Mami Water
Photo: Raphael Lovaski
Imagine it is the late ‘80s. Imagine it is the early hours after sunset. You are expecting your woman in an hour and a half. She is meant to spend the night. Imagine you put one of your favourite vinyl records to play on the phonograph as you wait for your goddess of the night. Maybe Chief Osita Osadebe or Ebenezer Obey or Dr Victor Olaiya. Maybe it is King Sunny Ade or the Oriental Brothers. Or just maybe, it is Sir Victor Uwaifo. Just imagine. Breathe. Swallow. Listen. Imagine the track playing is Guitar Boy. Imagine that you are singing along, dancing, swaying your hips to every rhythm. The emphatic phrase Mami Water keeps ringing in your head like the bell from the cathedral three streets away which wakes you up every morning.
Imagine that as you dance, you mull over the verity of the artiste’s encounter with a Mami Water. You wonder what you would have done if you were in his shoes. You do not think you would have been able to sing about an encounter with a Mami Water. You also do not think that you would hearken to the advice to never run away.
Imagine that the record gets stuck and scratches, and now only the phrase “Mami Water” plays. Imagine how it sounds to your ears: each beat, every word, trying to remind you of how real and how potent a Mami Water is as the track shuffles Mami, Mami, Mami Water. Imagine that you remember the stories your mother told you of a pretty princess who was pushed into a river by her maid and left to drown on the day of her wedding. You remember how she told you that the princess became a fish, a mermaid, a Mami Water. Just imagine.
Imagine you hear a knock on your door. You have fixed the record, but now Chief Osadebe is playing. You walk to the door and open it. Imagine what your eyes behold. Your woman, in a pretty fro, a gorgeous white dress, the nicest Scholl shoes you’ve ever seen, and red lipstick loudly smeared on her lips. Her ebony brown skin glitters in the lights. Skin which you have no idea that, four decades from now, a renowned African-American singer-songwriter would make a hit song about. On your woman’s fro sits a nice pink ribbon to the left. Imagine she smiles at you. Your heart skips a beat. You are too excited to breathe. The night is just about to begin for the both of you. Her beautiful big eyes light up and say to you: “Osita, won’t you let me in?”
Imagine what you would do next.
* * *
Imagine that you and your woman are really kicking things off. Imagine that it has been many months now. Many months of acrobatic sex, walks on the beach, fish by the sea, and club nights. Imagine that one day, she pays a visit. She says to you, “Osita, let’s get married. I no longer want to be a single woman.”
Imagine how the words sound to your ears. Like music or like noise. Imagine that you swallow hard because they sound more like noise than they sound like music. It is not that you do not adore your woman. You really do—she is gorgeous, drop-dead even—but you do not think that she is wife material, by your mother’s standards. She is also not from your tribe, and you cannot tell your mother you want to marry an Igbati-Igbati girl. How will you tell your mother that you, Osita, wants to marry a girl whose name is Kemi? Folakemi?
Imagine how you will tell your woman this thing that is going on in your mind. Imagine the reaction on her face. It will be like that of one who just had tasted cabin biscuits dipped in ofe akwu. Imagine that without you saying a word, she hears your thoughts. Maybe because your facial expressions betray you.
“You do not want to marry me,” she says, “but you enjoy fucking me.”
Imagine that your reply hangs on your tongue. You want to tell her how sorry you are. Imagine that you try to explain your mother's stance and how she would prefer you married someone of your tribe, but your woman shakes her head and walks away. Imagine that at the door, she halts, turns to you and says, “May you find that woman that you and your mother so seek.”
Imagine what you would do next.
* * *
Imagine that after your woman has left you, your mother comes to the big city from the village to visit you. She comes with a query. Imagine that as soon as her suitcase touches the terrazzo floor of your living room, she asks, “Osita, why don’t you want to get married and give me grandchildren?”
Imagine you tell her that you had a woman in your life, but you knew she would not see her as a wife, and so you let her go.
