Saving Face

I didn't need to wear makeup not because I was mourning but because I had no bruises to conceal with layers of powder and foundation. If my darling husband - Tega, had hit me before his untimely demise, I would have worn at least a layer of foundation.

Visitors are trooping in and overstaying their welcome. The help has her hand full with serving beer or juice or wine to the mourners. No one wants water.

The usual condolences are offered. I feel like stuffing my ears with cotton buds. The usual "make sure to call me if you need anything," is whispered into both my ears, not less than 15 times in less than an hour.

I don't miss the icy stares from Tega's family. The not so old women that permanently smelt of firewood smoke. Already, two of the women have called me aside to ask why I am wearing a white dress and not a black one. I bit my tongue before I could give them a piece of my unchristian mind. Instead, I managed a weary smile and pressed money into their palms.

"For transport," I said. That pacified them.

Then, the old men that look like they are one breath away from the grave, drinking expensive wine with sachets of gin that they produced from their pockets and trying to look sullen and sober.

Scoff.

Too bad Tega left nothing for them to grapple over. This might even be the last time they set foot in this compound anyway.

Tega. My darling husband had nothing until I met him and brushed him up with my late father's help. I loved him too hard and foolishly. I let him draw blinds over my eyes and subdue me unnecessarily.

The wound on across my shoulder is starting to hurt again. I am beginning to think I slashed myself a little too much after stabbing Tega in the guts. Nevertheless, the wound had served and was still serving its purpose.

The police officers or detectives or whatever they are, that have been assigned to look into Tega's death are present too. I feel like they shouldn't be here after I had been let go on the counts of murder by self-defense but I won't push it; they can stay. I am certain they are wondering why a woman that was almost killed by her husband is holding such a public condolence visit for him. They look so frustrated but that's their funeral, not mine.
It gives me some twisted happiness.

Sigh.

I need my medication before my mentally - stable facade slips.

By my right-hand side, my 17-year-old daughter, Ivie - the only fetus Tega didn't willingly abort for me against my wish, is drowning herself in tears. I really can't tell if she's mourning her father or crying for herself. Her eyes are puffy and my eyes are dry; almost too dry for a fresh widow. No, I am not unfeeling or cold-blooded. It's just that I rather mourn my husband than have anyone learn that my daughter is with a child for her father. Or the man she grew to call father.

Oche, Tega's half brother, strolls up to me and makes a show of muttering something. I nod in Ivie's direction and he goes to sit beside her. He takes her hands in one of his huge hands and uses the other to wipe her tears.

I can't help but admire the father and daughter.