The First Wife

by Paulina Chiziane

  The officer on duty strolled down the corridor, his shoulders high, like a well-trained policeman. We were desperately awaiting our interrogation that never came, while the sun was reaching its peak. I shouted to the young policeman:

  “Officer, come here. Why have I been arrested? Do you know who I am? If my husband finds out you’re keeping me prisoner here, there’ll be problems, officer. I’m a respectable woman, a married woman.”

  The policeman looked at me and laughed.

  “Married women don’t fight in the street.”

  “I’m a saint, ask anyone who knows me. I never harmed a fly.”

  “A rowdy saint.”

  The young policeman answered disdainfully and continued his rounds. When he passed by for a second time, I shouted angrily:

  “My husband’s your superior, and he’ll punish you, just you see.”

  “Is that so? Who is he, then?”

  “My husband is a chief of police and he gives all of you your orders. It’s Commander António Tomás. My name is Rosa Maria.”

  “What?”

  The invocation of his superior’s name left him perturbed. He gave me a long, suspicious stare from head to foot; prisoners always lie to try to escape justice.

  “And so what were you doing in the street?”

  “You must understand, my good young man. I got tired of being betrayed, humiliated, scorned. I got tired of going to bed alone. I got tired of being insulted by younger women.”

  “Is that so?”

  “They steal my man and keep him as if he belonged to them.”

  The young man scrutinized me and seemed to be pondering on something serious. Maybe he was thinking about his job, if I were indeed the person I said I was.

  “If your husband leaves you, then it must be that you are embittered and frigid. A man is a man, and has every right to go and seek what he can’t get at home.”

  “Ah, officer!”

  “And what are you doing here? A police chief with a wife like you?”

  “It happens. That’s life.”

  “I’m going to let you out and you can come and tell me your story while I check your identity. If you’re lying, you’ll pay double for making false declarations.”

  The policeman unlocked the cell door and pulled me out. I looked at my rival and felt remorse, given that I had caused the fight. I told the policeman: “This woman is with me.”

  “Who is she?”

  “My husband’s other woman.”

  I felt a huge resentment as I uttered these words, but I had to save her because I had caused this disaster after all.

  He looked at us both and laughed.

  “Now I understand everything!” He pulled Luísa out of the cell. “Get out of here immediately, but don’t go home yet.”

  He led us down a narrow corridor and stopped outside a door.

  “Now, stay in this room and come to a civilized agreement between yourselves, while I go and check your identity.”

  The room was cool, so much so that the metal chairs froze one’s backside. I sat down opposite my rival. There was an initial silence to placate our fury. Then a sigh. Another sigh. A word. Two words, and the dialogue began to resume timidly. There was a release of tension and she threw me a challenging look. I uttered the first words of reconciliation.

  “Forgive me for what happened. I didn’t mean to …”

  “You treated me like a thief, as if a man like that could be stolen.”

  Her voice was gentle, and she had a smile like the moon. Her hair was straight, like all black women of a certain social status. Her nails were painted tomato red. She wore a silk dress the color of saffron and crushed red pepper, the color worn by northern women. She must be a xingondo, one of those northern bumpkins. Her skin had the perfume of cashew or of the water berry. She moved her lips as sweetly as if she were giving a kiss. Her voice was like a flute on the breeze, the song of a skylark. Her gestures were smooth, like the movement of a cat. How beautiful she was, dear God, how graceful. A man, the weak sex in matters of the flesh, would lose himself when faced by such beauty. My Tony could never have resisted, that was for sure.

  “Tony’s my husband,” I told her, “get a man just for yourself, you’re a pretty woman. Leave my husband alone, because apart from the fact that he’s already got two women, he’s showing signs of being tired. He’s growing old, my Tony. I don’t want to attack you. I’m just trying to defend my home.”

  “He’s mine as well.”

  “Do you know what it means to be the mistress of a married man? It’s the same as making children in the other woman’s shadow. It’s not being socially acknowledged as a spouse. It’s about running the risk of being abandoned at a moment’s notice, being used, being exchanged. What future do you expect?”

  “And what about you, what present do you have? Fighting your rivals in the street, being locked up in a cell, was this the future you expected?”

  “But you’re not institutionally married, while I am. You’re the concubine and I’m the spouse. You’re secret and I’m acknowledged. I’ve got security, the right to inherit, and you don’t have a right to anything. I’ve got a marriage certificate and a wedding ring on my finger.”

  “But I’m the one who’s got all the pleasure, I receive all your husband’s love and his salary. I experience the joy of living. Do you consider that so unimportant?”

  Tension was threatening to rise again. With an iron resolution, I stopped myself, and didn’t respond. I felt as if I were swallowing poisoned communion wafers, needles, broken glass. I made every effort to keep calm. I examined her. A woman with no name. No shadow. No house, no husband, no job. But who had a lover who visited her whenever he could. Who didn’t care about being a parasite in someone else’s shadow, or about causing me emotional pain.

  “Didn’t you know he was married?”

  “Yes, I did. But he loves me. I love him. He visits me whenever he can. We have two children.”

