ARÍRE (We Have Seen Goodness)

Your Manhood Doesn't Make You A Man

ARÍRE ARÍRE ARÍRE...!

The day wore on into the afternoon, and the familiar, dreaded sound of Aunty Chika’s voice reached my ears before she even entered the house. She barged in with the air of someone who owned the place, her sharp eyes immediately zeroing in on me.

"Aríre!" she snapped, her tone dripping with disdain. "Look at you, sitting there uselessly as always."

I bit my lip, bracing myself for the onslaught. Aunty Chika had never approved of my marriage to Ikenna, and she never missed an opportunity to remind me of it.

She settled into the brown leather armchair with a haughty air, dropping her bag onto the stool in front of her. Her face was plastered with garish makeup, the kind you see on the herbal sellers in the Lagos garages, hawking all sorts of local sex herbs. Her face was a chaotic palette of colors: a thin black line arching over her brows, a garish red blush smeared across her cheekbones, and her lips outlined with black pencil.

"How long have you been married now? Five years?" she spat, her voice rising with each word. "And what do you have to show for it? Nothing! Not even a child to carry on the family name."

I felt a familiar knot of shame and anger tighten in my stomach, but I kept them in check. "Aunty, please," I started, trying to keep my voice calm before kneeling in front of her, "I'm sorry." There was nothing to be sorry for; I'm not God. But I knew it was pointless arguing with her, hence why I kept apologizing.

"You are sorry?" she sneered. "What does that even mean? You can't even give your husband a child! What use are you? I ask you, Aríre, or what's that your name? What use are you in this house?"

Her words cut deep, but I stood firm. "I'm sorry, ma. God's time is the best." Letting Aunty Chika know about the pregnancy was out of the question. My only hope was for Ikenna to come around and keep this pregnancy a secret between us. Aunty Chika knew about that night, but that was all she needed to know.  This child was our gift, the gift that opened doors for the children the womb of I, Aríre, will give to Ikenna Munachisom Amadi.

"God's time?" she laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. "Maybe if you spent less time praying and more time being a proper wife, things would be different."

She leaned closer, her eyes narrowing. "You are nothing but a damaged product, an object of mockery that has no use. You are a damaged whore. Where's your conscience, ehn? Only you were raped, barren ground. You are nothing but an unfortunate product, and your chi-God has forsaken you."

I stiffened, her words like a slap to the face, my anger about to burst like a volcano. "What happened that night was not my fault," I said, my voice trembling with suppressed anger.

"Not your fault?" she spat. "You brought shame to this family. You let that happen. And now, look at you. Useless and barren."

I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. They spilled over, and I quickly wiped them away, not wanting to give her the satisfaction.

"Get out," I whispered out of nowhere, my voice shaking with fury and pain. "Get out of my house, Aunty. Haven't you done enough? The pain, the torture, the torment. Haven't you done enough?"

She laughed again, a cold, mirthless sound. "Your house? I don't remember you coming with a house while we sought your hand in marriage. This house," she pointed around the house, "belongs to Ikenna. You’re just a guest here, a temporary fixture that will eventually leave."