I WANT TO BE A BAD WOMAN

If you come into Mother’s room right now, you will perceive the choking smell of something burnt and my brother’s sporadic sobs lingering in the air. But Mother does not notice these things; instead, she burrows in a pile of unwashed clothes on the bed, crying. Her pain envelops me like a dark cloud. I see the bleeding lacerations in her injured soul from the helplessness corner I’m narrating this tale. Her tears bear witness to the existence of the woman I refuse to become.

I have been struggling with her silence since my return, trying to shed more light on the obscurity in which she lives. I want my mother to live in the paradise of her rights and freedom. But, today, her cry reminds me of the reason her limitations must never be mine.  It reminds me of why I need to break away from the cycle that has served her all these years, the monotony that has defined her entire life. Mother is a good woman. Be it as it may, I am convinced she is exactly who I don’t want to become. 

I once saw the woman I would become if I remained my mother’s daughter. It was a Saturday and I had followed Mother to the market. We were at the pepper stall, Mother and I, waiting to collect our change when I saw a middle-aged woman making her way out of a rickety bus which looked like it would break down the next instant. What drew my attention to this woman was the way she gyrated to the beats of a silent drum. She had a baby strapped to her sweaty back. As the baby's wails rose, the woman’s dance steps became more frantic, more desperate, in her attempt to soothe the screaming infant. One of her bra straps hung loosely on her shoulder. Underneath her wrapper, the lace trimmings of her underwear peeped out. She looked dishevelled. Her two hands were occupied: one held two heavy shopping bags, while the other struggled to hold a restless boy whose mouth was the destination of everything his hands touched. My eyes followed her until she crossed the road. Then my eyes fell back on Mother. Her face glowed with admiration for the woman whom I feared would break down just as the bus she alighted from. Mother sighed as she said, “There is no day of rest in the world of a good woman.” I nodded to Mother's words even as I wondered if I wanted to be a good woman under the circumstance. But Mother always knows best so I believed her and swallowed the words of protest that had begun to sit heavily on my heart. Until I met Sheri’s mother who thrust me out of the obscurity my mother wants me to occupy.

                                                           **

I had never been away from home, so when Sheri, my friend, suggested I spent my holiday with her family in Lagos, I was not surprised that Mother said a resounding “no!” However, her decision was not binding. Who was she to set the rules in our home? Her role did not extend outside her domestic responsibilities. I have always known Father is the judge. He alone wields the power in our home so I simply took my case to him. It happened that when the judge, my father, said I could go to Lagos to spend two months with my friend, that rule was binding, even though my mother did not approve of it.  Mother never had the nerves to persuade him. Who was she to persuade Father?  Father's style of leadership met with Mother's acceptance, even though I could see it was never whole-heartedly. Mother is a good woman; she only listens and never objects.

I felt awkward the first week I spent in Sheri’s house. I had only spent two days there to realise why Mother called Sheri’s mother a bad woman. She did not speak in a tired voice that floated around the house like Mother's. I saw her husband, Sheri’s father, assist her in the kitchen while their melodious laughter assailed me in the living room. She wore smart clothes and tight skirts. She never objected when Sheri wore trousers. Unlike Mother and I, Sheri’s mother was far from “the know-it-all teacher” and Sheri her attentive pupil. They worked like a team. And then, on my third day there, Sheri’s mother argued with her husband. It was a really loud argument that had Sheri and I scampering to the living room where their voices were locked in a fierce combat. 

“What is going on here?” Sheri screamed. Her courage in questioning her parents hit me. When Sheri speaks to her parents, she makes eye contact and doesn’t maintain a soft voice like Mother expects a good daughter to.

“Thank God you are here,” her mother began, turning away from her husband to face Sheri. “Your father and I can't seem to agree on who is better between Lionel Messi and Christiano Ronaldo. I said Ronaldo is better, but your father said my judgement is biased since I am not an avid football fan. Must everyone endorse Messi because he is your father’s football hero? Can you imagine? All Messi ever does is dance around the ball, pulls defenders behind him like dust and bam! He scores.” 