  “What kind of home do you expect to make with a married man?”

  “I have no illusions. Whether a wife or a lover, a woman is a shirt that a man wears and then takes off. She’s a paper handkerchief that gets torn and can’t be mended. She’s a shoe that comes unstuck and ends up in the trash.”

  I was struck by this woman’s honesty. That she accepted being used and discarded like sugarcane trash. Who lived the moment of love as if it were eternal. Who spoke about bitterness with sweetness. She didn’t beat about the bush. I listened to her. The woman astonished me. Her frankness impressed me.

  “You were used and stripped bare. I’m on the crest of a wave, but I’m bound to become obsolete like so many other women. That’s why I live for the moment while the tide’s in my favor.”

  “There was no need to attack me physically when I visited your house, Luísa.”

  “It’s my unlucky week. Yesterday, Julieta, the second woman, was there and attacked me. When you arrived, I went on the attack. It was to defend myself. I couldn’t guess your intentions.”

  “I just wanted to get to know you.”

  “Why? What’s the point of knowing a rival? Apart from anything else, your man only visits me occasionally!”

  “I want to know who you are, where you’re from.”

  “I’m from far away, from Zambézia,” she told me. “I come from a region where young men emigrate and never come back. In my home village, there are only old people and children. I’ve got eight brothers, each one by a different father. My mother never managed to have a husband just for herself. I only ever heard about my father. From an early age, I learned that man is bread, the communion wafer, a fire surrounded by women who are dying of cold. In my village, polygamy is the same as sharing scarce resources, for leaving other women without any cover is a crime that not even God forgives.”

  This discourse is typical of the women of my region, where man is king, lord of life and of the world. A world in which woman is leather. The soft, well-dressed leat
her from the skin of a bull. A world where woman is the twin of a drum, for both unleash spiritual sounds when loosened up and beaten by vigorous, rustic hands.

  I took a deep breath to refresh my lungs and to calm the anguish I felt. I raised my eyes in search of the blue of the sky and they met the high ceiling, where a solitary, motionless light-bulb hung on the end of a flex. I blocked my ears, for my rival’s voice was rich and abundant, a fountain of bitter words. All of a sudden, she lost her calm demeanor. She put her weight on the accusatory lever and chastised me:

  “You southern women, you’re the ones who steal our menfolk.”

  I was thunderstruck and began to shake slightly. This woman was mad. I glared at her angrily, ready for a fight. I clenched my fists and prepared myself for war.

  “They left the villages and are concentrated here in the capital. There are also lots of foreigners here. Thousands of businessmen of all races go back and forth across our borders every day. It’s full of men here everywhere you go, men that are only for you southern women. That’s why when we northern woman catch a man, we don’t let him go, we make up for our loneliness and absence of love or tenderness. When we catch a southern man, we don’t let go of him, ever.”

  “If, as you say, there are so many men, why didn’t you get one all for yourself?”

  “Yes, there are lots of men, but there aren’t many with money.”

  The conversation flowed like a shooting star. We opened up our hearts and swept our hurt away. We exchanged hatefulness, anger, jealous feelings. For we were rivals, enemies. Two starving lionesses competing for the same prey. Two bitches gnawing the same bone. My anger passed and I managed to ask her:

  “Luísa, do you feel you’re Tony’s legitimate wife?”

  “As long as he provides me with support, yes. We northern women are practical. We don’t waste much time with bride prices, marriages, and other unnecessary confusion. It’s enough for a man to spend the night with me for him to be my husband. And when a relationship like this produces a child, a marriage is consolidated for good. As long as Tony gives me food and lodging, sustenance, then, yes, I’m a legitimate spouse.”

  “And when he stops supporting you?”

  “That’s another matter.”

  “Has he given you regular support?”

  “He’s been forgetful lately, because of that woman Saly.”

  “Who’s Saly?”

  “A highly strung Makonde woman who lives downtown.”

  “So what do you do when your support doesn’t come?”

  “I get by. I take on any jobs I can.”

  This woman excited me. She was provocative, she destroyed my sanity. She stole my husband and, to make matters worse, beat me, then insulted me and accused me of goodness knows what. My Tony’s from the south, he’s Shangaan through and through. He was acquainted with the north but only in military operations and never lived there for very long.

  Dear God, this woman was right in so many ways. God, who is father of the world, made many women and few men. He gave some greatness and others he humiliated. I entered this war and this cell for lack of a man. I was being shoved around by a rival because of a man. It’s all God’s fault, not Luísa’s. Once again, I tried to identify all the things she had and that I lacked. She had smooth skin while mine was wrinkled. She had abundant, uncrimped hair while mine was sparse and frizzy. Once again, I admired my rival. She had fire in every vein. She exuded strength with every breath she took. She had a shooting star in each thread of hair, my God, how resplendent she was. Her eyes were as gentle as moonlight, that mouth of hers must be as sweet as honey. Why was I showing her such sympathy, why, why, why?

