Chapter 5: Whispers in the Lord’s House

Sunday morning arrived with the sound of Mama’s voice pounding at our door before the sun was fully awake.

“Amaka! Get ready for church. Don’t keep us waiting. A good wife knows how to prepare herself and her husband for the house of God.”

I swallowed my sigh and rose from the bed. My husband was still rubbing sleep from his eyes. He looked at me, guilt flickering across his face, but said nothing. That was his gift , silence, even when words were needed most.

Sometimes I wondered if he was remote controlled by his mother or if he was simply scared of her and why he would be?

I dressed carefully, tying my gele neatly, slipping into a wrapper I had ironed the night before. In the mirror, I tried to fix my smile, but it refused to stay. I felt like I was dressing for battle, not worship.

The walk to church was short. Mama strutted ahead in her lace, the sun bouncing off her gold earrings. My husband walked beside her, and I trailed slightly behind, my Bible clutched tightly in my hands.

When we entered, ushers greeted us with wide smiles. Mama held her head high, introducing me to every face.

“This is my new daughter-in-law,” she announced. “She is still learning. Pray for her.”

The words stung, wrapped in sugar but laced with poison. People nodded knowingly, some patting my shoulder like I was a child, others whispering just low enough for me to hear fragments.

“She is young… she will learn.”

“Mama has trained him well, no woman can scatter that.”

“New wives, their heads are always hot.”

I tried to focus on the choir’s voices, the drumbeats, the clapping hands, but the whispers seemed louder than the sermon itself. Even when the pastor spoke of love and forgiveness, I could feel eyes sliding toward me, measuring me, branding me as the stubborn newcomer who needed to be tamed.

During offering time, Mama made a show of handing her envelope to my husband, then loudly declaring,

“Amaka, next time, remember to give your husband money for the house of God. A wife’s respect is seen in her giving.”

Laughter trickled through the pews. My cheeks burned. I wanted to vanish, to melt into the floor. But instead, I straightened my back and placed my own envelope in the basket, my hand steady even though my heart raced.

After service, groups formed in the churchyard — clusters of women in gele and wrappers, men discussing politics, children darting between cars. Mama stood at the center of one circle, her voice carrying above the rest.

“She has mouth,” she was saying. “She talks back. But in my house, I don’t tolerate nonsense. She will learn respect.”

Heads nodded. Some women laughed. One even clicked her tongue in sympathy, as if Mama were the victim.

I stood a few feet away, pretending to be engrossed in adjusting my gele, but every word pierced me. My husband stood beside Mama, smiling politely, not once correcting her, not once defending me.

The walk home was silent, my jaw clenched, while Mama hummed hymns in the front ,holding my husbands hands as if she were hus wife . My husband’s hand rested on his lap, twitching as if he wanted to reach for mine but couldn’t find the courage.

Back in the compound, I went straight to our room, shut the door, and let the tears fall. Not just from the gossip, not just from Mama’s endless grip, but from the realization that even in the Lord’s house, I was branded.

And what terrified me most was the sinking feeling that this label — “the stubborn newcomer who must learn respect” — would follow me everywhere under her roof.

I wondered who else she had spoken about me to and what she had told them about me.