“A Yoruba girl?” she exclaims. She re-ties her wrapper which had gone loose on her chest.
Imagine she goes on to tell you that it is good you let your woman go. She tells you there is no way she would have liked her.
“Is she pretty? Fair-skinned? Is she as beautiful as our Igbo girls who look like water goddesses?”
Imagine that when you tell her that your woman, Kemi, was the most beautiful woman you had seen and that you loved the way her ribbon sat to the left of her fro and how loud her lipstick was on her lush lips. She hushes you.
“You wonder what you would have done if you were in his shoes. You do not think you would have been able to sing about an encounter with a Mami Water. You also do not think that you would hearken to the advice to never run away. ”
“What do you know? She would not have made a good wife. Anyways, why don’t you get a much prettier woman, and Igbo too? You know they are prettier and fairer? Abi, you’ve not seen how they look like Mami Water? Don’t you want your children to be beautiful and proudly Igbo?”
Imagine that your mother is dark-skinned, yet these are her words. She wants a Mami Water-looking wife for you. You scoff, and then you laugh. Who put this idea in the head of these people that Mami Waters were faired-skinned? And even if they were, why would anybody wish for a Mami Water? Not even Victor Uwaifo would have prayed that he encountered a Mami Water. Your mother stands her ground. She wants an Igbo lady. She was going to find you a wife.
Imagine that.
Imagine what you would do next.
* * *
Imagine that it is a few weeks after your mother came visiting with her query and her promise to find you a wife. Imagine that she visits again with a lady for you. Imagine that you are playing a record—Mike Okri’s Time Na Money—when you hear the knock on your door. You turn down the volume of the music and walk to the door. Imagine what you see when you open the door. At the door stands your mother, dressed in glory, like she is on her way to attend a wedding party. She is wearing her best George wrappa, and her headgear stands tall. You would almost believe that it is your wedding day. By her side stands the lady—the one who is for you—in a beautiful dress and nice plaits. Imagine that she stands there, head bent low, shy to look you in the eye.
“Osita, would you keep your mother standing at the door?” Your mother says.
Imagine that you force a smile and make way for her and the lady. You take your time to observe the lady. She is undoubtedly attractive—svelte, chiselled chin, honey-coloured eyes, long-haired. She is also fair-skinned as your mother wanted. Imagine that your mother tells the lady to sit down and be comfortable in her husband’s house. Imagine how the word “husband” sounds in your ear. Like music or like noise. Imagine that you swallow hard because it sounds more like noise than music. Imagine that you think about your woman. You wish she was still with you. The lady sits comfortably as your mother asked. She finally lifts her eyes to you and smiles. Imagine that the music on your phonograph stops playing.
“Osita, this is Ifeoma. She is your wife.”
Imagine that the words do not shock you anymore. You stare at the lady and savour her beauty. You consider keeping her. Your mother may be right. After all, what an old man sees sitting, a young boy cannot see from the top of an Iroko tree. Imagine the next thing that comes to your mind is Felix Libarty’s song, Ifeoma. You smile at the lady and walk to your records shelf to find that record. You place it in the phonograph, and it plays. Imagine you dance to her and hold her hands. Imagine that your mother smiles. She is content. You sway your hips, singing out loud, calling the lady’s name while spinning her around.
Imagine that the lady is a good dancer.
* * *
Imagine the lady has been living with you for about a month now. Imagine you now have the kind of acrobatic sex you used to have with your woman. You are beginning to forget your woman. The lady is drop-dead gorgeous. She does not wear a ribbon to the left like your woman, but she knows how to wear cornrows in a way that makes them not look mundane. Imagine that you think your mother was right to have handpicked the lady for you. The lady is a good cook. She is good at bed acrobatics, and she is also a prayer warrior. Who really ever has both in equal measure? She is obedient, and she does all you want and ask of her. She is different from your woman in that regard. She does not have a mind of her own except for what you dictate. She lacks versatility outside your home. Imagine she is wife material by your mother’s standards.
