The Way We Welcome Wives

The scent of tiger nuts and dried fish hung thick in Uncle Emeka's compound, mixing with the October heat that made Catherine's cotton dress cling to her back. She pressed her palm against the rough concrete wall, steadying herself as another wave of that familiar vertigo washed over her—the sensation that had plagued her for months now, as if the ground beneath her feet existed at a slightly different angle than everyone else's.

The symptoms had started small. Car keys disappearing from where she'd placed them, only to reappear in impossible locations—inside the refrigerator, tucked between bathroom towels. When she'd mentioned it to Kachi, Adaeze had laughed that crystalline laugh. "Pregnancy brain never fully goes away, does it? Even years later." But Catherine hadn't been pregnant in three years, and the certainty in Adaeze's voice had made her question her own memory.

Then came the invitations. Family gatherings mentioned casually to Kachi, with Adaeze's apologetic follow-up: "Oh, I thought someone told Catherine. We assumed she wouldn't be interested—you know how these traditional things can be overwhelming for her." Each time, Catherine had swallowed the exclusion, convinced herself she'd misunderstood, that cultural differences explained the oversight.

Last month, the gaslighting had intensified. Catherine's favorite necklace—the one Kachi had given her for their fifth anniversary—vanished from her jewelry box. When she'd asked about it during Sunday dinner, Cousin Adanna had looked genuinely confused. "But Catherine, didn't you say you lost that months ago? You told us someone probably stole it from the market." The entire table had nodded in agreement, their faces reflecting such sincere concern that Catherine had begun doubting her own sanity.

She'd never said any such thing. But twelve people remembered her saying it.

Mama Nkem's mahogany casket sat beneath the mango tree where Catherine had first met Kachi's great-grandmother five years ago. The old woman had looked her up and down that day with eyes like polished obsidian, then said something in rapid Igbo that made the other women laugh—a sound like breaking glass that Catherine had learned to recognize as rarely friendly.

But later that evening, when the compound had emptied and Catherine sat alone shelling groundnuts while Kachi spoke business with his uncles, Mama Nkem had approached quietly. In perfect, unaccented English, she'd said: "They think they're protecting the family from you. But sometimes protection becomes something else entirely." Then she'd touched Catherine's hand—the briefest contact—and walked away.

Catherine had replayed that moment countless times, especially recently when reality felt negotiable. Mama Nkem had been watching, evaluating, perhaps waiting for something Catherine couldn't yet name.

"You're sweating again," Adaeze observed, appearing beside her with that particular smile she reserved for Catherine's discomfort. Kachi's younger sister wore a George wrapper in deep purple, the gold thread catching afternoon light as she moved with the fluid confidence of someone who belonged exactly where they stood. "The heat affects you differently, doesn't it?"

Catherine touched her forehead reflexively. The sweating had started three months ago, along with the vertigo and a persistent feeling that conversations stopped when she entered rooms—not obviously, but like the momentary pause of music between radio stations. Her body was keeping score of psychological warfare her mind was still learning to recognize.

"I'm fine," she said, though fine felt like a foreign concept these days.

"Of course you are." Adaeze's tone carried that particular warmth that somehow felt colder than outright hostility. "You're still adjusting. This is just the way we welcome wives into the family—it takes time to understand our ways." The phrase rolled off her tongue with practiced ease, as if explaining a cherished tradition rather than systematic cruelty.

The word 'foreign' landed with practiced precision. Catherine had been born in Manchester, but lived in Lagos longer than some family members had been alive. Yet foreign remained tattooed on her forehead, invisible but permanent as ritual scarification.

Four-year-old Kelechi tugged at Catherine's dress, his light brown skin flushed from running between mourners. "Mama, why is everyone speaking the words I don't know?"

Catherine's chest tightened. Her children—all four of them—carried her complexion more than Kachi's, a genetic lottery that made family gatherings feel like evidence of some crime she couldn't name. She'd tried teaching them Igbo, but the language felt clumsy in her mouth, each mispronunciation another small failure recorded in the ledger of her inadequacies.

"They're sharing memories of Great-grandmother," she whispered, lifting Kelechi onto her hip though he was getting too heavy. His weight grounded her against the persistent sensation of floating just slightly above solid ground.

