Hussien C. Malawi
Despite countless polygamous marriages, I’ve always told myself I’d never find myself in that situation. The thought of being in a polygamous marriage never sat well with me. Yet, there I was, getting ready to attend my husband’s marriage to another woman once again.
“Get ready,” my mother interjected, a gentle interruption to my thoughts. “We should be early, as it takes hours to reach our destination.”
Brimming tears betrayed me as I turned to my mother, seeking solace and understanding. “Despite the countless ways I have loved and supported him, how can this be, mother?” I uttered, my voice quivering with a mixture of anguish and bewilderment.
As my mother gently laid her hand on my back, her comforting presence acted as a healing salve for my troubled soul. “Sometimes, my dear, the desires and needs that reside within people’s hearts are complicated, beyond our complete comprehension. What matters most is how we choose to respond and forge ahead. Focus on the love you hold for your husband, your children, and, most importantly, for yourself.”
In the quiet, burdened by unsaid truths, I found the courage to speak my mind. “This is a sunnah, mother. But it seems he treats it as an obligation,” I said.
She embraced me tightly, her warmth comforting my worried heart. “I’ll try, Mother,” I whispered, my voice filled with determination.
“Mama, is daddy going to be there too? I miss him,” my younger son, Iman, chimed in, his innocent face lighting up with anticipation. He counted the days on his fingers, a playful smile gracing his lips. “He did not come home for 1, 2, 4, 5! Five days!”
“Yes, my dear,” I replied, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. “Are you excited? Wake up your brother Abdul so that we won’t be late.” As I dressed Iman in his shirt, he nodded eagerly, his eyes shining with excitement.
Memories of the previous year flooded my mind, recalling an unforgettable moment with my family. I vividly remembered the mysterious object wrapped in red cloth, secured with a thick thread around Iman’s stomach. It was a talisman, a form of spiritual defense against negative forces mentioned by the healer we had visited.
I was never particularly inclined towards such beliefs, but my mother-in-law insisted on consulting the healer. Our son, Iman, had been plagued by recurring illnesses, leaving us desperate for a solution to alleviate his suffering. In my husband’s province, there was a renowned traditional healer, known for his extraordinary abilities to cure ailments that defied conventional medicine.
In the car, my nerves were on edge as I prepared for a difficult conversation about my husband’s interest in polygamy. Memories of our wedding day, once filled with joy, now felt tainted by this revelation. Lost in thought, the ringing phone interrupted, revealing Abdul’s class adviser on the caller ID, sparking curiosity and concern about what news awaited me.
Gently setting aside my swirling thoughts, I turned to my son, Abdul, who sat quietly beside me in the car. His eyes, usually filled with a curious spark, were fixed on the world outside as if searching for answers beyond the glass pane. Worry marked my expression as I gently inquired, hoping to understand the reason for his teacher’s call. “Abdul, your teacher called. What happened?” Yet, he remained silent, his eyes fixed on the passing landscape, withholding any explanation.
Abdul, my son, was unlike any other child. He carried himself with a gentle demeanor and a calm presence, but there was a shy quality to him that set him apart. While he possessed a quiet wisdom beyond his years, he often preferred observing rather than actively engaging in conversations or social interactions. This reserved nature wasn’t a sign of disinterest but rather a struggle to find his place amidst the bustling world around him. As his mother, I couldn’t help but question if I had done something wrong, if my protective instincts had hindered his social development. Yet, amidst these doubts, my love for Abdul remained unwavering.
As the scorching heat of the sun bore down upon us, my little boy tugged at my sleeve, his eyes wide with excitement. “Mama, look! It’s raining!” Iman exclaimed, pointing towards the sky. I followed his gaze, expecting to see nothing but a cloudless expanse of blue. To my surprise, droplets of rain fell from above, glistening in the sunlight like a thousand tiny diamonds.
I couldn’t help but smile in bewilderment as I witnessed the extraordinary scene before me. The heavens seemed to be playing a mischievous game, juxtaposing the cool touch of rain with the relentless blaze of the sun. How could rain fall from the sky amidst such intense heat?
I watched as my son stretched out his hand, his palm upturned to catch the unexpected rainfall. He giggled with delight as the raindrops danced upon his skin.
