Same compound, different huts. I am the first wife of
Omuwale Okuchu, mother of six children. My hut, just as tradition requires, is
the first in the compound. Omuwale is the sub-chief, wears the woven hide that defines
his position, speaks softly but with few words, smiles occasionally but mostly
bonds with the little snuff pot that he hangs around his neck.
As young as sixteen, I was married to the Okuchu clan, my
clan name ceased to exist. All I remember was my aunts sitting me in our hut.
The last I saw of it; telling me that I would be a wife. I was betrothed, some
gently giving me counsel, others violently shoving it with a harsh pat on my
arms or back and others turning me to face them at the spit of every word.
My mother simply sat on the bamboo stool near the door,
preparing ochre for the big day. Her countenance had a solemn look; they said
all mothers wore that look when giving their daughters away. However, that
look, I had never seen before; not even when she gave away my elder sister. It
haunted me but between the jubilation, hard words and hugs, it was clear to
me…my time had come.
Six years now with the same number of children as my
matrimonial years. 12 long rains, 12 other short ones, two desert spells and
another woeful period of floods; 2190 moons and 2190 suns, indeed I had lived
on.
Now I am told that Omuwale eyes another as I wean the last
child Kitamake; this one was born with some teeth. I hear she hails from the
Haumu tribe where the girls are bathed in eucalyptus before marriage and their
hair soaked in coconut oil for its luster. This is the gift that the peace
accord gives to the sub-chief. I, Malaka, the first wife of Omuwale has no say
in this.
I return to my hut, to my firewood, to my clay pot…
