Beneath The Broth

IMAGE IS AI GENERATED

I remember the first time I met my husband, I was in school, and he didn’t have much. We became friends, and he told me stories of how his parents looked down on him and refused to continue his education because they said he was useless and wouldn’t amount to anything. He was a bike man then.

He never liked going home. The first day I went to his home with him, his parents, brother, and sister welcomed me with open arms, treating me like a precious egg. They were so nice that I began questioning all the stories he had told me. I thought, maybe he was ashamed or something. But later, I confirmed that everything he said was true when I overheard his mom and sister talking.

I couldn’t believe my ears. They talked about how it was unbelievable that he ended up with me, and at one point, his mother called him a "rat." After hearing that conversation, I couldn’t remain the same around his family anymore. I always felt uncomfortable, forcing a smile to conceal my true feelings. It was hard to shake the thought that if they could feel that way towards their son, then who was I?

After that, I stopped pressing him to visit his home or even ask about them.

Promise managed to save up from his motorcycle hustle and opened a rice business. The business started blossoming, and he kept expanding and exploring different areas. It was like magic. When we went to places like eateries we used to visit before, people were shocked when they saw the flashy car we drove in.

We got married, and after some time, his family, who once detested him, started visiting frequently. His senior sister and brother treated him with respect, almost like he was their senior. His mom, though, was the most frequent visitor, coming almost twice a week. I didn’t have a problem with her visiting, but the issue was that she always cooked and brought food for us.

I talked to Promise about it, asking why she had to bring food from her house when I could cook, but he told me to overlook it because he didn’t want any problems with her.

When my mom came to visit for the first time, she noticed it too. I remember when I first told her, she said, "Maybe it’s the way you cook, and he doesn’t want to tell you." But I explained that he only ate it once and threw the rest away, then went back to eating my food.

After my mom saw it for herself, she said it was probably because Promise was the last born and now the breadwinner of the family.

One thing I noticed was that Promise started going home frequently and unnecessarily. Anytime he fell sick, he would tell me he was going to the village to see his mom.

“There’s no hospital there. Why would you go when the distance from here to the hospital is so short?” I scolded him.

But he always brushed it off, saying, “I don’t like medicine; they’re not healthy. I prefer our natural African remedies,” because his dad was a herbalist.

When I gave birth to my daughter, Promise didn’t change. Instead, he made me and the baby follow him to the village.

One day, while he was on the phone with his mom, I overheard him say that we were coming to the village again that weekend. I got angry and immediately responded, “We went last week Thursday, and now you’re talking about going this Saturday again?”

He didn’t answer me; he just shot me an angry stare.

“Go if you want to, but Rouna and I are not going anywhere with you. I can’t be traveling with my baby, who’s not even a month old, just to get mosquito bites,” I said loudly.

I heard his mom over the phone say, “If she doesn’t want to come, let her stay.” After the call, Promise didn’t speak to me, but I could tell how angry he was by the way he squeezed his face and slammed the door when he left.

Two days passed, and Promise hadn’t called to check on us. He wasn’t picking up my calls either.

On the third day, I went to an evening program at church with a friend and prayed with genuine tears. As we were about to leave, a woman called us back.

“Hello,” she said with a bright smile.

“Good evening, ma,” I replied.

“Can I have a word with you?” she asked, pulling me to a corner of the church while my friend went to the car to wait.

“I was praying when the Lord showed me something,” she said, clearing her throat. “Your husband’s will is being influenced. The soup his mother brings for him is like a soul food she uses to influence him. You need to pray and be strong.”

It finally dawned on me that my suspicions were true. She always brought a particular kind of soup—palm oil soup—just for Promise, not for anyone else.

After my conversation with the woman, tears flowed from my eyes. I still can’t describe what I felt that night.

After that, whenever his mom brought the soup, I would buy the same soup and pour hers away. Gradually, Promise stopped going to the village. To my surprise, one day he complained to his mom when she said she wanted to stay for two weeks, telling her she visited too much and should give us space. And that’s how my peril ended for that period.