Second Class Citizen

by Buchi Emecheta

  Adah now looked at the woman with the cherished baby with new eyes. She never stopped talking, she never stopped laughing. Her laughter was as loud as that of a man She was rough, not as cultivated as the sleek, younger woman next to Adah. The sleek one in number eleven bed, though normally a very quiet girl, took it upon herself to talk to Adah all the time. It must have been very difficult for her, because she had not had her baby yet. It was a complicated case. She was weeks overdue, she told Adah. The surgeons and doctors did not know whether to operate or not. They were all still waiting, including her husband That husband of hers, tall, handsome, well dressed and well groomed, looked like the god Apollo. There must be something special about the man, because he came to see his wife at any time during the day. The nurses and doctors allowed him in. Even the surgeon that cut Adah up, who was another handsome dark man, white, but with that type of skin colouring white people usually have when they have stayed years and years in the sunshine, or that artificial tan which white women paint on themselves, to give them a healthy look. The surgeon’s hair was thick, black and straight, his nose and mouth heavy like those of a Negro, but he was English, or so they claimed. And he was a great man. A man who knew how to handle his knife, a man who took a particular interest in all the patients he had operated on. He kept coming to see how Adah was getting on, night and day, during the first four days after the operation, when Adah was half-way between this world and the next one.

  He, this surgeon that knew how to handle his knife well, did not do any preaching and sermonising to Adah, about why she should try to live and all that, but he kept telling his white-coated disciples that few patients had died from his knife. And not only that, the scar always healed nicely, without disfiguring the woman. Adah liked this surgeon and his confidence, even when, on some of those nights, it seemed to everybody, even to Adah herself, that she was going to be one of the few patients he lost. The man’s confidence never left him. So Adah started to believe with him that she was made for this world and not the next. Not yet anyway. The dark, handsome surgeon won. Adah lived, and became a living specimen in that ward.

  Nobody called her by her actual name. She was saddled with several, just like titles. Some of the titles she could not help having, some were not necessary, others were bestowed on her by that unique baby she had. To the other women in the ward, she was Caesar; to the strings of young doctors who kept trailing in the wake of the surgeon, she was “Cord presentation”, whatever that meant. To the night nurses, she was the mother of Mohammed Ali, because her baby was loud-mouthed, troublesome and refused to be tamed. He would sleep all through the afternoon. If all other babies were crying their heads off, Bubu would sleep through. Their cries never disturbed him. But as soon as it was night, and other babies in the nursery decided to sleep, then Bubu would wake, and wake in style, loud and demanding. Of course, all the other babies would be woken up by his cries. So in the day, Bubu was very popular, but at night, he was a terror. In the end, a special emergency nursery was fitted out at the end of the corridor for him alone, and Adah was free to go and see him there. Bubu was given VIP treatment, right there in the hospital.

  On the fourth day, they removed the tube that had sealed Adah’s mouth.

  Those four days were like four centuries to her. So she could now talk, but could not move about on the bed, and her back was sore. She did not mind that, for was not her mouth free at last?

  She started pumping the sleek woman in number eleven with questions. How did she come to marry a man as handsome as her husband? What did it feel like, marrying a man who was almost old enough to be your father? How did it feel to be loved and respected as she was, being showered with presents of flowers, funny dolls that made mad music, beautiful boxes tied with bright, beautiful ribbons and containing all sorts of things? One or two contained a funny jack-in-the-box. All different, doing different things, How did it feel to be treated with so much respect by the big, masculine-looking but rather motherly sister of the ward? In answer, the sleek woman simply smiled. She was used to being indulged, used to being spoiled, but she was a very simple person despite it all. She had been the big man’s secretary. His wife had died years ago, leaving him with the two sons Adah had seen. Yes, Adah had seen them, tall like their father but too thin for Adah’s liking. They needed to be fed more, Adah had thought. One was in a university, reading Law, the other was a partner in a certain firm, the sleek woman told Adah. Marrying their father was the greatest thing that had ever happened to her. She was an adopted daughter, she never knew who her real mother was or her father. She had tried, but failed, to find out whether her real parents were dead or alive. Her adoptive parents were good, she added quickly, too quickly for Adah, who could never guess how it could be possible for somebody else to love you as if you were their very own flesh and blood. They did love her, her adoptive parents, but she was determined to make a happy home for herself, where she would be loved, really loved, and where she would be free to love. She had been lucky. It seemed as if her dream was coming true.

  “It is not coming true; it is true. You are now almost like a princess,” Adah said, wanting to cry.

  Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the sleek woman’s film-star-like husband. Adah’s attention was also diverted by the big surgeon and his group of six disciples. Adah, for once, did not want to see all these people. Doctor or no doctor, surgeon or no surgeon, why could not the man test her alone, without all those men with hungry eyes, like vultures, looking on?

  They brought a flowered screen to give her a little privacy. She was sorry for this, because she liked to watch the way the sleek woman’s husband usually sat by her bedside, taking her hand gently, both of them laughing quietly, sometimes just sitting there, he stroking her forehead, saying nothing, just sitting there, like lovers in the cheap movie pictures Adah had seen at home. You read about things like that, you saw actresses and actors acting things like that on the screen for money. It never occurred to Adah that such things could be real.

