“Is breakfast ready yet?” Mama called out.
“Almost ready, Mama,” I replied. Though I was susceptible to the smoke, my eyes watered a bit as I bent to blow on the fire and turned the plantains. The finger millet porridge for my brother and sister was ready. The tea for Mama and Bibi was boiling and the plantains nicely roasting.
The small dirt courtyard in the front of the kitchen had been swept clean. The cracking cement kitchen floor had been swept and mopped. Baba had gotten the cement along with the aluminium sheets for the latrine from a construction site. Most kitchen floors were earthen and not cemented, thus making ours look modern. The two cracked casement windows had been dusted. The animal barn had been swept and the hay refreshed. Everything was in order. And I had done all the work as my daily chore before going to school.
My mind still tingled with thoughts of kaka Joseph’s fiancée and the hotel. I now wanted to go to the city more than ever. The lifestyle, the dressing, the luxuries were a must have. More than ever I wanted to become a modern woman now and I was determined to get there. Somehow I felt the faster I got things done, the faster I would get there. Mama these days always wore a smile of satisfaction on her face telling me that she was indeed impressed with my responsibility.
“Here,” Mama walked in with some avocados in the folds of her khanga, “they are ripening quite nicely. We could have them with breakfast. Haven’t the chickens laid any eggs today?”
“No, Mama,” I answered as I served breakfast. I was careful not to drop anything on my carefully starched and ironed school uniform.
“Anyway, this should be enough. And there is plenty milk,” she commented as she reached for the sour milk calabash. The milk in a calabash had nicely curdled. The calabash never empty, as the remaining curdled milk was topped with fresh milk every morning after usage.
“Shush, shush!” my younger brother, Salekio, leapt in noisily as usual and chased the cat that was always in the kitchen across the room.
“Careful,” I tried to stop him. Just then his sister, Shindo, joined him in the chase. “Careful I said, you might step in the food.” Some weeks ago, when Mama was fixing dinner, Salekio edged closer, trying to stay warm in the swirling smoke. But in his usual jolly self, he almost kicked the pot of plantains from the three-stones stove with an open wood fire. Mama was very cross and gave him a severe thrashing. But Mama’s thrashings have never stopped him being naughty.
Mama nodded in agreement, then added, “you have become so mature of late, Manka! You make me proud!”
The breakfast was taken quickly and in silence. Mama had put aside some for Bibi who was still sleeping. Bibi was the only person in the house who was allowed to sleep late, even Salekio and Shindo woke up early.
“You’ll have to attend to them once you get back home from school,” Mama said pointing at the bleating goats feeding next to the cows, “so don’t waste time on the way talking nonsense.”
Quickly I washed the dirty dishes we had used for breakfast and left them outside and the plantain leaves to dry. I then made sure Salekio and Shindo hands and mouths were clean. Grabbing our old home-sewn school bags and brooms, we bid Mama goodbye, then dashed off. Since we lived at the top of the village, walking to school was a breeze. We always sprinted down the hill, playing ‘the last one is a loser’. With my long legs and small frame, I always won the race.
We were already late, so we didn’t stop at Makicha’s. I ran quickly down the hill, my bare feet pounding on the dusty alleyways between yards filled with shambas of coffee and plantains, and mud shacks with thatched roofs. I didn’t have school shoes; the only shoes I had were for church. I couldn’t wear them to school as Mama had said that they were to last me to my sixteenth birthday. It never worried me much as most children at school didn’t have school shoes either.
Salekio and Shindo were running behind me, screaming with joy. We ran down blissfully shouting our good mornings to whomever we met on our way. The rain had stopped drizzling and the sun was up. The sunlight was filtering down through the trees as it massaged our bare arms, giving a glow to our faces – it was indeed a cheerful beautiful morning.
“Why don’t we take this path?” Shindo asked breathlessly as she pointed to the left of the dusty path. The path was completely overgrown, a tangle of weeds and coffee trees.
“You are not serious, are you?” I couldn’t believe she had actually suggested that.
“Don’t you want to see where they had dragged her to?” Salekio chipped in.
By her, they had meant Petronila. Petronila was a short, light skinned and plump girl with a merry sing-a-song voice. Her big almond shaped eyes always danced with a twinkle. She was always very cheerful and always with a big smile on her kind round face. Her parents were among the poorest in the village but Petronila’s smile never for once disappeared despite the hardships she always faced. Many boys in our village eyed her with desire.
Petronila used to be my classmate, but she was now married – married and expecting. On evening, a few months earlier she had taken a shortcut from choir practice. The shortcuts led into the plantation were the air was always so fresh and smelt of the forest. We had all ran to our homes as the gusty clouds grew darker, a clear sign that they were loaded with rain. The air was filled with the cries of overexcited children as we all ran. The fierce wind angrily blowing the plantain trees as we tried to find shelter under them.
For weeks after the cloudy choir practice evening we did not see Petronila. She had stopped coming to school and our visits to her house proved to be fruitless. However, one afternoon a neighbour went running to Petronila’s house with news that she had seen Petronila.
After her whereabouts were realized, Makicha and I went to visit her. That fateful evening as Petronila was running home, for a moment she had slowed down to catch her breath. Just then she realized she had company. Somebody had crept up behind her. She could hear heavy breathing behind her. She was so petrified that she couldn’t even turn around. Two boys then jumped on her. She screamed as she fell on her side. Two more boys jumped at them and they started wrestling her. The mud slowing her down, she was pinned down and couldn’t breathe. The four had been hiding in the thickets. As quickly as they had jumped on her, they grabbed her then dragged into the dense shrubs that prevented her from running.
