SEVEN : Mrs Nyoni

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‘Kangwa, what is this place?’ Feggy asked, trying to negotiate her way around the potholes on the gravel road.

Kangwa looked at her with knitted brows. ‘Misisi.’

‘Oh.’

As one of the city’s largest informal settlements, Misisi sat in the shadow of the CBD, a hub of crime that reeked of deep-seated poverty. Crumbling structures choked the narrow alleys, twisting so tightly that every path felt like a direct intrusion into someone’s doorstep.

‘You have never been here before?’

‘No. I have only heard of it on the news, especially during the rainy season when this place floods.’

Kangwa chuckled. ‘It is like they reserved a special slot for it on the news every rainy season.’

‘But what are we doing here?’

‘Just wait and see.’

A few minutes later, Kangwa parked Theo’s Vitz by the roadside. After wrapping their chitenge wrappers around their waists, she led Feggy through a narrow pathway that weaved between houses until they came out at a roadside market.

‘Kangwa, what are we really doing here?’

‘We came to ask for help.’

‘Huh?’

‘See that woman over there?’ Kangwa nodded towards an elderly woman setting up her goods at a vegetable stall.

‘Yes. Who is she?’

‘Yolanda’s mother.’

Feggy looked from the woman to her sister-in-law, then back to the woman, lost for words.

‘How did you find her?’

‘I have a friend who knows a friend whose brother lectures at Yolanda’s college. They were able to get her personal information.’

Feggy raised her eyebrows. ‘Are you telling me that proud girl actually acknowledged her humble beginnings?’

‘Actually, no. My foolish brother happens to be her registered next of kin.’

‘Why am I not surprised,’ she murmured.

‘My friend’s brother got her information from her former high school.’

‘I see. But I do not know how talking to her mother will help matters. For all we know, she could be in cahoots with her daughter. Kangwa, I am not sure this is such a good idea. Maybe…’

The moment Kangwa heard the doubt in her voice, she rolled her eyes and crossed the road before Feggy could finish her sentence.

Feggy ran after her. Kangwa scoffed. She did not need a plan.

The elderly woman, who appeared to be in her early fifties, looked up with a smile when the two approached and asked what they wanted to buy.

‘Are you Mrs. Nyoni? Yolanda’s mother?’ Kangwa asked directly.

Mrs. Nyoni looked from one woman to the other, mildly surprised. ‘Yes. And you are?’

Kangwa asked if they could speak in private. Mrs. Nyoni asked a friend to watch her stall and led the two women away.

When they reached her house, a few minutes from the market, she took out a reed mat that had seen better days, spread it on the veranda, and invited them to sit. She went inside and returned with a jar of munkhoyo and two glasses.

‘How do you know my daughter? Are you friends? How is she?’ she asked as she poured the traditional drink and offered the glasses to her guests. ‘I hope she is doing well,’ she added, her voice carrying a quiet nostalgia.

Kangwa looked at Feggy, unsure which question to answer first. She reached into her bag, took out her phone, and played the video that had gone viral across every social media platform.

She watched as Mrs. Nyoni’s face moved through shock and then shame. Unable to bring herself to finish watching, the older woman handed the phone back.

When she finally lifted her head, her serene face looked troubled. She seemed to have aged in just a few minutes.

‘The woman in the video. Is she the wife?’

‘No. I am.’

‘The woman in the video is my friend and Feggy’s sister. We know what Theo did was wrong, but in this instance, so is your daughter.’

‘Mrs. Nyoni, I am not here to beg you to ask your daughter to leave my husband. I know that as long as he keeps chasing after her, Yolanda has no reason to walk away.’

‘Then why are you here? Why did you show me that video?’

‘My sister is facing charges of assault causing bodily harm because of your daughter.’

Even though the Chombas had not wanted Feggy or Mrs. Irene to find out about the arrest, they were powerless against social media. Feggy had found out later that same evening. She had rushed to the police station but was turned away, told it was already past visiting hours.

Her attempts to reach Gershom came to nothing.

The following day, when the case was brought before the magistrate, Gershom had walked in with Yolanda on his arm. After bail was set and paid, Feggy’s quiet pleas for him to drop the charges went completely ignored.

Three days had passed since then. They were due before the judge in two days.

A sad smile tugged at the corners of Mrs. Nyoni’s mouth. ‘I am sorry. I cannot help you.’