  As soon as the big surgeon started to expose her to the view of those student doctors, or surgeons, or whatever title they were going to be called by when they qualified, Adah burst into tears. Why, what was the matter? asked the big man. They concluded that it was the after-baby blues. Adah would not stop. She did not want to stop because she might be tempted to babble the truth to them. She might be tempted to tell them that for once in her whole life she hated being what she was. Why was it she could never be loved as an individual, the way the sleek woman was being loved, for what she was and not just because she could work and hand over her money like a docile child? Why was it that she was not blessed with a husband like that woman who had had to wait for seventeen years for the arrival of her baby son? The whole world seemed so unequal, so unfair. Some people were created with all the good things ready-made for them, others were just created like mistakes. God’s mistakes.

  All Adah could see at that moment was the sleek girl being kissed and loved, and the woman who had had to wait for seventeen years walking round the ward proudly with her child. She did not think of what life was like for a little girl who was aware that she was adopted; that the little girl might sometimes wonder whether her parents ever wanted her? That the little girl could sometimes feel unwanted even by her adoptive parents. As for the woman with the baby son, Adah could not imagine the aches and pains that went with those seventeen years.

  She found it very difficult to control her tears even when she had stopped feeling antagonistic towards the big surgeon and his six disciples. They were waiting for her to stop. The Indian woman in the group looked as if she was being forced to eat shit. Her face looked ugly. She wanted to cry with Adah. Adah knew she was Indian because her sari was sweeping the ward floor under her white coat, and her long black hair was done up in a long single plait, dangling behind her back like the horse’s tail which African chiefs used to ward off flies in public.

  The surgeon made some sympathetic soun
ds, telling Adah not to worry. They would come again to talk to her. He whispered something to a nurse standing by. The disciples all smiled at Adah, sheepishly, the surgeon told her she was a good girl, for she was progressing very rapidly. They left her. None of them turned round to stare at her any more. They just disappeared very quickly, like a group of silent, dumb people, whose tongues had been taken from their mouths.

  The time for the visitors to rush into the wards had come. Adah was by the door. She could see anxious relatives clutching bunches of flowers and gifts, waiting impatiently for the big sister to say the word. These relatives were like children, waving anxiously at the mothers who, by then, had been tidied up by the brisk nurses. Most of the mothers had combed their hair, powdered their noses. They all had gay nightdresses on, they looked happy and expectant. Adah was happy for them, not because she was part of the picture, but because she was a good watcher. The only table that was bare in the whole ward was hers. She had no flowers, she had no cards. They had no friends, and Francis did not think flowers were necessary. Adah did not ask him why he did not buy her flowers, maybe he had not noticed that the other women had flowers. She did not blame him for this, because in Lagos few people bought flowers for new mothers. She would point it out, though, so that he would learn for the future. Maybe he would even buy her flowers for tomorrow, she thought. That would be a miracle though. Why was it that men took such a long time to change, to adapt, to reconcile themselves to new situations?

  The woman in number eight was Greek, large and voluble. She had told Adah that she lived in Camden Town, that she had a little girl at home. The girl was the same age as Adah’s Titi. But the woman was gorgeous. She had about ten housecoats all with beautiful frills and edgings. She was a seamstress, she said. She sewed for Marks and Spencer’s, so she had a great many substandard clothes which the firm allowed her to keep. That evening, she was wearing a large nylon nightdress, with a satin bow in the front, tucked in nicely between her large breasts. She had let her hair down and it was held in place with the remnant of the satin material. She looked like a blue flower, sitting there, large, decorative, smiling and waving at her husband, who was still outside.

  Adah started to worry about her nightdress. The nurses had kindly changed her into a cleaner one, but it was a hospital nightdress. They were like men’s shirts, red-striped, with long shapeless sleeves and collars. The background of the material was pink, but the stripes stood out, just like red veins. Adah did not so much mind wearing the shirt-like nightdress, with the blood-coloured stripes. What she minded most was that she was the only woman wearing one. All the others had their own nightdresses. She was going to tell Francis about it. She would ask him to buy her one from Marks and Spencer’s. Her special nightdress that was coming from Marks and Spencer’s would be blue too, like the Greek woman’s. But she would tell Francis she did not want so many frills and tucks. They would make her look like an over-decorated Christmas tree and she would not like that. All she wanted was plain, straight blue nylon or terylene, or anything, as long as it was soft, transparent and blue. She thought a bit about its transparency, and decided that Francis would not like that. He would accuse her of showing off to those doctors with the curious eyes and cynical smiles. No, she would not ask Francis to buy a transparent one, she would ask him to buy a double one that had something like a petticoat sewn inside. Those were very beautiful, because the petticoats were usually edged with lovely lace. Yes, that was the one she was going to tell Francis to buy her. She would not mind if he bought only one, because in a day or two she was sure she would get better and could sneak into the bathroom to wash her nightdress so that it would be nice and clean for the next day. But wouldn’t Francis moan about the cost of the blue nightdress with the lacy petticoat? Wouldn’t he accuse her of envying her neighbours, of wanting to keep up with the Joneses next door? What answer was she going to give?