  This woman’s face was familiar to me, very familiar. Where had I seen her before? In the street, at the market, on the bus? In this time dimension? In another? In this world or in some other incarnation? What was it that attracted me to her? The gentle look? The smile? The lines on her face?

  I thought about it so hard that in the end I discovered why. Many things about her reflected the image of what I had been and no longer was. She had all the charm I had lost. My sympathy for her stemmed from her appearance. This woman looked like me. Tony sought new love in an old body, and found my image in that of another woman. Maybe he had even gone back in search of his own self so as to live the illusion of perpetual youth, for men also grew old.

  The young policeman came back and released us. He declared in tones that chided us:

  “It’s shameful, two wives of such an important person descending to such a level. If this happens again, the person who will personally resolve it will be Commander António Tomás himself. So stop staining the image of such a dignified, illustrious man. Behave in keeping with that most worthy husband you managed to catch, ladies.”

  I embarked on a series of frantic searches. I wanted to know all about my Tony’s loves. I went and met Saly, the Makonde woman. She passed me on to Mauá. Mauá Salé, a charming young Makua girl.

  My Tony’s heart is a five-pointed constellation. It’s a pentagon. I, Rami, am the first lady, the queen mother. Then comes Julieta, the woman deceived, who occupies the position of second lady. She’s followed by Luísa, the woman desired, the third lady. Saly, the woman fancied, is fourth. Finally, Mauá Salé, the woman loved, the youngest and most recently acquired. Our home is a six-pointed polygon. It’s polygamous. It’s a loving hexagon.

  6

  I feel my body heavy, pummeled by so many defensive blows from my rivals, who felt their territory invaded. Everything hurts. I’ve got a swollen shoulder, I can’t move my arm or my neck. I applied a miracle balm to it, but it didn’t work. There’s nothing else for it but to see a doctor right away. I go to the hospital, and sit down on a bench to await my turn. From the end of the corridor an elderly couple appear. The husband is lying on a trolley pushed by the old woman, who advances with anxious steps. All the waiting patients step aside to allow the old people through. The two are placed by the door to the doctor’s surgery, right in front of me. In the figures of this aged couple, there are the signs of life’s cycle, as clear as water. Barefoot, thin, and in rags. Clay pots already broken into pieces. In their wrinkled skin, secret messages of a life that flourished only for time to consume. They have come seeking treatment in order to secure a life that is slipping away from the palms of their hands. The doctor receives them with a smile and asks them what the problem is. Wanting to help her companion, the wife tells him all that she knows. Suddenly, the old man raises himself from the trolley and growls angrily:

  “Keep quiet, woman. Since when have you been good enough to address a doctor? I never gave you permission to talk to any man. You’re behaving like a whore.”

  The old man’s words awaken hidden rage in the woman. All her bitterness surfaces like a hurricane, this woman’s suffering has been constant over time. She reacts and shouts at the doctor:

  “What a peevish old moaner! I’ve put up with him for my whole life. If he doesn’t want me to speak, then let him die!”

  The old woman abandons her companion stretched out on the trolley. She walks away. She rushes down the corridor as if answering the call of freedom. Her old husband shouts after her angrily, calling her back, but she doesn’t turn. He passes out. The doctor is left with the painful task of awakening that sleeping soul, without knowing the causes of his slumber.

  The scene fascinates, shocks, amazes me. The old man’s body falls like a rotten fruit, but his vanity soars into the air like a balloon on its way to the stars. He is merely burning straw on its final flame. Ah, male arrogance!

  7

  For days on end I try to listen to the voice of my conscience. I try to find a solution to my problem, which gets more complicated by the day. My emotional counseling has failed. The wars with my rivals have only brought health problems and annoyance. I decide to try magic, there’s no other alternative.

  I go looking for a dealer in fortunes. I tell him my problem in a nice low voice so that the wind ca
n’t hear my lamentations. He reaches his diagnosis and prescribes the cure. He makes promises. He says my life will know moments that are loftier than the clouds. That my husband will love me like no one else. He says it’s easier to secure and hold on to a husband than it is to fetch water from the fountain.

  “I can bottle your man for you if you wish. I have the power to transform the world into a huge bottle.”

  It seems this man doesn’t know much about the body’s limits. A human being lives on air and light. If he’s bottled, he’ll die of asphyxiation. This is one of those prophets who create myths that perturb the whole world. His virtue is to distract attention from the problems of the moment.

  “If the world is transformed into a huge bottle, I’ll be inside it too. He’ll go on betraying me, and it won’t solve anything.”

  “Yes, it will. You will hold the key.” And he continues: “I shall make you into a dragon with flaming wings that can fly aloft and set fire to its rivals. You will be powerful. Trust me and you’ll see.”

  “Is that true?”

  “I can give you more than you think. Many women who are now happy have passed through here, through my hands.”

  He gives me the recipe for love: Prepare Tony’s favorite soup, to which should be added enough cobwebs, two threads of my hair, three threads from his underpants, four drops of sweat from both me and him, two castor seeds, four white lizard feet, enough fat from a mole, mix it all up and serve it to him. The moment he drinks this, all my problems will be solved.