The Makings of a Wife

When I grow up, I think I’d quite like to be a wife. Or at least buy one.

I mean a real one. Well, a real African/Nigerian one I suppose. You know, the kind who wears a Bou- Bou and likes to pound things.

I say this because right now, in many ways, that is very far away from whom I actually am. For starters, I despise the Bou-Bou. It’s very unflattering; who ever came up with the idea of a loose, shapeless female garment should be flogged in my opinion. No matter how hard one tries to dress it up, it always gives off a distinctly unfinished vibe, like “oh I just threw this on while I think about what my next outfit should look like”. All the busy patterns and embroidery you see on some of them , put there I suppose by the designer in a bid to make them look more fancy; only serves to make the wearer look like an enormous wall painting. Then there are the ones that come complete with their matching scarves, to finish off the horrible look. Sorry o, but until drab, unbecoming chic becomes the new in thing, I think I’ll pass, thank you very much.

Then of course, there is the constant need to appear, well for lack of a better term, like an African version of "Susie Homemaker". Your in laws are showing up for the weekend? Why your house must be scrubbed top to bottom and your freezer filled to the brim with all kinds of food items from that market on the other side of town. The one where you have to spend two hours in traffic both ways to get there and back; yes that one. This must be done in order to avoid embarrassing one’s spouse by not allowing the relatives to ‘carry gist’ back to Mama and Papa about their lazy, over indulged daughter-in-law who refused to feed them properly.

I’d quite like to do this as well; if only I didn’t loathe going to the market. It’s an inherited condition. Honest. I used to be quite ashamed of the fact growing up, I kept mute about it for the most part, trudging along with my mother from as early as the age of nine, while silently detesting every second of it. It was my own dirty little secret. Then, when I was about eighteen an amazing thing happened, I discovered that I wasn’t alone. It turns out; I have two aunts who are exactly the same way. One hasn’t been to a market in over a decade, the other makes well planned out in advance monthly trips, buying copious amounts of foodstuffs so she doesn’t have to endure the misery for at least another month. Apparently, I take after them in this manner, so before you judge me do realize that it’s not my fault. You see, it’s hereditary. I’d also like to state here for the record that both of them have families (husbands and children) who are extremely well fed and suffer no obvious symptoms of malnourishment. Somehow they make it work. I was curious as to how exactly they did that and proceeded to ask the second one how she coped with only monthly trips.

“Well”, she said “after buying in bulk a lot of what I need, I send someone from time to time to help me get top ups of fresh meat and veggies, things like that to add to what I have at home”. Sounds brilliant to me, but did her husband have any issues with it? She shrugged “Oh he whines about it from time to time, growing up, he had one of those mothers who cooked a fresh pot of soup everyday”. She rolled her eyes “Whenever he says to me, ‘I really hate that you avoid going there at all costs’, I always say, well, if there’s only one thing you hate about me I think I can live with that, cause all I ever hear day in and out is how much you love me’ She grinned. They have been happily married for over ten years.


Then, there is the birthing of babies. It is excruciating. I know this because my cousins, friends, aunts, colleagues, well wishers and enemies alike have told me so. Also, I have watched ‘Birth Stories’ on Zone Reality a few times, and it was some of the most traumatic minutes of my DSTV viewership experience. The only thing more horrific I have ever witnessed on the said cable service provider was the Nollywood movie ‘Beyonce and Rihanna’, terrible stuff.

Anyways, in addition to the joys of labor, a true Nigerian wife also has to worry about birthing the right kind of children. Let us kid ourselves not; sexism is alive and living life to the fullest in this corner of the world. Woe betide, the woman who finds herself without the much sought after male heir (I have always disliked that phrase). Everyone, the educated and uneducated alike begin to pretend like they never studied O level biology. That by the way would be a totally lie, we all know Biology is the third mandatory course (after English and Mathematics) that any O Level exam writer in Nigeria has to sit for in their SSCE examinations. They ignore the stories our teachers told us about the X’s and Y’s and The Wife finds herself having to deal with some serious side-eye anytime she walks into a room full of the dreaded relatives. Oh for a time when a little child will be judged not by the colour of their sippy cup (pink or blue?) but by the content of their character…..

I personally know of families made up entirely of daughters who totally run their world. They build houses for their folks, send them on luxury vacations and fuss over their every need. I’m just saying. A boy, a girl who cares, as long as you have a child who loves you and makes you proud right? I digress.

One way I think I’ll be able to score some points though in being a good Nigerian wife is by being the hostess with the most-ess. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt from my Mum it’s how to host a good get together. She will be absolutely shocked if she heard me say this because she really does think that I am quite hopeless when it comes to things like that. What she doesn’t know is that I have actually learnt a lot from watching her through the years. So, I suspect that mine will be the house where The Husbands’ friends will gather to watch a game of football while I entertain them with my pointless commentary. That has to count for something at least?

So, with these few points, I hope I have been able to convince you and not confuse you that er……I’ve completely forgotten the point of this post.

I think I’ll just end it by celebrating Nigerian women, wives and mothers (both the traditional and the untraditional alike). You guys rock, just as much as the men, husbands and fathers do.

Cheers

* I would strongly advise that no one take me too seriously as I am really just mouthing off on my personal opinions. Apologies to anyone who adores the Bou-Bou

**Please ignore the title of this post, I do realise that it is horrible, but I was too lazy to think up something smarter.