As we stepped out of the car, my husband’s umbrellas, lined up in a neat row, extended their protective embrace to shield us from the elements. With my husband gently cradling our youngest, Iman, in his loving embrace, and my hand intertwined with Abdul’s, we ventured towards the threshold of their house. As we crossed the threshold, the weight of my expectations collided with the reality that awaited me, leaving me momentarily taken aback.
Instead of the intimate gathering I had envisioned—a private exchange between our families to discuss the impending changes in our lives—I found myself confronted by a gathering of unfamiliar faces. A wave of surprise washed over me, creasing my brow in confusion. This was not what I had anticipated. Why were so many unknown individuals present? I could not fathom the purpose of their presence.
As I looked around the room, I slowly realized that many faces belonged to the family of the woman my husband was about to marry. Despite the lively discussion about my husband’s polygamous union, my attention wandered. I couldn’t help but notice the easy rapport between my husband and his second soon-to-be wife, their laughter and shared understanding evoking memories of our own past.
As I excused myself from the meeting, leaving behind the weight of expectations and final decisions, I sought solace in the presence of my children. Abdul and Iman were with their aunt, their innocent faces filled with concern as I entered the room.
“Mama, are you okay?” Iman’s voice trembled with worry, his eyebrows furrowing in genuine concern.
“Why would I not be okay, my dear?” I reassured him, gently patting his head, attempting to mask the turmoil swirling within me.
“I know why we came here, Mama. That woman? Ugh!” Abdul’s frustration spilled forth, his young voice tainted with a mix of anger and sadness.
“Abdul, manners!” I reprimanded him gently, understanding the depths of his emotions but still guiding him towards kindness.
As I stood with my children, seeking solace in their presence, a familiar figure emerged behind me. It was my mother, her silent presence offering both comfort and strength. I hadn’t realized she had followed me, her unwavering support always by my side.
“So, what is your decision, my dear?” Her voice carried a mix of anticipation and concern, her eyes reflecting the weight of our shared history.
In the presence of my mother, I felt a sense of calm amidst my inner turmoil. With a heavy heart, I mustered the courage to speak my truth. “Mother,” I began, my voice wavering, “I can’t bear this any longer. Please, help me.” As the words hung between us, silence filled the room, heavy with emotion. Despite the difficulty of my decision, I knew it was necessary for my own peace of mind.
After gathering myself in solitude for what felt like an eternity, I rose from my seat and made my way back to the meeting. As I stood silently, hidden in the shadows of the doorway, my heart sank at the sight before me. There, in the dimly lit room, I watched as my mother, her face etched with desperation and tear-stained cheeks, pleaded with my husband.
The weight of the moment pressed upon my chest, making it difficult to breathe. I had known, deep down, that our relationship had been faltering, but witnessing this raw and vulnerable exchange between my mother and my husband shattered any illusions I had clung to. The reality of our crumbling union became starkly evident, and the need for my decision became even more resolute.
Tears welled in my eyes, threatening to spill over, but I refused to let them fall. Stepping towards my mother, seeking her embrace, I maintained a steady gaze upon my husband, waiting for his decision. His eyes wandered to the woman, and the talaq escaped his lips. At that moment, a mixture of relief and pain washed over me. It was a bittersweet liberation, a step towards reclaiming my sense of self and seeking a future where my happiness was not compromised.
With heavy hearts, we swiftly left the room and sought solace in our car, where my son Iman’s tears mingled with our shared pain. In our sorrow, Abdul, wise beyond his years, reached out to comfort his brother. As we drove away, relief washed over me, though uncertainty loomed ahead. Despite the unknown, I felt a flicker of hope knowing that I had taken the first step towards prioritizing my own happiness and well-being, with my children and mother by my side.
I woke up to the soft glow of the early morning sun seeping through the curtains, casting a warm golden hue across the room. The tranquility of the moment embraced me, and I savored the coziness of the bed, reluctant to leave its comforting embrace.
Lying still, a gentle fluttering sound draws my attention, and I’m amazed to see a yellow hummingbird darting around the room, its iridescent feathers catching the sunlight. Mesmerized, I extend my hand, and it lands delicately on my finger before I release it to soar out the window.
Settling into my favorite armchair with a steaming cup of coffee, I savor the serenity, the aroma mingling with the morning breeze. As my children’s laughter fills the house, I find solace in their presence, their unwavering love anchoring me as I navigate life’s uncertainties, determined to create a home filled with love and authenticity.