His Pride,Her Pain

Zikora's POV

I was halfway through editing an advert for our latest product when someone knocked on the door.

I looked away from my laptop.

Another knock followed.

I frowned slightly.

Dede wasn't home yet.

He had left for the office a little after eight that morning, reminding me—as he always did—to eat something before getting too carried away with work.

I had listened.

Mostly.

A half-finished bottle of malt sat beside my laptop, along with a plate of chin-chin I had been picking from for the past hour.

I closed the advert on my screen and got up from the couch.

Another knock.

“I'm coming,” I called.

I walked towards the door and looked through the peephole.

My hand remained on the handle.

I didn't open it.

I looked again.

There is no mistaking the woman standing outside.

My mother-in-law.

“Mama?” I whisper, even though she couldn't possibly hear me.

My eyes move towards the window.

I can see the gate from where I stand.

The security man must have already opened it for her.

Of course he has.

Why would he stop her?

She has come all the way from the village. She is Dede's mother. As far as he is concerned, she doesn't need permission to enter her son's compound.

But the front door is different.

This is my space.

And suddenly, I wish I had locked myself inside the bedroom instead.

My fingers tighten around the door handle.

It isn't that I hate the woman.

At least, I've never allowed myself to think of it that way.

But Mama has a way of turning an ordinary day into something I spend hours recovering from.

And if she's come this far without telling us, this won't be a short visit.

Two days.

Maybe three.

That's enough.

Three days of watching what I cook.

Three days of comments about the house.

Three days of questions about Dede.

And somehow, before she leaves, the conversation will find its way to the same painful subject.

The child we still don't have.

I close my eyes briefly.

My peaceful afternoon ended the moment I looked through that peephole.

Another knock comes.

This one is firmer.

“Zikora!” Mama calls.

I open my eyes.

There is no more pretending I'm not home.

Slowly, I unlock the door.

The moment I open it, I force a smile.

“Mama,” I say.

She looks at me.

“So you didn't hear me calling you?” she asks.

My smile fades slightly.

“I'm sorry, Mama. I was—” I begin.

“I knocked and knocked. You didn't hear anything?” she asks.

“I had my headphones on. I was working on my laptop,” I explain.

“Hm,” she says.

Mama steps past me.

I quickly reach for one of the bags she's carrying.

“Let me help you with this,” I say.

“Leave it,” she says.

“Mama, give it to me,” I insist.

“I said leave it,” she says firmly.

I withdraw my hand.

Mama adjusts the bag on her shoulder and walks into the house.

I follow behind her.

I know better than to insist.

We have barely taken a few steps when Mama stops.

Her eyes land on the small table in the living room.

The plate of chin-chin.

The bottle of malt.

She looks at me.

“So this is what you've been eating?” she asks.

I glance at the table.

“Yes, Mama,” I say.

Mama walks closer.

“Chin-chin and malt?” she asks.

“It was just a snack,” I reply.

“You call this a snack?” she asks.

I say nothing.

Mama picks up the bottle, examines it briefly, then puts it back down.

“Every time I come here, I see one thing or another,” she says.

I force a small smile.

“Mama, you've only just arrived,” I say.

“And I can already see what is going on,” she says.

She turns her attention to the room.

Her eyes move slowly across the walls.

Then the curtains.

Then the centre table.

She pauses.

“This table,” she says.

I look at it.

“What about it, Mama?” I ask.

“Is it new?” she asks.

“Yes,” I answer.

“When did you buy it?” she asks.

“A few weeks ago,” I say.

Mama turns to me.

“A few weeks ago?” she repeats.

“Yes,” I say.

“And who bought it?” she asks.

“Dede and I,” I answer.

“With whose money?” she asks.

My lips part slightly.

“Mama…” I say.

“I asked a question,” she says.

“It's our money,” I reply.

“Our money?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say.

Mama gives a short laugh.

“You mean my son's money,” she says.

I take a quiet breath.

“Mama, Dede and I run the business together,” I explain.

“I know what you people claim,” she says.

She moves closer to the centre table, running her fingers lightly over the surface.

“New table,” she says.

Her eyes move to the curtains.

“New curtains,” she adds.

Then she looks towards the television,walked "Even this one looks different,” she says.

I say nothing.

Mama nods slowly.

“So while my son is working from morning till evening, you are here changing things in the house,” she says.

“Mama, that's not what I'm doing,” I say.

“Then what are you doing?” she asks.

“I work too,” I reply.

Mama looks at me.

“From this house?” she asks.

“Yes,” I answer.

“Doing what?” she asks.

“I handle some of the online work for the business. The adverts, social media and—” I begin.

Mama waves her hand dismissively.

“Online work,” she says.

I stop.

I know that tone.

There is no point explaining further.

Mama picks up her bag again.

“Take me to the guest room,” she says.

“Yes, Mama,” I reply.

I reach for the bag.

“I can carry it,” I say.

Mama pulls it away.

“I said I don't need your help,” she says.

I step back.

And as I watch her walk ahead of me, I already know one thing.

This is going to be a long visit.

I stepped back.

Mama walked towards the guest room without saying another word.

I followed quietly behind her, my eyes fixed on her back.

Something about the way she had arrived without warning didn't sit right with me.

And somehow, deep down, I already knew this wasn't just a visit.

Mama had come for something.

I just didn't know what it could be.

Not yet.