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.
