Reporting from Bida, Nigeria—
He fell in love with his first wife because she was sincere and eager to please.
His second wife, a cousin, was irresistible because she did everything he wished and nothing he didn't.
"That alone made me love her."
His third wife won him because she submitted to his every request.
"I saw her, I liked her. I went to her parents and asked for her hand in marriage."
Wife No. 4 was very obedient. So was wife No. 5. Wife No. 6, the same. As were wives 7 and 8 and 9 and …
Well, by then — it was the late 1980s — things had taken off for Bello Maasaba, an Islamic faith healer in this city in Nigerstate. He went from a wedding every few months to one every few weeks.
All told, the 87-year-old has married 107 women, which, even in a society with a tradition of polygamy, is on the high side. The Nigerian government is not amused. Neither are Islamic authorities in the state.
But he's still marrying, every time Miss Right comes along. He now has 86 wives, the youngest 19 and the oldest 64. Nine have died and 12 he divorced (for disobedience).
But how on earth does he … ?
To ask the delicate question about how a man with so many wives, well, manages, one first has to cross a dusty street in this hot city in northern Nigeria where the sun bleaches the color from the street. Droning Chinese motorcycles belch choking fumes. Women in flowing garments sit under umbrellas in the market, selling fruit and vegetables.
A looming four-story house with 89 rooms and a broad veranda supported by gold columns overlooks the street with an air of faded grandeur. But its view is inauspicious: an open gutter running from a bank of rickety street toilets, their wooden doors askew.
On the porch, dozens of men are seated, some relations, some followers. They rustle in excitement at the approach of guests. Choruses of "You are welcome" echo like bells as visitors are seated on a red couch beside a large, patterned red rug. The carpet, an island in the sea of Maasaba's followers, lies bare but for one white pillow and one white facecloth.
The pillow awaits. Suddenly, the crowd of males leaps to its feet, bursting into a traditional song of praise.
He is coming.
At the doorway, his long, pointy white shoes are removed by aides and placed in an empty plastic shoe rack tacked high on the wall. Then he rustles in, enveloped by a tumble of shiny white cloth, which the aides spring forward to arrange whenever he stands or sits.
He ignores the pillow and sits beside it. He wears a tall white hat, and smiles a crooked-toothed smile. The pouches under his eyes give him a mournful air. But there's barely a wrinkle on his forehead, and he professes to have no worries.
An aide proffers a microphone hooked up to speakers on every floor of the house so his wives and children can listen. Questions are blasted through speakers over the street so his followers (and anyone happening by) can hear.
Which makes it a little awkward to ask that delicate one.
Source: LA Times
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