” Mammanda had gotten worked up. “We need to revive some traditions to teach these
little ones. Hmm, no child will insult me o.”
“Don’t worry Lady Chukere,” Okaro said, “We will fine them so dearly they will run out of town!”
“Do you think they have money to pay with?” Makechi asked and everyone gave their lighthearted
opinions as to the ‘whys’ and ‘hows’ of the matter.
Makechi turned to Georgie. It was about Johnnyboy “My dear nowadays no one advises other peoples’
children. They don’t take kindly to it.”
“It is indeed so!” Mammanda adjoined, and for the benefit of everyone there present she narrated the
story of how Ninge had insulted her.
“Ninge who we just married yesterday!”

15
The Women

“And that useless husband of hers!” Saburama hated her husband’s associates. She was certain they
were the reason why she worked herself bald to cater to four children while supporting his alcoholism
and addiction to marijuana.
“My dear it is not to be married,” Georgie added inconsiderately, “it is to be well married.”
“Speaking of which,” Joy seized the moment, “Awuye’s daughter is getting married.”
“Which of them?”
“How many daughters does Awuye have?”
“Which of the Awuyes I meant?”
“How many Awuyes do we have? The one from your ule.”
“I wasn’t informed.” As if that mattered.
“She’s inviting us to the wine carrying ceremony.”
Everyone cheered except the one who wasn’t informed.
Makechi interrupted her cheers to add: “But Awuye isn’t properly married herself. So it would be
improper to invite us to her daughter’s wine carrying. How many of you drank her wine?”
“Don’t talk like that,” Missus protested. “Awuye is properly married.”
“Eh-hen-en? I didn’t know. So you drank her wine?”
“Don’t talk like that…”
Everyone goes on to talk about the roles expected of them during the wine carrying. Someone brings up
the case of Amah Osama, Ninge’s mother-in-law, who hadn’t turned out for a kinswoman’s daughter’s
wedding.
“…and she’s not just her husband’s wife, she’s her kinswoman. Both of them come from Rebesi!”
“Too bad! Too bad!”
“However if we take a different perspective on the matter…” Mammanda was the only one to defend
her action, standing her ground against everyone else and doing so quite effectively. “…one does not
pursue rats when the house is burning. I said so!”

2. Protestants

It was the wrong time for her moped to give her a challenge. Her husband and her son were both away
from home and she had to go to the market.
‘Isn’t it too early to start pushing this new moped?’ She thought. She decided what must be done should
be done.
“Eyo! Eyo!” She called her 17 year-old daughter.

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The Women

The young girl came out. She had grown fast like an okra plant. She looked like she was her mother’s
younger sister and not a daughter. She had her mother’s beautiful face, and enduring shapeliness. The
biggest differences were their skin colors and temperaments.
“Ma!” She always sounded angry and she always was. Her ebony face was covered in pimples unlike her
mother’s smooth camwood.
Joy Omaram had no time for a teenager’s mood swings. She was running late as was her habit. She
ignored the tone of voice.
“Push the bike for me.” She said as calmly as someone coming out of the sauna.
Eyo’s face became saturated with much more than acne. She did as she was asked halfheartedly. Down
the slope leading out of their yard she pushed, gathering momentum. Her mother kicked in the gear and
the bike started with a gust of smoke. Eyo walked away without as much as saying goodbye. Joy didn’t
give her much thought. She was concerned with what to say if ever she ran into Mammanda and her
market collectors. She was one of them. She was late. She was always late. She hadn’t been present
when Betty and Saburama left Mammanda’s stall last Saturday. When she arrived, Mammanda had
refused to talk to her for a whole of five minutes.
On Friday she hadn’t attended the meeting to which they had been summoned, because she had only
been informed on Thursday and had already scheduled for a political rally. To everyone else, she was
nothing but a haughty woman who would keep others waiting and intentionally come late so that
everyone can notice (and admire) her. They were right about it.
She was approaching the market via the dusty road that led out from her quarter. Someone was
standing by the roadside, waving for her to stop. As she approached she saw him clearly. It was Jude
Omaram, her husband’s kinsman and Joelyn’s son. He had a wheel barrow full of market commodities in
front of him.
“Aunty slow down,” he said, meaning that she should stop. She did.
“Ah-ah, Jude.”
“Aunty.” They were actually age mates. Jude had been in secondary school in the city when Joy got
married to his not much older kinsman. Jude was slight of frame and had little materially or
intellectually. He thought of those who had a bigger frame, bigger mind and bigger bank account as his
seniors, in so far as he hadn’t witnessed their birth or marriage.
“What is it?” Joy always treated him like a boy and he enjoyed his beautiful sister in-law treating him so.
He smiled.
“Nothing o.” He replied. Joy was getting ready to order him to push her bike. “I just said to warn you.
The road ahead has been blocked by women – my mother included – who are sitting in the dust. If you
go through here, they will retain you.”
“Ah-ah, what is going on?”
“They said the market boys insulted the women who went to collect market dues. I thought the
community has decided women should collect the dues, so why are these men insulting them?” He
asked Joy the very same question he had asked Joelyn.
“This is serious.” Joy was thinking only of herself.

