WHAT BLOOD REMEMBERS

CHAPTER TWO The Most Loved Wife

In Pa Fong’s compound, every house had a personality.

The first wife’s house smelled of firewood and palm oil.

The second wife’s house carried tension like smoke that never cleared.

But Mama Rachael’s house — it shone.

Even before you entered, you could tell it was different. The curtains were newer, the chairs were polished, and the floor was always clean enough to reflect light. Visitors came often — traders, church women, court colleagues. Laughter lived there. So did admiration.

Mama Rachael was the last wife.

But she was the most loved.

She had not come empty-handed. She was lent from a wealthy farmer and trader in the village before relocating to Bamenda Town. She worked. She earned. She did not depend on what her husband gave her.

And everyone knew it.

One afternoon, the second wife stood by the well, watching as Mama Rachael returned from town with shopping bags.

“Some people like to show off,” she muttered under her breath.

The first wife, rinsing vegetables nearby, did not look up.

“Or maybe,” she said calmly, “some people just work hard.”

The second wife scoffed and said nothing more.

Inside her house, Mama Rachael arranged new lace fabric on the table. Doris stood quietly by the doorway, watching her mother move with certainty — like someone who had already decided she would not be small.

“Mama,” Doris asked softly, “why do people talk when you pass?”

Mama Rachael didn’t answer immediately. She folded the fabric carefully before speaking.

“When a woman does not beg, people will talk,” she said. “Get used to it.”

Doris nodded slowly.

She did not fully understand — but she felt it. There was something heavy inside those words. Something she would grow into later.

The first wife eventually began learning from Mama Rachael. She started a small trade — tomatoes, dry fish, groundnuts. Slowly, her house began to change. Less dependence. Less bitterness. More movement.

But the second wife did not change.

If anything, her dislike deepened.

At gatherings, her eyes followed Mama Rachael like a shadow that refused to disappear. Every praise felt personal — like an insult wrapped in public admiration.

“Last wife, yet acting like first,” she once whispered, loud enough for nearby ears to catch.

Mama Rachael only smiled.

But Doris saw it.

The flicker in her mother’s eyes.

Not anger — control.

Strength, she realized, was not softness. It was armor.

Inside that shining house, Doris did not live like the other children.

Yes, her mother was admired.

Yes, visitors brought gifts and compliments.

Yes, the house was the most decorated in the compound.

But admiration did not equal tenderness.

“Mama, can I go play?” Doris asked one afternoon, watching Blanche chase butterflies outside.

“After you finish arranging those files.”

“Mama, I finished already.”

“Then revise your notes.”

There was always something.

Always another task. Always another expectation.

Blanche played.

Blanche rested.

Blanche was lifted, carried, kissed without question.

Doris learned early that love could look different depending on who received it.

One evening, church women filled the sitting room with laughter.

One of them said warmly, “Rachael, God has really favored you. Your life is balanced. A good husband, good work, beautiful children.”

Mama Rachael smiled, proud and composed.

“Yes,” she said. “God has been faithful.”

Doris stood at the doorway holding a tray of drinks.

Her eyes lingered on her mother’s face at the word.

Balanced.

She turned it over in her mind quietly.

Because balance, to her, did not feel like peace.

It felt like standing on one leg — trying not to fall.

That night, the compound slowly quieted.

Doris lay on her mat, staring at the ceiling.

From outside, she could hear faint sounds — the first wife laughing softly with her children somewhere in the dark. Farther away, the second wife’s voice rose briefly in argument before sinking again into silence.

In her own house, silence was different.

It was structured. Controlled. Expected.

Doris turned on her side.

Mama Rachael believed in strength.

And Doris was learning it — whether she wanted to or not.

But even strength has a cost.

And somewhere deep inside her, questions were beginning to form — quiet, unspoken, but growing.