The new baby, Muhammad, was straddled behind Nata’s back when Borogie entered the compound. The afternoon light fell gently over her daughter, who sat on a low stool shelling groundnuts, her rounded belly rising beneath her wrapper. Muhammad’s small head lolled against Nata’s shoulder, his soft breaths brushing her skin. The sight made Borogie smile — something about the way her daughter held the child, instinctively swaying her hips to soothe him, stirred pride in her chest.
“Today our vegetable yields were paid for by the Ghanim family,” Borogie began brightly as she stepped closer, setting down her basket of garden produce. “They say they want to sell abroad this year. I think this is a good omen. I’ll have enough stashed away for when you give birth to your own child.”
She paused, noticing the quick flicker of Nata’s expression — a twitch of uncertainty that passed across her face like a shadow.
“You will have your own baby soon, my dear,” Borogie continued, her voice softening. “And you will be alright.”
There was such conviction in her tone that it seemed to settle something in Nata. The stillbirth of her first child remained a wound buried deep in her heart, but her mother’s voice — steady and familiar — always found a way to make her believe in healing again.
Nata exhaled, a small, weary smile tugging at her lips. “Amin,” she murmured, rubbing her belly absentmindedly.
Borogie reached over to adjust the baby’s headcloth. “He’s a beautiful child,” she said with fondness. “He likes your back more than his own mother’s arms. Perhaps he feels your calm.”
Nata chuckled softly, though her eyes glistened. “Zainabou trusts me with him sometimes. Other times, she says he belongs to the stars.”
Borogie’s face clouded briefly, then she nodded. “Madness does that — it blurs love and fear until even joy looks strange.” She sat beside her daughter on the mat, the smell of warm earth clinging to her wrapper. “But God has his reasons, even in chaos.”
After a long pause, Nata asked, “How is Maama Mbentoung?”
Borogie sighed deeply. “Ah, that one… she is not herself these days.” She shook her head slowly. “Ousman Bah no longer looks at her with the same eyes. He avoids her company, speaks little, and when he does, his words are sharp.”
She smoothed her wrapper across her knees, thinking carefully before continuing.
“You know, Ousman has always been a man of family. A decent man. He used to say, ‘A house without laughter is a grave with walls.’ But now, when he enters his own house, the air grows heavy. Peace flees from him. He is tired, Nata — tired of fighting the one person he hoped would bring him rest.”
Nata frowned gently. “What happened between them, Mama?”
“It started small, like all storms do,” Borogie said. “Mbentoung’s heart is restless. She wants to be seen, to be admired. She craves attention, not just affection. And when she feels ignored, her tongue grows sharp. Instead of drawing Ousman near, her words push him away.”
Borogie sighed again, this time more slowly, her tone turning pensive. “It’s sad, my daughter. Mbentoung is not a wicked woman. She is wounded. She married a man much older than herself, thinking wisdom would bring her comfort. But wisdom can be cold when it has no warmth beside it. Ousman is patient, but he wants quiet. He values respect, not confrontation. And she — she wants conversation, laughter, and admiration.”
Nata listened, brow furrowed. “So now they quarrel?”
“More than quarrel,” Borogie said quietly. “They wound each other with silence. She complains to anyone who will listen that her husband no longer loves her. And he, in turn, says she has turned his house into a place of bitterness.”
She looked off toward the horizon, her face soft with sympathy rather than judgment. “It’s not malice between them, Nata. It’s misunderstanding. She sought power in a house built on patience. He sought peace in a marriage that demands attention. Now both feel cheated.”
Nata nodded thoughtfully, rocking little Muhammad gently as he began to stir. “Does she regret what she’s done?”
Borogie smiled faintly. “Pride doesn’t allow her to say it, but yes. I see it in her eyes. Regret is a quiet guest — it enters through the eyes before it reaches the tongue. She tried to turn people against Ousman, to make him look like a tyrant. But her words backfired. People see through anger. The more she spoke, the lonelier she became.”
Her voice softened with compassion. “She reminds me that we women sometimes mistake pride for strength. We burn our own bridges and then weep at the distance.”
Nata’s eyes glistened as she listened. “Will they make peace again?” she asked.
“I pray they do,” Borogie replied. “But wounds like this heal slowly. I told her yesterday, ‘Mbentoung, my sister, you cannot shout love back into being. You must whisper it, the way you once did.’ But she only turned away, saying Caw Ousman no longer deserves her patience. I felt her pain, yet I saw that she still loves him deeply.”