Sheri turned to her father. She raised her eyebrows as she said, “Daddy, Ronaldo is obviously better.” When her father tried to object, she quickly cut him short. The man simply gave up, smiling. “Sweet Dad,” she cleared her throat, drew closer to the smiling man and said in a calmness I supposed melted his liberal heart, “I know you’re knowledgeable in these things, but Mummy and I are entitled to our own opinion. Besides, who says only men can analyse football matches better? Dad, you owe me a cup of ice cream, and you owe mum whatever husbands give their disgruntled wives.” I was stunned. They were arguing! Over football! I thought of Mother then and felt sorry it could never happen in our house. I began to think of how nice it would be if I could one day engage in a cheeky argument with Father or Mother, or both at once. Seeing as it was definitely going to happen in a different world, different place and entirely different parents, I instinctively knew I had to kill the urge. Because I didn’t have the patience for all the changes of a lifetime to happen before I had my dream reality, I had to choose my battle carefully. I knew the day would come and it would be nothing pleasant. Until then, I would be a goner if I ever dared to express my opinion to my parents in that manner.

It was a long argument, as Sheri and her mother struggled to stifle her father's opinion. Sheri’s father would not give up; neither would he put both women down. I watched them in admiration. I had never seen Mother argue with Father. Mother listens while Father talks. I was lost in my own thoughts until Sheri poked me on my back, then I realised her father was waiting to hear my own opinion about their argument. 

“Who do you think is better, Messi or Ronaldo?” he asked. I was tongue-tied. Slowly, I told him I don't watch football. He asked if my father loves watching football. I said yes. 

“What of your mother?” her mother asked. To that question, I shook my head, wondering if I should tell her that Mother never watches TV. That she is a good woman who has no time to sit idle in front of a TV.

It was Sheri’s mother who first told me that a woman is never responsible for her rape.

“What if she encourages it by wearing skimpy clothes?” I blurted out, remembering the many days Mother had chastised me for putting on micro skirts. “That skirt is too tight, too revealing. Yesterday, I heard about how a girl was raped by some men. I am sure her skirt encouraged them. Why would she not be raped wearing such skimpy clothes? Didn't she know that men cannot control their sexual urge? They are moved by what they see. Why tempt men? Any lady who gets raped is entirely to blame!”  

 

That day, I hurried into my room to replace the knee-length skirt with a long one. Sweeping the floor as I walked, mother’s idea of a good skirt swallowed my toes. Mother gave me an approving nod, with a satisfied smile, when she saw what I had changed into. Her smile assured me that I was safe from the sexual predators lurking the streets.

 “Who taught you that rubbish, eh?” Sheri’s mother’s voice jerked me out of my reverie. I should have said my mother, but my mouth would not form the words.  “A woman can be wrapped round like an Egyptian mummy and still get raped. Rapists know no boundaries. Therefore, I consider it foolish to ask a woman if she was modestly dressed after she was raped. Should innocent babies and children also account for their rape? Nothing justifies rape,” Sheri's mother made her point.

“In Nigeria,” she went on, “when a woman is raped, she bears the blame. Why? This is unfair to rape victims. The rapist walks away free and is never prosecuted. That’s because society, assumes that women are merely sexual objects to satisfy men’s perverted pleasures.” 

“You know, most mothers encourage the rampant cases of rape by encouraging a culture of silence,” Sheri’s mother said while telling us a sad and true story about a rape victim, a twelve-year-old girl whose mother would rather accept money as compensation from the rapist rather than expose him. She said it was her reason for joining a non-governmental organisation that provides essential support for the movement against sexual violence. “It is unfair to expect our girls to keep silent every time. They are raped, then verbally and physically abused. And are afterwards taken through all sorts of dehumanising experiences. In the long run, they keep quiet because they have been taught to do so. It isn’t right!”