Imagine that one day the lady comes to you and asks you when you will officially go home to pay her bride price. You assure her that your mother is making all the preparations in the village on your behalf, and soon you will both be man and wife.
“If you say so, I believe you, my husband,” she responds.
Imagine you kiss her, and you take her to the bedroom for acrobatics. Imagine that you have begun to adore her like you used to adore your woman. Now, you are satisfied with your mother’s choice, and you decide to completely forget your woman. Your mother’s choice is everything your wife should be. Igbo. Fair-skinned. Gorgeous breasts. Child-bearing hips. Obedient. And even more, she is not a career woman. She is the perfect choice of the Mami Water-looking wife your mother desired.
* * *
Imagine it is a Saturday night. You have promised your lady, Ifeoma, that you will take her to the movies. Imagine that there is a new Bollywood movie showing, and your lady is excited to see it. Imagine that she told you how much she enjoys Indian movies. She loves the music, the dancing, and the love stories that were the centre of Indian films. Imagine that the time is 7.15 p.m; the movie house opens at 8.00 p.m. Imagine that you are ready, and you are waiting for your lady to finish her makeup. Imagine that at about 7.30 p.m she comes out looking magnificent. She is wearing a two-piece outfit; it is blue, just like the sea. She wears her hair in a fro. Imagine that it is the first time you’ve seen her wearing a fro. She is wearing red lipstick. Her tiro is also properly lined. She smiles at you. Her teeth glisten like ornaments on a Christmas tree. Imagine you want to kiss away the lipstick, grab her child-bearing hips, take her into the bedroom, and have the best acrobatics you both can ever have. Imagine that while you consider that option, her sweet voice cuts through your thoughts.
“Osita, let’s go. We will be late.”
Imagine that you are both having a great time at the movies. Your lady is laughing at almost every scene. It is a little embarrassing, but you ignore her. You think to yourself that you cannot wait to make a wife out of her. The movie is soon over. Imagine that as you come out of the theatre, a familiar voice calls out to you. Imagine that when you turn, you find your woman, Kemi, standing there, looking somewhat different. You excuse yourself from your lady and walk to your woman.
“Hello Osita,” she greets.
Imagine that you stand, dumbfounded, maybe from the shock of seeing her after all this time. Or maybe you are trying to figure out what is so different about her.
“So this is the girl your mother chose for you. She really is beautiful. I guess your mother was right after all. Maybe a Mami Water-looking girl is the better choice for you.”
Imagine that as she speaks, you figure out what is different about her. She is lighter in complexion. Her skin is no longer that ebony skin you used to know. She looks a tad lighter than caramel, but her knuckles and her elbows betray the rest of her new skin. Imagine that the next thing that comes to your mind is Fela’s Yellow Fever. It plays in your head. Your woman, Kemi, stands there, a shadow of her former self, looking like the woman Fela must have been singing about.
Imagine that as the song plays in your head, you wonder why your woman has chosen to change her skin. Her words interrupt your thoughts, like knife cutting through bread.
“Osita, if I were light-skinned, would you have married me? If my skin was as light as hers, would you have convinced your mother that I too was as beautiful as a Mami Water? Would you have tried to convince her that I was no different from an Igbo girl? Tell me, Osita, or do you not like the way my skin looks now?”
Imagine that the words hit you hard like Tyson’s punch. Imagine that your woman walks away, and your lady comes to you, placing a hand on your shoulder.
“Are you okay, my husband? Who was that?”
Imagine that you do not answer as you are lost in thoughts. And then, face in palm, you ask yourself, “Osita, what have you done?”
Imagine that.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ufuoma Bakporhe is a fiction writer, novelist and developing screenwriter from Nigeria. She is the author of Lettars From An Imbecile (2014). Her works have appeared on or are forthcoming on The Kalahari Review, African Writer, Punocracy, Mbari Place, The Shallow Tales Review, Jalada Africa, and Imbiza Journal, JAY Lit and elsewhere. She is the winner of the 2019 Awele Creative Trust Award.
