Whispers in the wind

The week after meeting Emmanuel’s mother, I tried to shake off the unease she left behind. Her words had been polite, yes, but I couldn’t forget the way her eyes lingered on me—as though weighing and measuring me against a standard I could never meet.

At home, Lydia teased me endlessly.

“So, our in-law’s mother finally met you? How did it go?” she asked, grinning as she folded laundry.

I forced a smile. “It went fine.”

“Fine?” Lydia pressed, raising her brows. “That doesn’t sound very convincing.”

I shrugged, unwilling to confess the truth. The last thing I wanted was for my sisters to fill my head with doubt. Instead, I distracted her with playful banter until she left me alone.

But at night, when I lay awake listening to the quiet breathing of Esther and Lydia on the mats beside me, my thoughts returned to Emmanuel’s mother. Something about her voice, her sharp gaze, made me feel small.

Still, Emmanuel himself was unchanged. He visited me often, sometimes bringing roasted groundnuts, sometimes just his laughter and his stories. When we walked together through the narrow town paths, people smiled knowingly. Some even whispered, “They’ll marry soon.”

I wanted to believe them.

One Saturday, Emmanuel invited me again to his house. His mother had cooked yam and garden egg stew, and though she greeted me politely, her coolness was even clearer this time.

“Matilda, you are welcome,” she said as I entered. Her lips formed a smile, but her eyes did not.

“Thank you, Mama,” I replied, bowing slightly.

We ate together in silence for a while. Then she turned to me and asked, “So, Matilda, tell me about your people. Where is your family from?”

I explained, speaking proudly of my father Samuel’s roots and Mama’s upbringing. But when I finished, she only nodded slowly, her lips tightening.

“You are not from our tribe,” she said at last, her tone casual, but her meaning heavy.

I shifted uncomfortably. “No, Mama. But I believe love doesn’t care about such things.”

She chuckled—low, short, almost mocking. “That is what young people always say.”

Emmanuel immediately reached for my hand under the table, squeezing it gently. “Mama, please,” he said softly. “Tribe doesn’t matter. What matters is happiness.”

Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him, but she said nothing more.

After the meal, when Emmanuel stepped outside to fetch water, his mother leaned closer to me. Her voice dropped, sharp as a blade hidden in silk.

“Listen carefully, my daughter. You seem like a good girl, but you are not the wife I want for my son. Do not think this road will be easy.”

My heart pounded so loudly I thought she might hear it. I wanted to speak, to defend myself, but my tongue refused to move. By the time Emmanuel returned, her face was calm again, her smile smooth and motherly.

As we walked home that evening, Emmanuel noticed my silence. “You’re quiet. Did Mama say something?”

I hesitated, then shook my head. “No, I’m just tired.”

I couldn’t bring myself to tell him the truth. A part of me feared he might not believe me—or worse, that he already knew.

That night, I sat on the veranda of our home, staring up at the stars. The wind whispered through the mango leaves, carrying voices only my heart could hear.

“Do not think this road will be easy.”

Her words echoed again and again, chasing away the peace I once felt. For the first time, I began to wonder if my love for Emmanuel was walking into a storm I could not control.

But when I thought of his smile, of the way his hand felt when it held mine, I told myself it would all be worth it. Love, I believed, could weather anything.