text: Richard's mother never liked me, but ever since her son disappeared, we have become closer than ever. I set a steaming plate of rice and stew before her. I had always been meticulous when preparing the woman's food as she was a very picky eater and was generous with crude criticisms. These days, however, she would eat my food with little nods and approving hums. I even caught her licking her fingers once. "I think I am going to ask Richard's father to start buying game meat instead of beef," she said as she pushed her empty plate forward on the glass coffee table. She used to prod at my food, take a spoonful and claim she was full. A woman on the television piped out an evil cackle. "The spices also do a lot of work," I added as I piled our plates together to carry to the kitchen. Mrs. Ncube didn't respond. She was watching me with a squint - her eyes fixed on my left jaw. I turned my face away. "The bruise is healing well," she said stiffly. She looked uncomfortable acknowledging it. "Yes. Would you like some stew to go home with?" I asked. "Yes, sure," she replied. She reached into her gaudy handbag and pulled out the Tupperware she'd left with the day before and handed it to me, baring her crooked teeth in a sheepish smile. Three months had passed since I'd last seen my husband. The police were vague about their efforts to find him, and I am sure people had grown tired of my lamentations. Mrs. Ncube was the only constant in this ordeal. She visited every day. Some days we'd make calls to Richard's friends and colleagues to garner clues about his whereabouts; in others, we cried together in each other's arms. Today we spent the entire day watching Nollywood movies and eating in the living room. We sat across each other, replenishing the coffee table with snacks and sugary drinks with our eyes fixed on the television until the dark orange of sunset filtered through the curtains and bleached the entire room. She wanted us to take our minds off the situation and even expressed concern about my blood pressure. I assured her that I was fine - but I had grown tired of mourning too. In the kitchen, as I spooned the leftovers from the pot into the Tupperware, Mrs. Ncube wafted in and leaned against the counter. "That's a beautiful cleaver. Where do you buy your kitchenware?" she nodded at the stainless steel cleaver hanging off the wall. I told her it had been gifted to me by Richard on the eve of our wedding. I almost dropped the dishing spoon when she opened her mouth again to speak. "It just makes sense for me to be here with you helping around while we wait," she explained. "If you're moving in because of the game meat, I've run out," I joked with my composure regained. She laughed, the hoarseness in her voice betraying how it had been a while. "I would be happy to have you, Mama." After all, we only had each other now; no immediate family, distant friends, and the gaping hole that my husband left in our hearts. Her smile was warm, but it faded. Suddenly she was solemn. "I haven't treated you right, my child," she walked to me. She took the Tupperware, closed it, and set it aside. She held my hands in hers and looked at my face. "How you must feel, to have the last remembrance of your husband be a bruise that has lasted months. To think you came crying to me for help, and I shut you out," her eyes glossed over. She cast them down before dabbing them with the collar of her blouse. "But here you are looking for my son... your husband harder than anyone. I can only imagine how much you loved him." "I do love him. A lot, mama," I said. And it was true. I loved that man more than I have loved anyone. Even when he picked me up from the hospital with my jaw wired shut. Even the last time I saw him with his eyes open as he screamed and gargled in his blood when I struck his neck with the cleaver his mother seemed to admire. She squeezed my hands. "We will find Richard. In God's grace we'll find him," she said, but her eyes betrayed her. She knew we would never see Richard again. She had already mourned him and was ready for a new chapter, as was I. We were two widows lying to each after having a filling dinner with the flesh of the man we loved as a stew. I thought it was poetic, how in all this grief, her body was being nourished by her son's, even though she didn't know.