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The Women

“Take the road behind the Comprehensive School.”

“It’s okay.” She made to kick her starter before she recalled herself. “Jude push my bike!”
“Is the bike disturbing Aunty?”
“Yes Jude. Push it.”
He did. She got started and took the alternate route he had suggested, giving him utmost delight even
though it was the route she’d have taken anyways if she had known what lay ahead.
As she rode along, she realized that an extra layer of makeup always helps. If she had hurried to the
market with her smooth flawless face in its natural state, she might have been a recipient of the insults.
Although it was doubtful any man in Ogbokiri would look her in the eyes and insult her, she was glad she
wasn’t there. She breathed comfortably at last. Let Mammanda eat her own shit!
Joy, nevertheless, did her purchases as quickly as she could. Then she sought out her 13 year old son at
her husband’s stall and entrusted him with both moped and merchandise.
“Take these things home. When I call you, come and pick me up. Eh-hen, take the motorcycle to the
mechanic, I don’t know what’s wrong with it.”
She shot her husband a look that said ‘give him money for the mechanic’ and added for her son’s
benefit: “Your father will give you money.”
Turning to her husband, a handsome man on whom time had not been as kind: “How do I look?
Beautiful?”
He made no response but to look into the religious magazine passing preachers had given him. He
pretended to be reading it.
“If you like don’t talk. Give Chamberlin money and don’t forget to buy some yam if you see any. I’m in a
haste. The women have staged a protest.”
“Where?” He looked up, interested.
“I’m going to join them” was all she said. She turned the magazine over. “Can I take it?”
He snatched it off the desk. “It is mine.”
“Everything is yours. Continue. One day you will claim this market.”
She kissed her son on the head. He drew away from her quickly. His brown skin concealed what would
have been a blush. He used to enjoy it until he turned 10 and realized he was the only one whose
mother kissed on the head in public.
Joy carried herself with grace. Not a few heads turned to look at her as she walked through the crowded
marketplace. She had the shape of an ant – all softness and nimble too. As she got close to the edge of
the vegetable market she heard the sound of the percussion drum – the feminine equivalent of the
masculine bell – the metal gong. While the latter – which was a cone-shaped bell (sometimes with two
bells joined at the apex by a curved metal handle) without a ball, beaten on the outside with a drumstick
– had a high pitched metal sound, the former – a smoothed cylindrical log hollowed out inside, and open
through one or two slits which were beaten to produce the sound – had a low pitched wooden tone.
The percussion drum was beating out a mournful tone in between long pauses. As she got closer to the
place where quite a crowd of women had gathered on the market’s edge, sitting in the dust at the spot

