THE POLYGAMOUS POT (3RD & FINAL!)

Shanga was here, and then Shanga was over. It was a flurry of merry-making activities but for once I did not feel the life of it. Here I was, convincing myself that I was alright with meeting the incoming female. That evening, I met her. Correction, I was introduced to her by her tribesmen. She spoke softly but firmly. I must add that her countenance was of good cheer. It was quite a combination for a young soul. At first, I was incredulous, wishing to withdraw and leave at the thought of a second wife but I had to pay my dues first to tradition and second to fortitude. We did not converse much till dawn. Her name was Salwa.

I showed her the water pots that we used to fetch water from the river in the wet season, and the well during dry spells. Then I taught her how we prepared breakfast yams and herbal tea from forest herbs for Okuchu and presented the meal in dried banana leaves. All this time, the man had said nothing. It slightly puzzled me. The young girl was mostly silent, responding with a single word and affirming with a nod. I wished she could speak up and tell me what was brewing in her mind but I would be reminded of my grandfather’s words, ‘Often times, you will need to get into someone’s skin and wiggle in it’. Well, she was probably adjusting, in the same way that I was six years ago.

The day dragged on slowly, little Kitamake stared at ‘the stranger’ while the other children began warming up to her presence. I hoped to eventually accept her in the same way, deep down, with the innocence and wonder of a child. Finally that evening, Okuchu called us in his hut, breaking his silence. He instructed us on how life would proceed, put in a few more rules and threatened to invoke tribal punishment for any revocation to the same. 

Week after week, Salwa was seemingly fine with daily life at the village. We switched days on which we cooked, fetched water, planted seedlings, ground maize, prepared mud to remodel the walls of the hut, rearranged the thatching at the top, all that and more. Her delicate presence remained though, with her few words being all she had to say. Sometimes I felt she passed by unnoticed, keeping her concerns to herself. Even Kitamake would attempt to get her to speak slightly more by tugging at her ochre-laden hair.

One twilight in the cooking hut, I decided to probe her slightly, asking how she felt after a few weeks of living around. She confessed that it was slightly tough and that there were days thoughts of  jumping over the fence at night and returning to her mother sufficed but in return asked me, ‘Don’t you think that even the bravest of warriors would much rather stay away from frontline battle?’ And she turned to her pumpkin soup boiling in the pot, the polygamous pot that we had learnt to share.

THE POLYGAMOUS POT (PART 2)

…And back to my clay pot I lit the firewood, tossed in a few dry leaves and made some yams with coconut sauce for the family, letting them all serve before I did. That is how it worked. The man of the house got served first, and then the children would eat after he has had his share. He ate the best pieces of chicken, beef and fish… if the mother had nothing left to cover the pit of her stomach, it was alright, she was the home-maker and brought up to endure the pangs of marriage, but they never mentioned the pangs of strange retrospective tradition; that you knew when you got married and it would make sense why mothers had such minimal helpings. Maybe if we lived in the Pekechu highlands, it would be better. The land was richer, greener, more fertile and the rains clearly adored her soil. They said women there were well built and could carry two children with their shapely hips; interesting, I had never met any though.

Now Okuchu would come home slightly late, having had the brew by the elders. These negotiations were consuming a lot of time, not to mention his energy. He barely touched his dinner; he only ate the nuts and wild fruits that I stashed in the basket I wove from reeds in my early years. His countenance upheld a blank look, emotionless. I sensed that this decision was wrenched out of his free will; but I could not mention this. No matter how the man felt, his wife could not share in his sorrow or joy. She was just meant to do her duty and let him be. That broke my heart, to think that he could not speak his mind and now I had to embrace a second wife, from a foreign tribe. Tough times those were.

My friend Haumu would sit with me on Sunday afternoons for an hour after morning prayers by the village priest. We would walk home with our children and while they played around the hut, we would sit under the cashew nut trees and chat the minutes away. Then we would enjoy each other’s silence while pounding dry maize in the mortar. Our friendship was one of those. On certain days she would simply sit with me in the kitchen hut after preparing her evening meal, sip some herbal tea that I made from forest herbs and not say much. I was simply glad when she graced me with her tacit presence, it warmed my heart.

The festival now draws closer. We have to prepare to receive a new individual in the community; we call it the Shanga festival. The one being received is adorned with beads, and a lot of feasting and dancing is done. The inhabitants of the homestead into which she is received undergoes quite some preparation, purification and reconstruction, ready to accommodate another. Change is not the easiest of things to welcome, but it is one of the inevitable things after death and the noose of the taxman.

THE POLYGAMOUS POT (Part 1)

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…

THE VILLAGE TAVERN (Part 2)

So now, welcome Gitobu, owner of thousands of acres of land, countless heads of cattle, pampered by ten wives and in return a multitude of young ones who he sufficiently knows by name and even character...one more thing, chairman at the tavern, owner of the golden beer mug, faithful client who certainly leaves last at ‘Kwa Munyui’ that leaves the villagers wondering if it is loyalty to the owner or to the commodity served. Worth mentioning, rather noting is that he is quite the miser, despite all that wealth. You know the thin line between living a simple life and trying to live poverty as a way of offering up the pleasures of life, he is beyond either. 