Across the compound, Kachi stood with his cousins near the palm wine gourds, his nervous laughter punctuating their conversation. He'd inherited his father's complexion—what family euphemistically called "café au lait"—but his British university accent and European wife pushed him into a racial no-man's land that seemed to exhaust him more each year.

"Catherine." Aunt Ngozi approached carrying a tray of chin chin, the fried pastries dusted with powdered sugar. Her smile seemed genuine, but Catherine had learned to distrust her own judgment about family expressions. "Come, help us arrange the food for the celebration."

The celebration. Catherine still struggled with Igbo funeral traditions that treated death as a homecoming rather than an ending. Food became abundant, stories multiplied, and everyone spoke of the deceased as if they'd simply moved to a neighboring village rather than into earth.

In the kitchen extension, women moved with choreographed efficiency around gas burners and wide aluminum pots. The familiar isolation settled over Catherine as conversations flowed seamlessly between English and Igbo, each language switch creating small islands of exclusion. She understood more Igbo than they realized, but pretended ignorance to avoid the accusation of eavesdropping.

"...onye ocha na-eche na o maara ihe niile..." The white woman thinks she knows everything. Cousin Adanna's voice, barely audible above the sizzling palm oil.

"...o nwere ike ịnọ na-akwa akwa n'ọha..." She might finally cry in public. Adaeze's response, followed by laughter that felt sharp as broken bottles.

Catherine's hands trembled as she peeled plantains. They were discussing her breakdown as if it were inevitable entertainment, the culmination of months of careful orchestration. The vertigo intensified—not from heat or stress, but from the sudden clarity that her deteriorating mental state hadn't been accidental.

They'd been hunting her sanity like game.

"The lawyer is here," someone announced.

Mr. Okafor stood in the main compound adjusting wire-rimmed glasses, his briefcase catching attention like a magnet draws iron filings. Family members materialized from various conversations, arranging themselves with the instinctive hierarchy Catherine had never quite mastered.

She found herself at a plastic table with distant in-laws and family friends—the overflow seating that somehow always became her designated space. Kachi sat with his father and uncles, close enough to reach if she stretched, but the distance felt oceanic.

Uncle Emeka called for attention, his voice carrying the authority of eldest surviving son. "Before we share memories of Mama Nkem, we honor her final wishes."

Mr. Okafor cleared his throat. "Mrs. Nkem made several amendments to her will in recent months. She was very specific about her intentions."

Catherine watched Adaeze straighten slightly, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. The younger woman had spent considerable time with Mama Nkem during her final illness, sitting bedside during the long Lagos afternoons when the old woman drifted between sleep and fevered reminiscence.

But Catherine remembered something else—Mama Nkem's lucid moments had been sharper than anyone realized. Three weeks before her death, she'd called Catherine to her bedside and spoken in that same perfect English: "They think weakness can be created. But sometimes it reveals something stronger underneath." Her obsidian eyes had held Catherine's gaze with uncomfortable intensity. "The question is whether you'll let them finish their game, or whether you'll change the rules."

"To my granddaughter Adaeze," Mr. Okafor read, "I leave my gold jewelry and ten percent of my estate, recognizing her attention during my final months."

Murmurs of approval. Adaeze accepted congratulations with practiced grace, but her attention remained fixed on the lawyer with the intensity of someone expecting more significant recognition.

The reading continued through various bequests—property divisions, business interests, educational funds for great-grandchildren. Standard arrangements that left the bulk of the estate unmentioned. Catherine found herself calculating Kachi's likely inheritance, wondering if financial security might ease some of the pressure that seemed to age him in fast-forward.

"Now," Mr. Okafor said, his tone shifting, "we reach Mrs. Nkem's most significant provision, added just three months before her death."

The compound stilled. Catherine's heart began hammering against her ribs, each beat echoing in her ears like thunder.

"Mrs. Nkem left specific instructions. She wrote: 'I have observed my family carefully, watching who demonstrates strength and who merely performs it. I have seen cruelty disguised as protection, and I have seen dignity maintained under impossible circumstances.'"

Catherine's breath caught. Those words—dignity under impossible circumstances—felt like recognition of something she'd never been able to name.