 

Her narrative reminded me of an unfortunate incident with Uncle Femi. Mother had asked me to apologise to him after he called me a bow-legged girl and I talked back at him. “Please, Adetutu, watch your tongue.  Yara gboro, rora fesi.  A good woman is always attentive when she is being instructed and very courteous when she is given the permission to talk. Men don’t like it when we talk back at them,” Mother said. I remembered apologising on my knees to Uncle Femi. According to her, it was a sign of respect to the same man whose scornful eyes would not leave my legs. When he left, she began a lengthy explanation for insisting that I knelt before the lanky man with a set of buck teeth. “If you don’t learn to be apologetic, you will not last in your marriage and I don’t pray for that to happen to you. My friend, Ireti, was thrown out of her husband's house because she refused to say, ‘I am sorry’ to the man who paid her bride price. Her own husband o. How is 'I am sorry' too difficult to say to a man whether you are at fault or not? If only she was raised up the proper way, she would have known that a good woman does not disagree with her husband even when he is wrong. She is only allowed to listen and obey his orders."

I was always switching memories to compare my home and Sheri’s throughout my stay in Lagos. When I came out of my reverie, Sheri’s mother was still talking. “It is a pity I don’t want to practise law again. If not, I would have committed my legal duty into seeking justice for rape victims, especially those who do not have the means to seek justice. I would have loved for Sheri to be a lawyer like me. She is smart and articulate, but she wants to be an architect. I think she would make a better lawyer than an architect."

“And I am at liberty to choose my own career," Sheri countered, smiling. “No matter what you say, I know I will make a good architect.”

“I know you will not keep quiet,” Sheri's mother winked at her daughter before she burst out laughing. “Sheri, you can be who you want to be. It is your life.”

Sheri tugged at my twitching fingers to have a part of my flickering attention, “Growing up, my mother was my role model. I thought I was going to be a lawyer like Mum, until I met a vibrant architect. She is a beautiful and strong woman in her early thirties. She designed one of the most beautiful buildings in Lagos. I watched her interview on BBC and ever since, she has become my role model ...” Looking at Sheri, I wondered why I never made career plans. I guessed I never thought of that because I was expected to be nothing but a good woman like my mother.

“Who is your role model?” Sheri’s mother asked. I had not figured out the right words before she added, “What do you want to be?”

I hesitated. “I don’t know yet,” I managed to say.

“You are fifteen, you ought to know," Sheri pointed out.

“What does your mother do?" Her mother interjected.

“My mother?” I replied, stalling for time. “She takes care of the family.”

“That is not bad.” She paused for a brief moment. “I know a few women like your mum. Marriage and children have a funny way of changing women’s priorities. My mother was like your mum too. She did not like it when I opted out of studying education to study law at the university.” She paused. “Nevertheless, you should start thinking about your career. You are not too young. What does your father do?”

“He is an engineer.”

“Okay. Maybe, your father could be your role model. Watch him closely, his job might interest you.”

Sheri’s mother didn’t tell me I had to keenly pay attention to my character because I was moving nearer to marriageable age. She didn’t say I had to be a good woman to stay married. Rather, she told me I had to seek self-development always. 

Prayer was the one thing both Mother and Sheri’s mum agreed on. But even at that, there were differences. “Cultivate the habit of praying. As a woman, you need it. When things don’t go well in your home, you bear the entire blame. It is your duty to ensure that things go on smoothly for your husband. A good woman must not sleep all night long, instead she prays,” my mother would say if I was slow to say a resounding amen to her prayers or dared to fall asleep during one of her lengthy morning exhortations. She would launch into a long tirade against my perceived lukewarm attitude.