She fell silent for a moment, listening to the rustle of the trees outside the compound. Then she turned to Nata. “Remember this, my daughter: love is not always soft. It requires humility more than passion. And marriage… it can bruise the heart, but it also teaches endurance.”
Nata leaned her head slightly toward her mother, letting her words sink in. The quiet between them felt full, sacred.
Muhammad stirred again, pressing his face into Nata’s back before releasing a sudden wail that broke the quiet of the courtyard. His tiny fists flailed against the cloth, his cry rising in sharp, rhythmic bursts.
Almost at once, Zainabou appeared from across the yard, her wrapper hastily tied, her eyes bright with alarm and affection. “Ah, my baby!” she cried, hurrying forward. She greeted Borogie with a wide smile — warm, genuine, almost childlike — and then reached for her son.
“Thank you, Nata,” she said breathlessly as she lifted the baby from her back. “He always sleeps best with you, but when he wakes, he wants only me.” Her laughter was quick and full, spilling out like water from a calabash.
Nata chuckled softly, watching her. “He knows his mother,” she said simply.
With Muhammad now at her breast, Zainabou turned and began to walk back toward her house, humming under her breath. Her steps were light, her joy unguarded, and for a fleeting moment, the madness that often clouded her eyes seemed to lift.
Borogie watched her go, her heart swelling with quiet tenderness. In that small, ordinary exchange, she saw something sacred — the way her daughter Nata’s care had steadied Zainabou’s world, if only for a while. It filled her with a rush of love, deep and wordless. She was proud of both women, each broken in her own way yet bound by the same instinct to nurture.
Turning back to Nata, Borogie smiled softly. “You’ve given her back her joy, my daughter. She looks at you and remembers she is still a mother. And in doing that, you’ve found a piece of healing for yourself too.”
Nata lowered her gaze, a gentle smile curving her lips as she rested her hand over her belly. “Maybe that’s true, Mama,” she whispered.
And for a while, they sat in stillness — the young woman with her own mother, and the older woman carrying the quiet wisdom of years. The compound around them hummed with life: women pounding millet, children playing, goats bleating in the distance.
Somewhere, next door, Ousman Bah sat outside his house, staring into the fading sun. The light fell in thin ribbons across the yard, catching the dust that swirled lazily in the air. He leaned against the veranda post, his prayer beads dangling forgotten between his fingers, lips moving with no words, just the slow rhythm of regret.
He had once thought marriage to Mbentoung would bring him peace. She had been lively, intelligent, quick-witted — her laughter sharp but charming. He admired her youth, her energy, her way of lighting up a room when she entered. After years of solitude following his first wife’s death, her company had seemed like a promise of renewal. He had wanted someone to fill the silence in his house, someone to care for him in his aging years and perhaps, by God’s grace, give him a child to carry his name.
But peace had eluded him.
He was still childless. The house that once echoed with hope now pulsed with tension. The meals they shared were mechanical; the conversations, brittle. Every word between them seemed to arrive wounded, every silence, heavier than the last.
Sometimes, he wondered if he had been right to marry her at all.
She was beautiful still, but her beauty had turned defensive — like a blade too often sharpened. Her laughter, once sweet, now carried mockery. She accused him of favoritism, of stinginess, of neglect. And yet, he had tried — by God, he had tried — to be patient, to be understanding. But patience wears thin when met with constant bitterness.
Her divisive ways had worn him down in ways he did not know were possible. At first, he ignored the whispers she planted — small, subtle remarks about his supposed coldness, his lack of generosity. But over time, they reached his ears, curling through the compound like smoke. He saw how she sowed small mistrusts among family, how she spoke one way to Dado, another to Borogie, each time twisting truth into something unrecognizable.
He had confronted her once, his voice calm but firm.
“Why do you turn my peace into noise, Mbentoung?”
She had laughed bitterly. “Peace? You mean silence. You call it peace when you ignore me.”
He had no answer for that. Perhaps she was right.
Now, sitting in the afternoon stillness, the ache in his chest was not anger — It was sorrow. Sorrow for what might have been. Sorrow for the tenderness that never took root. He had prayed for a gentle wife, one who would ease the loneliness of his later years, but God had given him a restless one, a woman whose fire he admired but could not contain.
To be continued…