"'To Catherine Okafor, wife of my grandson Kachi, I leave forty percent of my estate, including the family compound and controlling shares in my late husband's business ventures.'"

The words seemed to rearrange themselves in Catherine's mind like puzzle pieces falling into incomprehensible patterns. Forty percent. The compound. Business shares. Her name spoken in connection with wealth that represented generations of family accumulation.

Around her, shocked gasps erupted like small explosions. Someone's cup shattered against concrete. A child began crying. Catherine felt as if she were viewing the scene through thick glass, all sound muffled and distorted except for her own thundering pulse.

"However," Mr. Okafor continued, raising his voice above the commotion, "this inheritance comes with one specific condition. Mrs. Catherine must publicly acknowledge her worth and refuse to accept treatment that diminishes her dignity. Only when she demonstrates the courage to stop being afraid—her exact words—will she inherit what she has already earned through her endurance."

Stop being afraid. The phrase unlocked something that had been sealed tight in her chest for months. Mama Nkem had been waiting—not for Catherine to break, but for her to break free.

Catherine stood slowly, her chair scraping against concrete. Every conversation stopped. Every face turned toward her with expressions ranging from curiosity to barely concealed panic.

Across the compound, she could see Kachi's face transforming as understanding finally penetrated his willful blindness. His mouth had fallen open slightly, his eyes darting between his sister and his wife as if seeing a familiar landscape rearrange itself into alien geometry.

For a moment, Catherine simply stood there, feeling the weight of collective attention like physical pressure. Then her racing heartbeat steadied. Her breathing deepened. The chronic vertigo that had plagued her for months simply... stopped.

"You know what?" Her voice carried clearly across the compound, surprising her with its steadiness. "I quit."

The silence deepened like water filling a well.

"I quit pretending your gaslighting is my imagination. I quit accepting that my jewelry disappears and reappears like magic. I quit believing I said things I never said, lost things I never lost, forgot things I'll never forget." Catherine's voice strengthened with each declaration, five years of swallowed words finally finding release. "I quit pretending that systematic psychological warfare is just 'the way we welcome wives' into this family."

She turned toward Adaeze, whose confident smile had frozen into something resembling a death mask.

"I quit pretending I don't understand Igbo when you discuss my inevitable breakdown as dinner entertainment. I quit acting surprised when invitations somehow evaporate before reaching me. I quit explaining away the systematic campaign to make me question reality itself."

Catherine's body felt different—lighter, more solid, as if gravity had finally remembered how to work properly. The persistent fog that had clouded her thinking for months cleared completely.

"You see, Mama Nkem understood something I'm just learning. Strength isn't about tradition or bloodlines or the accident of birth geography. It's about standing up when standing costs everything you thought you wanted."

Her gaze swept the compound, landing on faces that suddenly couldn't maintain eye contact.

"I quit apologizing for loving Kachi. I quit teaching my children to minimize themselves for others' comfort. I quit pretending that psychological warfare becomes acceptable when it flows from family."

She paused, letting silence amplify her next words.

"And I accept Mama Nkem's inheritance—not because I need her money, but because she recognized what some of you never could. That worth isn't something others grant you. It's something you claim."

Catherine walked toward the compound entrance, her movement creating ripples of shocked whispers. Behind her, she could hear Kachi's voice cracking as he spoke to his sister: "Jesus Christ, Adaeze. What have you been doing to my wife?"

The question hung in the air like smoke from burning bridges.

At the gate, Catherine turned back once. Adaeze sat frozen at her table, surrounded by family members whose expressions ranged from horror to what might have been admiration. The psychological campaign that had taken months to orchestrate had crumbled in minutes, demolished by its own victim's refusal to remain victimized.

Mama Nkem, with her obsidian eyes and strategic mind, had orchestrated the perfect reversal. She'd used the family's own cruelty as the catalyst for Catherine's transformation, turning systematic psychological pressure into the very courage her inheritance clause required.

As Catherine walked toward their car, the afternoon sun felt different on her skin—warmer, more welcoming. The chronic vertigo had vanished completely, replaced by a bone-deep certainty that the ground beneath her feet was exactly where it should be.

She'd quit accepting their version of her worth. Now she could finally discover what she was actually worth on her own terms.