  She thought and thought again. Why, Francis had never given her a present. After all she had given him this Mohammed Ali of a son. After all, the son was going to carry his name, not hers, even though she was to carry the ugly Caesarean scars all her life. And what of the pain she was still going through? Yes, she deserved a present from Francis. She did not mind if he bought it with her money, but she was going to show it round the ward, and say to her sleek neighbour, “Look, my husband bought me a double nightdress, with a lacy petticoat, just what I was dreaming about.” She was going to do that. Well, she was learning. When in Rome, do as Rome does. When in University College Hospital in Gower Street, do as they do in University College Hospital in Gower Street. Neat, that is.

  The gong sounded. The visitors rushed in, laughing, clutching more flowers, more parcels, more presents. Adah was just getting ready to watch as usual, because Francis seldom came early, because of the children. That was all right with her because Francis did not kiss in public; he could hardly ask her how she was feeling, because to him Adah was always his and no illness, no god could take Adah from him, so why bother to ask how she was feeling, when he was sure she would get better anyway? So they usually had nothing to talk about. Adah could only ask and worry about Titi and Vicky. Vicky’s face was beginning to accuse her. She told herself that it was a sure sign that she was getting better. A few days before, she was not even aware she had Titi or Vicky. She was not aware of anything, anything at all. So, Francis was not coming early and she was going to watch the crowd of happy relatives spoiling their women.

  A nurse rushed in after the relatives She was coming to Adah, with an uncertain smile on her face. It was a smile of embarrassment She was behaving like somebody who has been entrusted with a nasty job. But she had to do this job nevertheless. She came to Adah, one hand holding her white cap, which looked as if it was falling off, and she was smiling this uncertain smile. She was talking to Adah, but her eyes were watching the visitors.

  She said, her voice low and husky: “Mrs Obi, you must tell your husband, when he comes, to bring you your nightdress because, you see, you are not really meant to wear the hospital gown after your baby has been born. You only wear them in the labour-room. But we thought that maybe you did not know.” She smiled again and then disappeared.

  Adah noticed that she was the youngest of all the nurses. Why is it that the ugliest jobs are usually given to the young? Part of their training? Couldn’t the ward sister have made a better job of telling her that she was not allowed to wear hospital dress in an open ward? Not to worry, it all came down to the same thing. Francis must buy her a nightdress. But being told to do so in the way the young nurse did took the glamour off it. Now, it was imperative, it was a duty, an order which had to be obeyed. It would not be a present any more.

  This left a hollow in her sore stomach.

  She was now sure people were talking about her. Look at that nigger woman with no flowers, no cards, no visitors, except her husband who usually comes five minutes before the closing time, looking as if he hates it all. Look at her, she doesn’t have a nightdress of her own. Is she from Holloway, from a prison? Only patients from prison wear hospital dresses in the ward. Adah was sure that the granny talking and gesticulating wildly around the bed of her granddaughter was talking about her not having a nightdress. She was sure the short stocky Greek man in a black coat, sitting rather uncomfortably in the straight-backed hospital chair was talking about her. All the conversation buzzing, buzzing around her, was about her. The buzzing went on and on, and would never stop. She could even hear her name being mentioned, especially by the Greek man. She did not want to hear any more. She did not want to think any more. She did not want to see any more. She closed her eyes, she dived into the sheets, covering herself up. The world would not see her now, the world would not know whether she had a hospital dress or her own dress. Had she not covered herself up, just like a dead person?

  If the sleek woman, who was being talked to by her husband’s two handsome sons, had noticed that Adah was doing something funny, she did not think it important enoug
h to embarrass her visitors with it. If one or two visiting relatives had thought to themselves that it was odd, her diving in among the sheets like that, they would have shrugged their shoulders and said to themselves, one never can tell with these blacks, they sometimes behave as if they have their minds in their arses.

  Adah was grateful to them all for not asking her what she was up to. She wanted some privacy, and the only one available at the time was under the sheets.

  She told Francis she was not asleep, because on arrival his first question was about why she was lying there like that, covering her head up. Then he smiled, he had good news for her. Had he not told her over and over again that she was a wife in a million? Was that not why he was trying to keep her away from their prying neighbours and friends, because if they knew how helpful she was they might grow jealous? He was very lucky to have her.

  Adah wondered what the good news was that was making Francis look so pleased with himself. Had he got himself a big job or something? No, Francis was not the type of man who would go and look for a job unless pushed to it. He was the type of person who believed the world owed him so much that he need not put anything back. Nothing, not even an earthquake, could change that crystallised core in Francis. That was the only good news that could make Adah happy in her present emotional state. Coming to have her baby in this hospital had opened her eyes a good deal. Why, many English men took home their wives’ nightdresses to wash them. She was determined to try it all on Francis. She was going to ask him to buy the nightdresses, not one any more, but two or even three, and she was going to ask him to wash them when they were soiled, after all, the soiling would be due to the losses she was going through because of the son she had had for him. The son that would bear his name like a banner. But first the good news, then the argument later.