DIARY OF A TYPICAL NAIJA HOUSEWIFE. VOL. 2

DESPITE THE FORTRESS.

It is Christmas Eve and I am wrapping presents for my family. My youngest maid, a ten-year old, is sitting at my feet giving me the materials I need. As my children have always been away, schooling abroad, I crave the company of children so I ensure that I have at least one very young maid. This one is particularly lovable so I am fond of her. As we work she regales me with tales of her adventures at her village. Some are so hilarious that I have to stop what I am doing to laugh very hard. The cooks are making dinner and I catch a whiff of Efo riro. It appears that I am hungry for my tummy rumbles in anticipation. My husband, a senator, is always away as well. As a result I am quite used to being alone with my thoughts. When not deep in thought I am reading. I have travelled the world through books and discovered that I prefer that to physical visits. I dismiss my maid with the leftover materials for we have finished our task.

My son had called me a few days ago to inform me that he wouldn’t be coming home for christmas. Despite my disappointment, I managed to keep my voice bright and cheerful. My son, my first born, is unlike most boys, I like to think. He is sensitive, caring and very protective of his mother. I sigh, thinking my son’s excuse for his absence might be because of his father’s numerous tabloid escapades, both real and fabricated, the latest of which, is barely three weeks old in the papers. My daughter, not one to ever miss an opportunity to be with me, will be arriving soon. She always comes home bearing gifts and lots of stories. I am almost delirious at the thought of staying awake all night with her. She turned twenty last month and I am eager to give her a treasured charm bracelet, handed down through the generations, from mother to daughter in our family on the recipient’s twentieth birthday.

The steward comes in to announce dinner and I instruct him to keep it warm thinking I would eat when my daughter arrives. On second thought I would be unable to eat at the sight of her. My babies have always schooled far away, so I cherish every moment we get to spend together. I get up and move to the dining room where I say a prayer and start eating. I have barely begun eating when my phone rings. I am surprised to hear my husband’s gruff voice. “Are you at home,” he asks. I reply yes. “I’ll be with you soon”, he says and he rings off. My heart starts to pound because I sense that all is not well. My husband is usually very steady in speech. I can’t quell this sudden feeling that something is amiss. Hopefully it is my mind playing tricks on me. But he had informed me previously that he would not be home for Christmas because he had to attend an important meeting. I lose interest in the food before me as I anticipate his arrival with trepidation. My daughter cannot be in trouble, she couldn’t have arrived yet. I leave the dining table and move to my favorite sofa in one of the living rooms.
Since the government increased the price of fuel a few months ago, things have gone from bad to abominable. The country has witnessed inflation like never before and the people are angry. So incensed are they that violent clashes over food are commonplace. I wouldn’t have noticed anything, as my maids and cooks do all the household shopping, but when the maids returned home from the market with only fresh fish and vegetables, I knew there was a huge problem. What they had bought was just a quarter of the usual supplies we had been buying monthly. I thought they were trying to cheat me. Being raised by very prudent parents, I believe that budgets are to be strictly adhered to. As such, I visited the mall to make inquiries and I was shocked at what I found. Things had indeed gone harsh in our country. I felt ashamed to be a part of this government, though indirectly. As I couldn’t figure out what the masses must be going through because I knew I was insulated by all the wealth at my disposal, I chose to watch local television for some days just out of curiosity. I was almost in tears as I saw the suffering of my fellow men depicted in a documentary. Transportation problems, starvation, rise in criminal activity, gaping inadequacies in law enforcement, deaths resulting from inability to purchase once-cheap drugs, ritual killings, communal clashes over anything concerning money and kidnapping were but few of the problems plaguing the country. When last my husband was home, I discussed them with him and he said the broadcasts were exaggerated. I concluded that he was either insensitive, or deluded. He left me with bodyguards and bullet proof cars, explaining that government officials were the prime targets of criminal attacks these days. I resent being around hefty, wicked looking men but I recall that just a few weeks ago, a governor’s house was invaded by bandits and his son, who was visiting, was shot. That thought brings me back with a start. “My daughter”, I whisper. I mumble some prayers and try to be at peace.

My husband walks into the living room in the company of his men, startling me. He looks furious. When he registers the alarm on my face he tries to adjust his expression. He drops into a chair and searches my face as if trying to read my expression. I assume coming home when he had told me he would be away is a security measure so I calm myself. He seems to be trying to speak but I can’t hear him properly. He tells me to pull myself together and he says “our daughter has been kidnapped.” The gravity of those words hit me like a hard slap. I faint.
I am floating on a cloud carrying a beautiful baby girl who I recognize as my daughter. I kiss and cuddle her but she won’t be comforted. I dance and sing to her but she won’t stop crying. I try to breastfeed her and I start hearing sounds. My husband’s voice: “Please don’t compound my problems woman”, he is saying. I come to and everything is a haze. All the faces in my line of sight look worried and I am disoriented for some seconds before I remember and grab my husband’s clothes. “Where is my daughter”, I shout. I start shaking and I won’t stop. I can’t cry and can’t think. I am so scared! I’ve heard horror stories of kidnappings. Kidnappers are brutal I’ve been told, they rape and maim despite the fact that they often get away with the ransom. Why hasn’t the government done something about security? Why do we have to live in fear? Wait a minute! I turn to my husband and ask how this happened. He explains that she was taken at the airport. His men only sensed trouble after waiting for about an hour for her to appear. While making inquires, it was discovered that she had arrived earlier than expected and a car that looked exactly like the one he usually sends to pick her up had been waiting for her. Why she went with them is still a mystery. He further explains that it appears she was picked up without a struggle. The police had also started an investigation and no one at the airport had noticed anything fishy during the time she disappeared. He says the kidnappers have contacted him and allowed him to speak with her. They have also demanded a ransom. I retort that he should pay them. In all my pain, I imagine who they are, these kidnappers. What if she is being raped? I beat my chest and start wailing. My husband tries to assure me that everything is being done to find her and apprehend the kidnappers. He says the kidnappers haven’t given further instructions and that his team was trying to beat the ransom down. His phone rings and a man I’ve never met comes into the room and is hovering around him. My husband picks it up and I listen in a haze as he haggles with whoever is on the line . The words that register are ‘ransom’ and ‘pick up point’. I ask who the intruder is and I am told he is heading the investigation. I wonder why he isn’t with a team of experts like in the detective series on TV. He has no gadgets that could be used to trace the call, no men in uniform waiting to get into their squad cars and race after the criminals. I am agitated and extremely aggrieved and I refuse to be mollified. My husband pleads with me again and leaves with that ill-equipped head of investigation. I run to my room and throw myself on the floor. I feel like running into the streets and calling my baby’s name until I hear her sweet voice answer me. But even if I went from house to house, she could be anywhere. I have never felt such a deep and agonizing pain before in my life. I am so helpless. There is nothing I can do but hope and pray. I look at the bracelet on my dressing table and wonder if I will ever get to give it to my baby. At this, a fresh torrent of tears begins. How can they be so cruel? This ache I feel won’t go away. I kneel and try to pray but words elude me. Trembling, I remain in that position and pray that God hears my heart’s whispers. After what seems like an eternity, my husband comes into my room, kneels beside me and puts his arms around me. I can’t draw comfort from him. But I don’t push him away.