Chapter 3: Cracks In The Walls

By midday, the sun had climbed high enough to make the compound sweltering. The heat pressed against the walls of the house, seeped into the corridors, and weighed down every movement. Amaka fanned herself slowly, the thin palm fan barely stirring the heavy air, while Kunle sat in the living room, his legs crossed, the newspaper folded neatly on his lap, eyes scanning but not really reading.

He glanced up when she carried out the laundry from the line. The cloths were damp from the early morning wash, smelling faintly of soap and hibiscus flowers.

“Why are the clothes not dry yet?” he asked sharply. His voice carried that same undertone of superiority she had learned to fear.

“They’ve just been washed,” Amaka said softly, careful not to raise her tone.

“Just?” He stepped closer, hands on his hips, looking at her as if she were not the woman he had married but a child failing to meet his expectations. “The sun has been out for hours. You think this house runs itself?”

Amaka kept her eyes down, folding the laundry carefully. The compound seemed to shrink around her under his gaze. The bougainvillea by the gate swayed slightly in the wind, the petals brushing against the walls, but even nature seemed timid here, as if sensing the tension inside the house.

“Amaka,” Kunle said again, softer this time, but the words were still a weapon. “I told you yesterday to keep the garden tidy. And the dishes—look at them. You can’t even finish basic tasks without making a mess.”

She wanted to explain, to tell him that she had cleaned the dishes and watered the garden, but the words caught in her throat. It was always the same—nothing she said would ever satisfy him. His anger was a wall, high and unyielding, and any attempt to speak fell flat against it.

Amaka turned toward the inner courtyard, letting her gaze linger on the small fountain Kunle had insisted on installing. The water trickled gently, a soothing sound in contrast to the sharpness in the house. She remembered when they had first moved in, how he had boasted about how perfect everything would be, how the compound would reflect his taste and his control. Everything here had always been under his hand, down to the smallest detail.

“I’ll fix it,” she whispered, mostly to herself, her voice swallowed by the thick air.

Kunle’s eyes narrowed. “Fix it? You are always saying you’ll fix it. You live here, don’t you? This is your responsibility. Not mine.”

She swallowed. The words echoed inside her, familiar yet painful. Everything in this house belonged to him. The compound, the furniture, even her own movements seemed cataloged under his ownership.

“Kunle…” she began, hesitant.

He cut her off. “Don’t. I don’t want excuses.” His tone was final, like the slamming of a gate.

Amaka stepped back, letting him pass to the small study at the side of the house. The room was lined with books and awards he rarely read aloud, a display of accomplishments meant to remind everyone of his superiority. She watched him disappear inside, the door closing with a soft click that sounded heavier than it should.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding. Her hands were trembling slightly as she returned to the kitchen, fanning herself, trying to shake off the weight of his presence.

Outside, the children in the compound were shouting, chasing each other, the sound of their laughter spilling across the dusty ground. A neighbor waved to her as she carried a basket of vegetables. Amaka forced a small smile in return. She wished she could be like them, free and loud and unafraid.

The sun climbed higher, and Kunle emerged from his study, a folder in hand. “You’ve left the kitchen messy again,” he said, eyes scanning the counters. “And this floor…” He shook his head, stepping closer. “I don’t know why I even bother.”

Amaka’s shoulders tensed. She could feel the heat of his scrutiny, the way every word made her smaller. She wanted to argue, to tell him that she had worked all morning, that she had done everything he demanded, but the words dissolved into silence.

Instead, she picked up the broom and began sweeping the floor, moving slowly, deliberately, feeling the dust cling to her bare feet. The courtyard smelled faintly of hibiscus and cooking smoke, the rhythm of life outside the house continuing as if it had no connection to the heavy, controlled world inside.

Kunle watched her work for a moment, then crossed his arms. “You move too slowly. Always slow,” he said. “Do you think this house cleans itself? Do you think I enjoy living in filth?”

Amaka’s hands trembled as she held the broom tighter. She said nothing. She had learned that silence was the only protection. Speaking back brought punishment, whether through scolding or the cold shoulder that could last for days.

He finally stepped back, sighing. “Go check the gate. The visitor will be here any minute.”

Amaka nodded, leaving the broom in the corner. She walked toward the gate, careful not to disturb anything in the compound. The goats were resting in the sun, and a neighbor’s cat slinked along the fence. She opened the gate slowly, the metal creaking softly, and looked down the street.

A man was approaching, a visitor she did not recognize. Kunle emerged from the house moments later, tall and commanding, his presence immediately demanding attention. The visitor greeted him politely, and Kunle responded with a firm nod, the kind of greeting that reminded everyone in the compound of his authority.

Amaka returned to the house, walking behind Kunle, careful not to step out of line. Even in the midst of life outside the compound, she felt the invisible walls pressing in on her, the constant reminder that in this house, she was always beneath him.

She reached the kitchen again, the sun beating through the windows, the smell of hibiscus mingling with the scent of cooking stew. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the heat and the noise of the compound ground her, giving her a small measure of relief.

But the sense of oppression never left. Kunle’s voice, his words, his dominance, were like a shadow that followed her wherever she went. She knew that this house, this compound, and the life they shared were hers only in appearance. In reality, every inch belonged to him, and she was just a guest in her own home.

She sighed, opening her eyes to the bright light of midday, letting the warmth wash over her. Outside, the children laughed, the goats moved lazily across the yard, and a neighbor called to her. For a moment, Amaka imagined herself stepping out, joining them, breaking free from the walls that constrained her.

But then Kunle’s voice called from the living room, sharp and commanding: “Amaka! Bring the dishes here now!”

She picked up the tray, her steps slow but deliberate, and carried it toward him, the weight of the house pressing on her shoulders once more. The cracks in the walls were there, visible now, but the silence remained unbroken.