The Jealous Co-wives

Listen carefully, for this story bends like a river and yet finds its way. In a compound where three women shared a single courtyard, laughter lived beside the sharpness of envy. Each woman had her story, her prayers, and the small sorrows that grow like moss on the edge of a pot.

Aba, the eldest, kept the morning fire and sang songs to the bread. Maame Akua, who was clever with cloth, had hands that turned plain cloth into bright patterns. And Yaa, youngest and quick as a drumbeat, could make the children laugh until they lost their breath.

Their husband, Kofi, loved them in ways that suited each: he brought Aba calm gifts of early yams, he praised Akua’s weaving in the market, and he told Yaa the moon’s old jokes. The women, carrying both pride and small lonely edges, measured one another in glances and secret sighs.

At first it was small things — a borrowed cup not returned, a meal eaten with more seasoning. But then the chief declared a festival, and Kofi gave a fine cloth to Yaa for dancing. Akua’s eyes darkened, and Aba’s lips tightened; the tiny embers of envy grew. Words were passed like hot stones behind closed doors.

Late at night, a dispute rose so sharp that the children woke. The compound split like a calabash cracked by a careless hand. The elders sat beneath the silk cotton tree and listened as each woman told her side. Each voice was true in the telling, and each heart bore a different ache.

The elder, whose name was Nana Aboagye, asked them to bring their sorrows to the river the following dawn. He instructed them to fill three gourds and to speak to the water as if it were a friend. The women did as told, each pouring out their complaints like fine sand. The river took the sand and left each voice lighter.

Nana Aboagye then told a tale of three stones that once belonged to a river god. The god would place them in a line, and each stone held a colour. When the people argued, the stones cooled; when they shared, the stones warmed. The women were asked to return each stone to the river by making an offering the next market day.

It was not easy. Jealousy is heavy and hides like peppers in a pot. Yet the women, seeing the children and the market’s bright banners, found small ways to mend. Aba taught Yaa how to knead bread so it would rise light. Akua lent a bit of cloth to Yaa to add to her dance costume. Yaa, whose laugh was quick, began to wake early and fetch water for her co-wives.

When they returned the three stones, they did so with hands that had learned to hold each other’s needs. The river sang as the stones dropped and warmth passed from one woman to the next. The elders declared that from that day the women would keep a shared calabash for gifts and that they would meet once a moon to speak like friends.

The festival came and the neighbours noticed a change: the compound’s laughter had depth now, like a drum that knows all its beats. The women learned that love is not a single cup but many cups poured into one bowl.

So listen: when you feel envy creep under your ribs, remember the river and the three stones. Share your weight with others, and your load will learn to float. The elders say, “Nsa baako nkutoo nni aduanom — one hand cannot lift a load alone.” Share, and the compound will be quiet with contentment.

— End —