If Not RevengeThen…What?
The other time I chose to honour rather than demean my uncle’s wife was during a loss in her family. Her little sister, Martha, had passed away while trying to give birth to her first child. By this time, Uncle and his family had moved from Lagos to Abuja, the new federal capital territory of Nigeria.
When I heard of Martha’s demise and that the situation was dire (husband not doing well at work, piles of unpaid hospital bills and therefore lack of resources to care for the newborn, and so on), I was moved with compassion. Aunty’s financial situation was not so great by this time, as she and my uncle had five children to care for in addition to other responsibilities within their individual families. When I made enquiries and learned that my uncle’s wife was in Lagos to meet with another of her sisters to plan how to manage their dead sister’s situation — especially as it related to the baby she’d left behind — I’d sent for her.
Before her arrival, I went shopping for the baby at Balogun, a renowned hypermarket in the heart of Lagos — probably the largest of its kind in all of West Africa. And bought everything baby-related in large quantities — pampers, feeding bottles, items of clothing, formulas, and so on. I packed my purchase tightly in two large bags. To these, I added travelling fare for Aunty, as she was the one delivering the gifts. And yet more extra money to cover the hospital bills and anything the baby might need that I had forgotten to buy.
Aunty arrived at my home along with the sister she had come to see in Lagos. Her name was Grace. I called her Sister. When they walked into my house, Sister Grace’s eyes panned it appreciatively. Then, as if a life force of its own controlled her mouth, she’d turned to my uncle’s wife and said. ‘Mma, do you see Sarah now? When I used to beg you to be mindful of how you treated her, that you didn’t know what God had destined for the child, you refused to listen. Do you see that child now?’ Her sister mumbled something I didn’t quite catch. It didn’t matter. I was busy getting ready to host them.
Besides shopping for the baby, I had prepared something for them to eat, a traditional dish we eat with our fingers. It is my culture’s practice to hold out a wash hand basin to your guests to wash their hands before eating. The gestures say, even though I know you are capable of performing this task yourself, I reverence and honour you highly. For that reason, I am choosing to perform this task for you. It is primarily a tradition of honour and respect — used to acknowledge a guest’s importance, position of power and influence, and seniority — and is often performed by a servant or a young person in the family. However, when it is carried out by a senior member — such as the father or mother — the guest acknowledges this respect, and his or her equality of standing with that adult, by supporting the basin with their left hand whilst washing the right (the one they will eat with) — or the left one, if they happen to be left-handed.
When both women sat down to eat, I’d picked up the wash-hand basin and offered it to Aunty. My uncle’s wife reacted by attempting to take the wash hand basin from me. But I held on to it. I did the same when her sister tried to take the basin from me as well. My uncle’s wife was uncomfortable with my gesture of humility and refused to meet my gaze as she washed her hand.
‘Thank you. God bless you,’ she said when she was done. ‘Amen,’ I replied.
Sister Grace’s reaction was even more profound. She looked at her sister, then at me, and then back at her sister again. Then muttering, ‘Mmmm,’ she shook her head, muttered ‘Mmmm’ again before washing her hand.