He wears Nchabung’a (traditional Akala sandals as said in Kimeru), shaves his hair twice a year(Christmas and his first child’s birthday) , refuses to build a wooden house, buys only two sets of clothes for the wives(one for special occasions and Sundays, and the other for normal daily bustling) and fewer others for the children to share. However, for the daily drink, he pours wads from his pockets, fresh from the returns of his farming activity. The irony. Perhaps the addiction. Then like all drunks on the first day of the year, the resolution is, ‘I shall not let the liquid get past my lips...from tomorrow!’

Being a daily client, companionship with fellow members grows to be mandatory. These so called social drinkers like to sit with each other, indulge in excess measure and very much boast of their latest developments, not forgetting the politics and even whisper a little village gossip. His closest is called Kithinji. Gitobu laughs sporadically, most of the time stern and some of the time responding with a nod or a shrug. Once the beer greets the blood in two shakes and proceeds to his mental nerves, he bangs the mug and declares, ‘I dislike uneducated people, apart from myself!’ Mind you, barely any villagers sitting in that tavern have pursued significant tiers of education. The air always lurches into a disturbing silence when he says that. Some tend to walk out while others look away in ignorance. Gitobu has spoken.

By and by, year after year, things remain the same at the tavern. However, one rainy season, Kithinji is taken ill. He has trouble with his throat and cannot speak. The herbalist tries all she can, so does the medicine man, the wizard too. Further treatment has to be sought in the city where he is diagnosed with a damaged throat traced to alcohol. He gets a speech aid gadget and returns after two weeks. Gitobu is extremely devastated. He is barely spotted at the tavern.  He only stops by intermittently and leaves just as soon. Life takes a turn and you can quite figure out why. Nevertheless, his wives are happier and he plays more with his children. He is working on constructing a bigger house, this time out of wood and a little concrete for the floor. Better still, every evening, he lights a torch of fire and goes to see Kithinji who hails from the other hill. 

The tavern, well, it still serves the regulars, but the service ends earlier.       

THE VILLAGE TAVERN...(Part 1)

Tucked away in the valley at the foot of the hills is a banda...From the hill top, all you can see is the roofing thatched with dry grass, figs and twigs. Proper and neat thatching, I must add...the kind you see in tourist hotels who try to create the traditional look that detests the modern unity of architectural glass and tiles. This valley divides the hills and its inhabitants but the banda puts them together most evenings. It creates daytime acquaintances and night-time buddies! 

Identity? ‘Kwa Munyui’ which when translated directly means ‘At the drinkers’. Here, village men meet, chat, laugh, toast to their successes, build solidarity in their failures and most of all pour their woes to Munyui, the bar tender. Munyui has heartily run this trade for about fifteen years. He still tells a story of how he began with 10 bottles and about two regulars before becoming the much renowned tavern owner that he is.

He has taken time to brighten the interior of the setting. Vanishing the mahogany surfaces that have to often put up with spilt liquor from the daily drunks, putting up colourful cardboard quotes that remind the clients to stop hugging the mugs too close for their liver’s sake and often rearranging the Mixmaster array that knows too well each client’s preferences.

Munyui knows every customer by name, he makes the extra effort. Knows them from both hills, and he knows which hill each comes from. He knows what to serve by looking at them, by the manner in which they swing open the loosely-hinged door and the posture that they take on the stool. He knows when to make it strong, moderate or light. He knows when to mix it up and when to pour it plain. That’s his job. A man is as good as what he knows he does best.

Weekends mean longer working hours. After a long day in the farms, the men like to cool off at the valley joint. The wives have much to worry about but they have made peace with it, or so I believe they have. The harvest season is the best time for him. He makes great sales as almost every client feels the urge to buy a round of drinks for the entire bar members.

This tavern is not one of those proverbial ones you watch on TV where the major (most respected) client is a bearded men who kicks the door open with his cowboy boots, adjusts his complementing cowboy hat by tilting it to a measured angle that only he knows of, straps off a rifle from his belt, shoots in the air and in ensuing silence from the other pub members sits at his designated bar stool, adjusts his pot belly and without a word is presented with beer in his special mug! Then the chatting can proceed! However, just like every drinking joint, there is a chairman, I am made to understand. The one who stands out as the most celebrated and adds that ‘culture extraordinaire’ to the tavern. His name? ‘Gitobu’.

More about him on part 2...

Easy in the hills

      8.03 a.m., 1^st Jan 2012...phone ringing to Barlow Girl’s hit ‘Grey’. A lazy attempt to lift my head but it just goes back where it has dented in the fluffy pillow. Then there goes the second call but my hands won’t stop hugging the duvet, I think that will wait. Alright, let’s kick it this year, so much for snoozing the entire last year.