18
The Women

where the dirt road joined the tarred road, she realized that immediately the drum stops, the skilled
clapper Eguro Hart-Obriko would heave a loud, mournful sigh. Many of the women would shake their
heads sorrowfully. Lady Chukere would roll in the dust and not one or two will attempt to restrain her.
Joy knew, as anyone would have by the way they looked at her when she arrived on scene, that she had
been a subject of discussion. From their silence, it was clear that they said under their breaths ‘Here
comes (one of) the devil(s) of whom we were speaking.’
“My husband’s wives I greet you all!” She hailed. She was met mostly with cold stares. One or two
mumbled something or the other, some doubtlessly friendly. She should have contended herself with
those.
“I’m greeting o,” she repeated, less enthusiastic.
“Please sit in the dust!” Someone said harshly. It was Mammanda. She looked for a good place to do so.
A passing older man stopped at the sight of the women.
“Great mothers of our land, what is this?” He was outraged. His wife was there.
“Ask your brothers and their sons!” Mammanda replied. He knew it was serious. He stood by watching
in utter powerlessness, arms akimbo, barrel chest thrust out carelessly by a pulmonary disease. He knew
he’d have a late lunch – he had wasted seven decades of life without learning how to cook!
Later a wrinkled crone came toddling by. Earlier when she was coming to the market on a motorcycle
taxi, the cyclist had pointed out the mass of protesting women ahead of them.
“What is going on there?” She asked.
“Women are sitting by the roadside. It doesn’t look good.” He had responded.
She said nothing. She clutched her pre civil war purse.
“Should I slow down?” He had asked, which meant ‘should he stop?’
“Should you slow down? Did you say should you slow down? Are they the ones paying the fare? OK if
they are the ones paying you go on and slow down.”
She wasn’t going to take any chances. “Fire on bikun!” she ordered. And that he did.
He zapped past the huddled crowd of Protestants, coating them in an extra layer of dust and tan. She
clutched on to him with shivering hands, her feet thrown apart, a flying chaplet trailing her neck, a flying
heart threatening to fail. She had recited her final angelus. Yet she survived.
When eventually he set her down, she flexed her arched back and heard dry bones creak.
“You hear that? You hear?” She complained as she fished for change in her purse. “I said put small
firewood, you burnt a whole forest. Collect!”
Having bought her merchandize and sent them home by a younger wife, she decided to make her grand
entry. She startled quite a handful of the absent minded ones.
“Chei! Chei! Chei! Chei! Hmm! Ewóh! Ewóh mere! An abomination has happened! Women of Ogbokiri
are you thus brought low? Are you forced to sit in the dust? Do! Eww. Do o! Do o! Ali oke mu! Ali oke mu
leri o! Orisa! Orisa leri! Toh! Hmm.” The clapper was not in the mood to give her background music. She
sat in the dust.

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The Women

In a less dramatic manner, every mature wife who passed by joined the protest. Those who had
merchandise to sell simply set it in front of them and sold it. Buyers from other communities wanted to
know what the problem was.
“Hmm.” The women sneered at the problem by way of an answer. It wasn’t called a silent protest for
nothing.
Joy was getting bored of watching everyone repeating the same ritual of mourning and sitting in the
dust. She knew they were all pretending, that they all secretly wondered if Mammanda’s pride was
worth the scorch. Somebody would call her out about it one day, but today they would show solidarity.
They were all quiet. Very few Mumbled sounds could be heard. No one did any talking, not even the
famous songbirds. She was certain they had gossiped about her, amongst other things, before she
arrived. Why was everyone keeping mum? She looked around for a face, someone who seemed open to
a chat. She found another seeker, right in front of her. Colom was what people called her. She was as
ancient as her own peculiar creation myth.
There was a policy in the Sky that states thus: Thou shalt not waste {clay}. So someone’s leftover clay
was put to use by gods who were angry, crazy or both. Or they had been in a haste to attend Holy
Communion and so left the task to be finished by an apprentice daemon who had just been bullied. (A
better idea: said apprentice daemon was a spirit Picasso who decided to prove that abstract art is more
than abstraction – it can be real). The product was the little, flat faced wimp of a woman they call
Colom. (The clay definitely wasn’t of leftovers from persons like Joy, else she would have turned out
better looking.)
“Aunty,” Joy greeted her, “good morning. We haven’t said any greetings to each other.”
“With the sun shining so intensely, it is difficult to know whether ‘good morning’ would be appropriate.”
“Indeed this sun is too hot!”
“Couldn’t the protest be staged on another day?”
“Aunty they are the ones leading us. We have to follow them before they say we said.”
“Was it for no reason that this custom was stopped? How can you have adults sitting in the dust under
the hot sun? Whatever comes out of it eventually?”
Joy didn’t pursue that line of conversation with Colom. She was too astute to fall into a trap of words.
During Mrs. Barrow’s tenure, Colom’s type were planted to fish out dissenters who would be preyed
upon, hounded and quarried till they lost their minds in a whirlpool of paranoid delusions and said or did
something which would require a ‘cleansing of the earth’ to amend.
“What really happened?” She ventured into safe waters.
“The men were waiting for them. They had whips!”
“What? Did they flog anybody?”
Colom hesitated for a while, as if to test the depth of Joy’s curiosity, and then she swallowed a mouthful
of saliva. She spread out her palms, a gesture that should signify ignorance. With people like Colom
though one shouldn’t assume.
“No. They hadn’t gotten to that point before the unexpected happened. That which is greater than the
cricket entered into the cricket’s nest.”