It had now started to rain heavily. The winds and the rain muffled whatever sound Petronila made. They took routes she had never seen before, going deeper into the plantations. On the way Petronila cried and begged to be released, but the boys just sneered and taunted her. What seemed like a couple of long painful hours later, Petronila was then forced into a hut. Three of the boys waited outside as one boy, the taller one, went inside with Petronila. Petronila was scared, cold, wet and muddy.
The taller boy, Paulo, as she later came to learn his name – then pushed Petronila on the cold earthen floor. He then pinned her and pushed himself onto Petronila. She felt a stabbing pain as he pushed himself in her and she cried out, but he wouldn’t stop. Each time Petronila tried to push her legs together, he would force them apart then hit her hard around her face. She was in complete agony. After a while he had let out a long growl then collapsed on top of Petronila. He laid there panting as Petronila closed her eyes and cried bitterly.
“You better start learning how to behave like a dutiful little wife,” he had sneered at her as he got up.
A meeting was called with by the village elders as rumours started to surface. Some thought Petronila had been killed, while other swore that witches had taken her, others believed it was a msukule of Petronila that was seen. After some investigations and intervention by the village elders, it was learnt that Petronila had been taken tilé.
“Should we go get her?” one elder had asked Petronila’s father.
“We can’t take her back,” her father had argued. “She is used goods now. I doubt if we will even get half the mahari she is worth. Nobody will want her like this. They’ll have to pay us for the damages and take her.”
“Besides, what if she is already in the family way,’ an uncle added, “We can’t take care of another man’s children. I agree with Kaka, they should pay us and keep her. She is now their wife.”
Many families were only too happy to accept the mahari from a tilé marriage. I never understood exactly what had happened to Petronila but it sounded horrible and painful. That evening I recited the whole tale to Mama. Mama was completely appalled. She then made me swear and promise that I would never take shortcuts – but no more was explained to me.
“You two have the nerve!” I scolded Salekio and Shindo as I dragged them by the ears. “You know very well that Mama has forbidden us to take these shortcuts.”
“Ouch! How will she know?” screamed Salekio as he tried to wriggle free.
“You are so lucky we are late. Otherwise I would have slapped you black and white for just suggesting that! You wait until I tell Mama”
“Oh Manka, I’m sorry! Please don’t tell her.” Shindo’s face quickly looked up to meet mine, her eyebrows lifting slightly as she mumbled apologies. “I was just curios. Please don’t tell Mama!”
Shindo’s excitement had slid from her face as she regarded me warily from the corner of her eye. A crow flew head of us, pausing occasionally looking for scraps food. We trudged down the hill in silence. Salekio’s nervous breathing getting louder in the silence.
“Shimbonyi!” greeted young Aichi standing by her fruit stand. Aichi had a fruit stand that sold various vegetables and fruits. Students passed by her fruit stand every morning on their way to school, since she lived near the school, she looked at the other children longingly also wishing she was in the blue school uniform. Her mother used her arthritis and her father’s stroke as an excuse to take Aichi out of school. They felt it was a waste of precious labour force taking Aichi to school.
“How can we take someone’s wife to school?” Aichi’s mother had told her father, “everybody is laughing at us!”
“Indeed, that should be somebody else’s investment and not ours!” Aichi’s father agreed.
“She is better off at home taking care of us,” her mother had added, “until we marry her off.”
Without any income or job her ailing parents depended on ten-year old Aichi for their daily bread. Mama thought this sort of humiliation was intolerable, since Aichi’s older siblings had neglected their family after having moved to the city and some to the Mererani mining site.
The money Aichi provided was short lived since her mother had turned into drinking heavily. She had also become very mean and short tempered. She would often beat Aichi with a switch if she didn’t come with enough money to support her drinking spree. Aichi’s always had raw red cuts scored across her arms, legs and back. Sometimes when hiding from her mother’s beatings she would sleep in the cow barn on an empty stomach.
Once Aichi’s mother threatened to burn two second-hand dresses she had bought from money she had made from her fruit stand.
“Aren’t your old dresses enough?” Aichi’s mother had asked her.
“They are worn out and I have grown, mama,” Aichi had replied, “they have all become either too short or two tight.”
“I wear worn out things and I’m not complaining,” her mother pointed out, “or you now think you are special? How about food? We can’t eat your dresses, you know!”
“But mama, I buy food everyday,” she had replied, “and I do need these dresses.”
“Who are you dressing up for anyway?”
“Mama, my old dresses have gotten very short.”
“The man who will marry you will buy your dresses! Your duty here is to take care of us. Not to look pretty and dainty!”
“But it’s my own money, mama!”
“Next time you make such a comment with my arthritis limbs I’ll wash your mouth with soap!”
“I’m sorry, Mama. I didn’t mean to – “
“Just because you can move about comfortably and earn money now you think you are special, heh?” she retorted sharply, “this is my house. And I lay the rules! I will decide what will be bought and what will not! You are going to take those dresses back and get a refund or I swear on my mother’s grave I’ll burn them! While at it, buy me some mbege! Fast!”
With five mouths to feed and booze to buy Aichi often turned to neighbours and the church for help. Mama said the older siblings were better off in the village as they did nothing worthwhile in the city. But I thought otherwise – I knew I would be better off in the city than in the village.
