The Open Door of Paradise: an excerpt from Contours du jour qui vient (2006)

I had her, and then I lost her. (Capturing Maebel. Brooklyn, NY.) Part of a Diptych. Pen ink on paper. 14 x 11 inches (each). Courtesy of the artist and Jack Shainman Gallery.

©2012 Toyin Odutola.

Mrs. Mulonga stops to consider the preacher woman's silhouette, thinking that her hot air will surely cause the seams of her sheath to split. That adipose flesh won't stand being cooped up much longer and it's getting more and more difficult for the enraged Mama Bosangui to hold her big stomach in; you can see it trembling beneath the electric blue satin of her gown. As Mrs. Mulonga stares her interlocutor up and down, the silence is dense—the flock has enough sense to know that now is not the time to emit so much as a whisper. Then, in a masterful elocution of perfectly elaborated syllables she states her claim, which takes on even greater importance than if it had been spoken in the normal cadence: My dear Ruth, she says in a loud icy voice, I suggest you get off your high horse. Unlike everyone else here, and I include your conjugal sidekick in that lot, I know how you started out and everything else there is to know about you. Don't force me to come up to that pulpit and testify to facts that are as compromising as they are verifiable where you are concerned. I just want to find Ewenji, whose daughter is sitting here next to me. Tell me where Ewenji is and we can leave it at that. Mama Bosangui sighs. Her husband is looking at her. He knows what she's capable of in numerous domains, but he's clearly wondering what Mrs. Mulonga could be referring to. Dressed in his satin blue suit with the silver-link chain dancing on his chest, sporting a hairdo that is, to say the least, disturbing, Papa Bosangui suddenly looks like an over-the-hill pimp.

His wife shoots him a confident expression that says she has no idea what this crazy old Thamar is talking about; it also suggests giving Thamar what she wants so they can be left in peace. They can have a long discussion about it this evening, just the two of them. For now, Mama Bonsangui's priority is to make sure the faithful don't think that anyone but The One who is all there is can tell Mama Bosangui what to do. Perfectly enunciated syllables will not be her weapon of choice; instead, she selects the most condescending tone from the repertory of attitudes that come with her particular personality. Putting on a sympathy-seeking face, she replies: Thamar, I find you extremely ungrateful. I'm the one who's been taking care of your daughter all these years. I've dedicated all the prayers in my prayer book to her survival, and all you can do to thank me for saving her from madness is embarrass me in public... So be it. You're the intellectual, and you think all the rest of us are mental weaklings! Mama Bosangui has just made a serious mistake. So keen on having the last word, she ventured onto the most slippery territory of all by accusing a Mboasu woman of being a bad mother. In this country, children have their mothers and only belong to their fathers secondarily. When children succeed, fathers claim paternity. When they fail, the responsibility falls on the mother and the mother alone. Mrs. Mulonga is not the kind of woman to accept blame where motherhood is concerned; even if she reproaches herself constantly for her own shortcomings, not just anyone is allowed to heap insults on her: Ruth, Ruth, Ruth! Where are your children, tell me that! Why would God make religious zealots barren and intellectuals fertile? In my opinion, He knows exactly what He's doing! All I am asking is for you to tell me where Musango's...