Later that evening, the house was quieter. Purple lay curled up on the sofa, flipping through channels with the remote, though her eyes weren't really on the screen.
Her body had swollen up and she is feeling pains from the broom deliverance flog earlier. Abiola was in the kitchen, boiling water. The earlier event still lingered between them, like smoke that hadn't quite cleared.
Abiola came with a small bucket of warm water in one hand and a folded lion-skin-textured towel in the other. His steps were careful, deliberate, like he was approaching something fragile. And in a way, he was.
He sat beside his wife on the sofa, where she had been curled up since. Her skin, especially around her shoulders and back, showed welts where the prophetess had beaten her with a broom, all in the name of deliverance.
Without a word, Abiola dipped the towel into the warm water, squeezed it out gently, and pressed it softly against her back. The heat offered some relief, but every time he touched a sore spot, Purple winced and let out a quiet cry.
He paused, his chest tightening with guilt.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice almost cracking.
"I didn't know she would take it that far."
Purple said nothing. She bit her lip, staring blankly at the smart television. He dipped the towel again, raised it, squeezed it out, and pressed another spot.
Again, she cried out softly. Each cry stabbed at him. It wasn't just physical pain; it was betrayal from him to her. He knew that his mum was coming that morning as she had informed him on the phone, but he didn't know she was coming with a prophetess.
"I should have done something," he murmured.
Purple finally looked up. Her voice was low but steady.
"Can I ask you something?"
Abiola nodded without hesitation.
"Of course."
She turned toward him, her eyes searching.
"Why does your mum push so hard for a grandchild? I mean... I get it. But sometimes it feels like there's more behind it. It's not just casual interest. It's pressure. Constant pressure."
Abiola paused for a while and then exhaled slowly, still holding the towel in his hand.
He looked down, staring into the bucket of warm water for a moment before answering. Placing the towel gently on the bucket's edge, he replied,
"She's scared," he said finally. "She doesn't show it in the right way, but… she's scared."
"Scared of what?" Purple asked, folding her arms carefully across her sore body. Purple turned slightly toward him, listening.
"I'm her only son, you're aware of that," Abiola continued.
"The only son she had after years of trying to bear sons after giving birth to three girls. My dad passed away when I was just a teenager, and since then, she's lived with this quiet fear that our family name would end with me."
Purple's lips parted slightly, surprised. "She never mentioned that."
"She won't," Abiola said.
"She covers it up with control and constant calls, and reminders about children. But behind all that is a woman who's lost a lot… and doesn't want to lose what's left."
Purple sat back, her heart softening a little. She had always seen Abiola's mother as overbearing, even intrusive, but now, she saw the cracks beneath the stern exterior.
"But what about me?" Purple whispered.
"Does she care about what this pressure is doing to me? Or is her legacy more important than my mental health? My dignity?" She paused, looking at her husband, and went on, she said gently. "I'm not a machine, Abiola. I'm not here just to give her an heir."
Abiola looked at her, eyes heavy with emotion.
"I don't think she understands how far she's crossed the line. I let her talk. I let her act. I thought staying quiet would keep the peace. But today... I saw what that silence has cost you."
A tear slid down Purple's cheek.
"She brought a stranger into our home. Called me a witch. Had that woman beat me. And you stood there. You prayed with them."
"I panicked," he confessed. "I was torn. I wanted to scream, to stop it, but I was weak. I failed you, Purple. I know I did. And I hate myself for that."
Purple turned her head away, trying not to cry again.
He reached out, gently turning her face back to his.
"I can't undo today," he said softly, "but I promise, I will never let it happen again. I'll talk to my mother. I'll draw the line."
"She won't listen."
He reached for the towel again, dipped it in the warm water, and continued gently tending to her bruises, each press with a quiet apology.