The low rumble of Abiola's car engine faded as he pulled into the driveway in his compound garage. He stepped out and opened his car's bonnet, as he was not satisfied with the sound the car was making.
The lingering scent of motor oil clung to his hands after checking under the hood for the recurring issue that had been bothering him all week. He returned to the car, took a rag from the task box. After wiping his palms on the rag, he closed the bonnet, locked the car, unaware that the real breakdown was waiting inside the house.
As soon as he opened the front door, the weight in the air hit him. His mother sat on the living room couch, regal and composed, her gele tied with near-military precision. She still dresses like those living in the eastern villages. Her dressing will always be her identity.
Beside her sat a beautiful young woman, demurely dressed in an Ankara short gown, her eyes lowered. At her feet were two large pieces of luggage, one of them an unmistakable Eco-Lac travel box.
Purple was at the dining table, phone in hand, but not using it. She looked up at him, and Abiola froze. Her eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, as if she had been crying for hours but had run out of tears. She said nothing, just stared. The silence between them screamed louder than words.
Abiola gently closed the door behind him, still trying to analyze the scene happening. He had spoken with his mother just yesterday night, and the latter never mentioned she was coming today, even in another company of another visitor. Before he could even take a step, his mother spoke, voice sharp and clear.
"Since your wife has refused to listen to simple advice and go see another doctor your friend suggested, I decided to help you solve the problem myself. This is Aisha. Her family is honourable, she's fertile, and she knows why she's here."
"Good afternoon, sir, welcome. Hope the day was not too stressful for you?" Aisha jumped in, ready to grab the man at every opportunity.
"Young lady, hold your courtesy greetings. If you know what respect means, you wouldn't have come to my house without informing me."
"Abiola!" the mother called, feeling attacked.
Abiola blinked, stunned. He looked from his mother to the young woman, then to Purple.
No one moved, time seemed to freeze, but he must face this unless his home is torn apart.
"Mummy…" he started, but the words caught in his throat.
His mother stood.
"Don't 'Mummy' me. I've warned you too many times, Abiola. You're my only son. I will not fold my arms and watch you waste your youth in silence while your wife stubbornly refuses to cooperate. This…"
She gestured toward the girl "…is not a sin. It's a solution."
"Fertile, is she a single mother, or how else are you sure that she is fertile?",
Abiola asked his mother, but just then, Purple breathed hard. She stood now, barely steady on her feet. Her voice, hoarse and controlled, cut through the air.
"So this is it. Because I'm not a baby factory, you bring in a replacement like I'm a failed appliance."
She turned to Abiola, eyes locked on his.
"Say something."
Abiola's hands trembled slightly. Clinton's words were voiced in his head:
"Your mother is your family, but Purple is your household."
He took a breath. And for the first time in his adult life, he raised his voice, not out of disrespect, but to draw a line.
"Mummy, this is not right."
His mother turned to him sharply. "Excuse me?"
"I said it's not right." His voice grew stronger. "This is my home. We talked for a long time yesterday, but you didn't even care to tell me about your overnight arrangement. You brought someone into my house like I'm some helpless boy. Do you even think about how my wife feels about this?. I'm just one year and some months into marriage, and you wouldn't let me have peace in my own home."
"You are my boy," she snapped.
"And if you won't be man enough to handle things, I will."
"I am man enough," he said, jaw clenched.
"Which is why I'm asking you, respectfully, to take this girl and leave. And please inform me or my wife when next you plan to visit."
The young woman, still seated, looked up, stunned. Purple looked at him like she didn't know whether to cry harder or fall into his arms. His mother stepped closer.
"Abiola…."
He raised a hand. "Please, Mum. I love you. I appreciate all you've done. But this… this is too much. Purple is my wife. And this marriage, our marriage, is not your battleground."
She stared at him in disbelief. This is strange; he has never been like that to her. What changed?
"This is how you talk to your mother?" she said, voice quivering with anger.
He softened a bit. "No, Mum. This is how I protect my marriage."
A long, cold silence followed. Finally, with a scoff and a bitter shake of her head, his mother grabbed her handbag.
"I have done my part. I hope you know what you're choosing."
She turned to the girl.
"Aisha, get your things. Let's go."
The young girl dragged her ecolac and both women stormed out, with the mother slamming the door behind her.
Finally, only Abiola and Purple remained in the living room. He turned to face her, unsure of what to say. Purple looked at him, and for the first time in days, he didn't look like a stranger. He looked like her husband.
"You stood up to her," she whispered and slammed into his arms weakly. For the first time in ages, she felt protected, as he rested on his shoulders.
He nodded, ashamed that it took this long.
"I should have done it earlier. I'm sorry. For everything."
She let out a long, tired breath, wiped her eyes, and slowly walked away
"I'm going to bed, schedule an appointment with the so-called doctor, and let me know the date," she said. "If you want to talk... You know where to find me."
He didn't follow immediately. He stood still in the silent living room, feeling like someone who had finally broken through a wall he never knew he was strong enough to climb.