            A missed call from grandpa. Sigh...he must think we are the most diligent of grandchildren. You see in the hills they live by the adage, ‘early to bed and early to rise...’ Too much interaction with the urbanites changes the early to late. So I ring him back and he asks why we have not visited since the same date previous year. My voice drones on to explain that we will swish by before being swallowed to our fast lane of campus life. He asks if I have woken up then and there is no lying to the old man. Okay, deal done. More sleep. I need to offload some more of that.

            So 3 days later, dad decides we are going to shagz. It’s not really shagz, having been born and bred in the country is equally shagz so we just say we are going up north to the hills, or to the coffees. Way to make it sound better! The air is cleaner anyway and the birds chirp better.

            In my county, Meru, food is our strong suit. The most basic greeting and welcome wonder is a plateful of a traditional dish; whether fuel prices go up or down, or fertilizer prices keep shooting off the normal or pieces of land are sold to pay the bills, that plate is a constant. You don’t change that.

            It is a 30 minute drive from home on our one-way roads, perfect for my wanting sense of direction. Happy go lucky, play some Kenny Rogers to set you in the mood. Then the road branches off into a typical country road, halfway dusty, halfway muddy depending on where the rain felt like leaving its patters. We take the longer winding route to avoid the disasters that come with the steep one.

            It is a one-gate policy open-for-yourself there. We do the necessary and leave the car parked on one side of the lawn. The grass here grows greener and is so well carpeted. From the back gate grandma emerges and exclaims in joy giving us a warm hug. Grandpa does the handshake; culture has it so.

            Three women are busy on the large mortar grinding maize at a rhythmic pace. One pestle up and two of them down and the maize is ground in that kind of exchange. They stop to say hallo and express how much we have grown, with a slight complain of our rare presence at grandmas. These have always helped out with the labour in the farm and must have watched us grow from a tender age. I am glad to meet them, healthy and still struggling to support their families. They proceed to do their labour heartily. Always happy, never relenting.

            The constant is presented after we clean our hands. We thank God for it and proceed to enjoy the ideal traditional ‘mukimo’, made by the traditional fire and to accompany it is beef stew, the traditional one still. That combination is a serious energy shot, it can really hold your stomach for hours. Grandma reminds us of funny stunts that we most memorably left when we were much younger. We giggle, laugh, and we go silent again. I wonder what I will be doing at their age. Knitting? Running adverts? Drafting policies in the IMF? Playing with my grandchildren? Focus now.

            A man whistles in the distance to announce his arrival. I guess that’s how it is done there. He calls out for grandpa and from the ensuing conversation I understand that he is enraged by an upcoming water project has meddled with the villages’ pipes. So grandpa is the chairman of the village water committee, ‘maji ya harambee’, or so I understand.

 Apparently a group of young tucks who lack the patience to fix the mess left the water to run from a section of the burst pipe. He is really infuriated and says that revenge is the only way out because the chaps do it every time. Grandpa shakes his head and says that the game will not go far, so he asks me to pass him his reading glasses through which he squints and scribbles something in his diary. The man goes on to say that he is ready to carve up his sleeves and declare a war that evening; there goes a trait we are very well known for, temper! You can’t keep that up with an old man, I guess he has poured out his heart enough. He leaves and grandpa secures his seat again. Calm as ever, age must be a good thing.

            Grandma is not happy that we have had such a small serving. She insists we have seconds or we will not have a mug of her sweet millet porridge. Okay, go ahead and make the woman happy. Five more spoons and there is no resisting that porridge. It has fermented well, forms a swell in the mug and is ready to take the throat.

            We chat some more, go over the picture hangings in the living room. From my dad as a toddler to his graduation and my baby picture too! Some empty nails are sticking out on the wall tapestry and she says that each nail is for the graduation of each grandchild. Mine awaits 2014...and she gives me that look that says, “Yeah, you hang in there. Your degree better be up here soon!” Should that be motivation or pressure? Sigh! Let me go with the former.

            Time to check on the cows, one of the major rural amusements. The calves we had left five years ago were all grown. There was Nikki and Baraka. The new calf is ‘Kairu’ meaning the ‘small black one’ in my native language. They have been dehorned and are eagerly waiting their dinner. I didn’t know they have a blue iris! Blue-eyed cows! Grandma goes over to the calf which sniffs at her hand, a polite way of asking to be petted. Grandma rubs its neck and head and now Kairu is a happy calf. I think she is slightly spoilt but I guess even the animals need a little love.

            Twilight is hastily setting in and the cock is pecking at the smaller chicken. It runs after them and flaps its wings. Grandma shoos the cock back to its shed and the rest to the other side of the shed. That cock is a wild one, a fascist one I’d say.

            Now we have to leave. A brief visit to the hills is better than none at all. We leave with their blessing for the new year, easy in the hills.