12/10/2025
🎙️ When Love Multiplied
Episode 6: When the Door Opened to Two Wives
The morning it happened, the sky was unusually quiet — not a single bird chirped. Even the wind seemed to pause, as if nature itself was holding its breath.
I woke up before dawn, swept the compound, and boiled water for the children’s bath. But inside, my spirit trembled. I had been warned. Everyone had. The whispers had become truth — Adaobi was coming to live with us.
For days, Chike had avoided the subject, but the tension in the house told the story before words did. His mother had called me two nights before and said gently,
> “Amaka, tomorrow, they will bring her. Please, welcome her with peace. God will bless you for your patience.”
Peace. That word again.
I had said nothing. Because how do you welcome the woman who shattered your world?
By 10 a.m., the compound was full. Chike’s relatives, Adaobi’s aunties, two elders from her village. They came in a small convoy singing, laughing, carrying wrappers, palm wine, and a tiny baby boy.
I stood at the doorway, holding my daughter’s hand. My heart was steady, but my hands shook.
Adaobi stepped down from the car dressed in a simple Ankara gown, her eyes lowered. Behind her, Chike walked proudly, greeting everyone, beaming like a man who had achieved something noble.
> “Amaka,” one of the elders said cheerfully, “you are a good woman. This is your sister now. The Lord has increased your home.”
I smiled or tried to. “You’re welcome,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.
The women ululated. The baby cried. And just like that, my life changed forever.
Later that evening, after everyone had gone, I sat in the kitchen while Adaobi unpacked her bags in the smaller room beside ours.
Chike came in quietly.
> “Amaka, thank you. You’ve handled this with grace.”
I looked at him and said softly,
> “Grace is not always gentle, Chike. Sometimes, it’s just a quiet kind of dying.”
He sighed, rubbed his face, and left the kitchen.
I stayed there, staring at the flickering lantern light on the wall. My heart was torn between rage and resignation.
Days passed, and the new rhythm began.
Two women, one man, one roof.
Adaobi would cook one day, I’d cook the next. We greeted each other politely, smiled when others watched, but silence filled the spaces between us.
Sometimes, I’d wake in the night and hear Chike’s laughter coming from her room. That sound the same laughter that once belonged to me now felt like a knife twisting softly in my chest.
But I refused to break.
Instead, I poured myself into my children, my shop, my faith. Every morning, I looked into the mirror and whispered,
> “You will not lose yourself here, Amaka. You were a woman before you became a wife.”
And somehow, those words kept me sane.
One evening, Adaobi knocked on my door. She looked nervous.
> “Mama Somto, can I talk to you?”
I nodded. She sat down slowly and said,
> “I know this isn’t easy for you. It’s not easy for me either. I didn’t plan this life. But maybe… maybe we can try not to make it harder.”
Her honesty disarmed me. For a long moment, we sat in silence, two women joined by fate, divided by love.
Finally, I said,
> “We don’t have to be friends, Adaobi. But we can be peaceful. For the children.”
She nodded, tears in her eyes. “Thank you.”
That night, I prayed again not for Chike this time, but for both of us. For every woman who has ever had to share what was once hers alone.
And as the night deepened, I realized something powerful:
Peace isn’t the absence of pain. It’s the courage to live through it without letting it turn you bitter.
🌹 Reflective Note / Lesson
When life gives you a situation you never asked for, you still have power the power to choose how you respond.
You may not control who enters your story, but you can decide what kind of woman you’ll be in that story.
Grace is not weakness. Grace is strength that still smiles through tears.