“Your husband’s business must succeed and your children must be well brought up. It is your sole responsibility to ensure that the home front is secure. A woman’s prayer never ends. She prays until her knees are sore and she only stops when she closes her eyes for eternal rest. You must acquire the habit of praying." The instructions never stopped flowing. But Sheri’s mother told me my shoulders were not so broad that I had to take on sole responsibility for my future family’s circumstances. I watched her pray with her family, but she didn’t hold frequent vigils while her husband snored into the night. She prayed alone, her husband prayed alone, and there were days when the family prayed together.

                                                                   

                                                        **

The day I returned home from Lagos, I was quick to notice the silence in our house as against the laughter that always rang out in Sheri’s house as arguments rose and fell. I tried to break the silence. I feared that it was only a matter of days before my spirits became dampened. My parents would not acknowledge my opinions. Mother frowned at my watching football with Father. On the other hand, Father was quick to query my curiosity about the details of his job.

                                                             **

Today’s events started with an argument about my career path. Mother does not support my decision to study law at the university.

“Lawyers argue a lot. You don’t want to develop the ugly attitude of arguing with your husband. Adetutu, a woman who argues with her husband should not expect her marriage to last,” she says.

“That is not true,” I snap. My response startles Mother, “It is not bad for a woman to disagree with her husband. It’s one of the reasons they are married in the first place…”

“Who taught you that rubbish?” Her eyes have become bloodshot with rage. “Who taught you that rubbish?” she repeats, becoming livid.

"Mother, the silence in our house is ghostly. It is abnormal that we don’t talk. Sheri’s mother argues with her husband. Even Sheri disagrees with her parents ...”

“Sheri’s mother must be a very bad woman," she starts.

“She is not a bad woman.”

My words land like a bombshell, startling my mother. She remains speechless for a brief moment before she yells, “Dake enu e! Keep your mouth shut! Is this what you learnt from Lagos, eh?”  Her face is distraught, revealing a secret she has tried so much to hide. "What has my only daughter turned into? I didn’t want you to go to Lagos.”

"Why did you keep quiet when Father said I could go? All you needed to do was to disagree with him and explain the reason for your objection."

Mother moves closer.  Before I can tell her intention, I feel the impact of her hard palm against my right cheek. “If you continue to listen to Sheri’s mother, you will become a bad woman.”

“I want to be a bad woman!”

Mother unknots her scarf with renewed vigour. Her clumped hair lay in disarray.  She moves around aimlessly, muttering, “Jesus! Help me. I reject every spirit of rebellion in you." Her fingers tear through her hair. "If you continue at this rate, I doubt if you would last a year in your husband's house. That is, if you see any man who would even agree to marry you." She wanders into the bedroom, where my brother is fast asleep. Her words flow in fast torrents. It is her loud voice that wakes my brother.

In a quick flash, Mother dashes into the kitchen when she finally perceives the burnt smell coming from that direction. I follow her lead. By the time I get to the kitchen, she has lifted the pot from the cooker. In apprehension, she looks at the wall clock in the living room. She opens the window to let out the smoke from the badly burnt dinner, but the air conveys the shrill sound of my father’s car horn. I search her countenance. She cowers inside. I feel pity for the woman she has become over the years. Our silence interprets each other’s thoughts. One person’s thought filled with hope; the other’s filled with despair. She tries to put up a brave front as she heads towards the door but returns again in aimless wander. The look of resignation told it all.

I find my voice. “Mother, please, tell Father that it got burnt because we got carried away in an important mother-daughter discussion.” She gives me a glazed look devoid of emotions. It stirs my emotions. It is a look that tells her story. It bore with it all her years of trying to be a good woman.

The back door opens and slams with a loud thud. The sound of Father’s shoes against the tiled floor becomes audible. One can see on Mother’s face that Father is near. She slumps to the ground and folds into herself against the kitchen wall. Her hands are raised above her head in a defensive stance because she knows what is coming. I see her cringe as Father’s voice fills the kitchen.

“What is this burnt smell?”