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The Women

Mammanda had popped out. She dared the men repeat what they had said last week, which they had
not said. She swore at them, threatening fire and brimstone. They tried to pacify her but failed. Being
the kind of men who would beat a mad woman to death for stealing a loaf in the market, they got mad
and verbally assaulted Lady Chukere’s dignity. So she did what she had been meaning to do all along:
She sat in the dust. It was a sacrilege for a mother to sit in the dust in the marketplace, a place sacred to
Ali, the earth mother. Whoever she complained against would expect swift retribution. The young men,
being the superstitious kind, were gravely shaken. It took the appeal of everyone who mattered there
present to get Mammanda to stand up from the market square. Actually it was an old man who said
“How do you think your daughters would feel if they saw you sitting in the dust of the marketplace?”
that did the trick. She immediately got up.
Accompanied by a train of women sympathizers, she left the market square wailing and calling down evil
on the young men. She wouldn’t be persuaded to stop. Then she said something very terrible, the straw
that broke the camel’s back. Everyone would have abandoned her at that point, disassociating
themselves from her verbal atrocity. Then she sat in the dust again, declaring furtively: “Amo anyibo ke
nui gbe da kwu? Women will you keep quiet?”
She had gained their attentions anew. She played her role with perfect theatrics: “We must protest this!
We must protest!” Thumping in the dust as she spoke, perhaps to encourage other women to flop their
haunches in the dust.
“How long will men lead us to the forest to hunt elands, and turn upon us in the forest telling us ‘you
smell like an eland and leave cloven hoof prints on your trail’? Enough is enough! We won’t take this
anymore! Are we together in this? Women of Ogbokiri will you keep quiet? Anyibo buru amo, mothers
who bear children, will you keep quiet? Will the land be desecrated and her children too? Ali oke mu, my
husband-land, will you keep quiet?”
The outcry against the men was too severe to be neglected, lest men take it upon themselves to beat
their wives with wanton disregard for the consensus of women. Nothing would incur a greater fine, if
ever the protest got popular support, than one not having supported; one having deserted the field of
battle in the grand war for the emancipation of the sex! Every woman there present sat in the dust,
jostling with one another for the shady places under the gmelina trees.
Colom told the story (inaccurately of course, she wasn’t an eye witness), and finished with: “…and so
here we are.”
Joy had been entranced as much by the story with all its animated exaggerations (“…and she threw
herself into the sky and let herself fall plom on the ground!”) as she was by the story teller. She thought
of what beauty may lay underneath an unappealing exterior, the ‘pearl in a foul oyster’, the ‘treasure in
an earthen vessel’. Her facade prejudged her in people’s mind. She couldn’t even remember the
woman’s real name. She had never needed to address her by name given that people don’t refer to their
seniors by name. At least in most cases. She could refer to ‘Etuoyie Barrow’s wife’ or ‘Etou the butcher’s
wife’ if ‘Colom’ felt dehumanizing. But like everyone else, Joy simply referred to her behind her back as
Colom. She wondered if Colom knew and if she did, how she felt about it.
Etymologically Colom derives from the name of a fictional character who dwelt in a cave and cherished a
precious ring. The youngster who applied the name to her (actually to her husband, as in ‘G…’s
husband’) probably hadn’t enunciated properly. And so the name morphed into ‘Column’. The name
was instantly popular but that popularity was short lived. Reason killed it.

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The Women

‘Why is she called column?’ many reasoned ‘There is nothing column-like about her, even her gait is not
straight!’
Yet the name survived in a more derived form: Colom. Even older people refer to her by that name –
behind her back of course.
“Etou’s wife,” they would say, “the one people call Colom.” Because they were too conscious of
mispronouncing young people’s cryptic words, they would hastily add “Is it Colom or colon? I don’t even
know.”
And their companion, wanting to show off their understanding of the root, etymology and evolution of
the name would add: “I wonder who had thought she looked like a column. Must have been intended as
an irony.”

th

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