‘Mrs. Nyoni, please. You are our last hope. Talk to your daughter and ask her to drop the charges. She has already come between my brother’s marriage. What more will she gain by doing the same to Theo’s life?’

‘Mrs. Nyoni, Theo is the only family I have. If I have to go on my knees…’

The elderly woman chuckled softly and sadly. ‘You do not understand. Yolanda wants nothing to do with me. It has been over five years since she last set foot in this house. I am sorry for what you are going through but your coming here was a waste of time. I sincerely wish you well.’

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Sometime later, after the two women had left and Mrs. Nyoni was back at her stall, the images from the video and the look on Feggy’s face refused to leave her mind.

As she sat lost in thought, the girl from the salon across the road came over wanting to know who her visitors had been. Mrs. Nyoni chuckled at the street’s most reliable gossip and told her they were daughters of a woman she used to work for in another town. As they talked, she casually brought up the viral video.

The girl narrated the whole showdown with great excitement, not thinking anything of it when Mrs. Nyoni asked which college the girl in the video was said to attend.

An hour later, Mrs. Nyoni found herself at the reception of Imperial College.

Before she could reach the front desk, someone grabbed her roughly from behind and pulled her into an empty corridor.

‘What in the world are you doing here?’ Sofia stared at the woman as though she were something unpleasant tracked in from outside.

‘Sofia. It has been a while,’ Mrs. Nyoni replied, holding the young girl’s contemptuous gaze without flinching.

‘Apparently not long enough. What are you doing here?’

‘I am here to see my daughter. Would you know where she is?’

Mrs. Nyoni knew that if anyone would know her daughter’s whereabouts, it was her longtime partner in crime. She had never liked Sofia. The girl had always had questionable morals.

Sofia looked her up and down, barely concealing her disgust, then fished out her phone and called Yolanda.

Yolanda was at the salon, in a fine mood, sipping a strawberry mimosa when the call came through.

‘Hey Sophie.’

‘We have a problem,’ Sofia hissed into the phone. ‘Where are you?’

‘What is wrong?’

Sofia turned and gave the quiet older woman a cold look. ‘Your mother is here.’

The happy mood evaporated instantly.

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Half an hour later, a taxi pulled up at the shopping mall. A fuming Yolanda was waiting under the large tree near the bus station.

Mrs. Nyoni looked at the daughter she had not seen in over five years.

‘Yolanda, my child. How have you been?’

‘I was doing just fine until you decided to show up. What do you want?’

The words should have hurt. Mrs. Nyoni was used to them. Once, while still in high school, the girl had declared herself an orphan to access funds and a scholarship offered by an NGO.

‘What are you doing with your life, my child?’

‘Did you come all this way to ask me that? Amama, stop wasting my time. What do you want?’

‘I saw the video.’

‘So?’

‘So? Yolanda, have you no shame? He is a married man. He has a wife and children. How can that not matter to you?’

‘Well, it is not like he did not already know that when he came after me.’

Mrs. Nyoni had the urge to raise her hand but controlled herself. She needed to have a rational conversation with her daughter. ‘How many homes are you going to break in your quest for a good life? How many lives will you ruin to satisfy your greed?’

‘As many as it takes. Amama, I do not send invitation letters to these men. They come after me on their own. It is not my fault those women cannot hold onto their husbands. They cannot ask loyalty from me. I owe them nothing.’

‘You cannot build a home on another woman’s tears. Do you feel nothing for his wife? His children? You are a woman too, Yolanda. What if another woman does the exact same thing to you one day? Do you not realise you are cursing yourself? Closing yourself off from real blessings?’

Yolanda laughed softly. ‘Curses? Blessings? Is that how you comforted yourself after Dad left us for his other family?’

Mrs. Nyoni flinched.

‘What good did it do you, apart from helping you live in a fantasy?’ Yolanda continued. ‘Curses and blessings. Those are the things women tell themselves when they are too afraid to face reality. Amama, Gershom is not only wealthy. He loves me and he is willing to do anything for me. I can now give you the life you deserve, full of comfort. You could come and live with me and we enjoy all this together. Or you can keep coming here to bother me. Your choice.’

Mrs. Nyoni looked at her daughter for a long, quiet moment. She had known before she came that nothing would change. But she had hoped. One more time, she had hoped.

‘You can keep your riches, Yolanda. I will take my leave.’

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VOCAB

Munkhoyo — a traditional Zambian drink made from fermented maize bran, often served cold

Amama — mother (used in Nyanja)